America's First Daughter: A Novel(184)
“You should never.” I catch myself by surprise with my vehemence. “Land and Negroes in Virginia are to nine persons out of ten certain ruin and a vexation of the spirit that wearies one of life itself.”
And I am weary of life. I’ve really suffered so much that I cannot comprehend the possibility of better days. Consumed by despair, every morning is a struggle to get out of bed. I do it for the people yet depending on me, while I depend upon Ellen.
She does everything in her power to cheer me. She shows me the city, which has grown enormously since I was here with my father as a little girl. Everywhere I look now is perfect luxury and wealth. The stately homes, though all squeezed together, are unimaginably well furnished. In Ellen’s house, I wash my feet each morning in a plain basin that cost at least thirty dollars, and the water’s deep enough I might take a swim. The dining table glitters with cut glass and silver. And surrounded by such wealth, I’m consumed with guilt for the discomfort in which I left the rest of my family at Monticello.
We celebrate Christmas with trips to the theater and visits. Ellen arranges a party in an oval drawing room with paintings, silk damask curtains, and carved mahogany chairs. We dine on oysters and lobsters and other bounties of the sea. There’s ice cream and every variety of cake in silver baskets. And people keep asking how it is that my father, remembered for his responsible management of the nation’s finances, could have died in penury and embarrassment.
And I always reply, “His public virtue was the cause, if you should call that an embarrassment. I never shall be ashamed of an honorable poverty. It’s the price we’ve paid for a long and useful life devoted to the service of this country.”
Ellen owlishly watches my every move, so I smile for her sake. Until my father’s debts are extinguished, I have no income but the monies earned by my servants, who have all hired themselves out in Virginia. Their wages won’t be enough. Until a sale of my father’s papers can be arranged, I’m now, like Nancy Randolph once was, utterly at the mercy of my relations and their goodwill. So I don’t dare object when Ellen’s husband enrolls Septimia and George in school. The children behave well enough there; it’s only when they return home that they give themselves over to the Randolph, bickering like children who have no reason to know how precarious our circumstances are.
My older children know.
When it becomes clear that the lottery will be canceled, Cornelia writes bitterly, “It’s over, then. After sixty years of devoted services, his children are left in beggary by the country to whom he had bequeathed them.”
Ellen impresses upon me that I have no choice but to stay in Boston. “Live with us. You and the children together. My husband rented a place for you in Cambridge so as not to crowd this house. We’ll send for Mary and Cornelia and see them married off well.”
It’s a generous offer, but it makes me uneasy to be a burden to Ellen’s husband, who is already worrying about overcrowding the house. Ellen mistakes my hesitation, holding tight to my hand: “I know it pains you to leave Virginia, but I fear there are no ties which should bind any descendants of Thomas Jefferson to the state any longer.”
She’s echoing the sentiments of my sister’s son Francis. Polly’s precious boy wrote with bitterness over our plight, arguing that the liberality and generosity and patriotism of the Old Dominion has vanished under the influence of Yankee notions and practices.
But I don’t blame the Yankees.
The lottery, grudgingly approved, was the only thing Virginia offered my father in his waning days. But the northern states raised money. Donations came from New York, Baltimore, and Philadelphia . . . where William still lives.
William sent money—tried to, anyway. But these and all donations Papa refused, out of pride or fear that it’d undermine the lottery.
I burned William’s letter of condolence, filled as it was with tender sentiments and an unwise insistence that I visit him. I don’t trust myself to see him. I’m so unmoored of everything but grief, I don’t trust myself or my virtue. And my virtue must be pristine. For my father’s reputation—and what is imputed to it by mine—is an asset I use shamelessly.
In the outpouring of national grief over my father’s death, I see that Tom is given a public employment. Hopefully an income will restore my husband to his right mind.
More importantly, it will keep him away.
Milton, 6 August 1827
From Thomas Mann Randolph to Septimia Randolph
I have loved your mother, and only her, with all my faculties for thirty-five years next December. I wish to spend some happy years yet, in the decline of life, with her.
I am always reading letters now. My father’s to me. Mine to him. His to everyone else. Letters from his friends. Condolences. Tributes. Poems. And now I’m reading another letter, having nothing to do with my father at all.
A letter from Tom expressing his wishes to reconcile.
I linger over the part where he writes he has loved me and only me. On its surface, a tender sentiment. But I know it’s also an accusation. I loved Tom, but not only Tom. Not ever. And I feel no regret for that. Especially because Tom’s declaration is to guard himself against divorce.
My son-in-law Mr. Coolidge explains, “I’m sorry to inform you that even in Boston the only grounds for divorce are consanguinity, bigamy, impotence, and adultery. None of which apply, I assume.” I flush, shamed to even be discussing it, but he continues, “On the other hand, you may obtain a legal separation for cruelty or desertion.”