America's First Daughter: A Novel(185)

Tom has certainly been cruel. And I’d argue that he deserted me—that he always deserted me—in times of need. But it’s equally true that I’ve deserted him. I fled to Boston in the darkest hours of my grief, and now, there must be an accounting for it. “Tom will want to see his children and I can’t keep them from him forever.”

He would take them from me forever, if I tried.

Ellen’s husband replies in his cool, flat Boston accent. “You can keep the children from Mr. Randolph for a few years at least. Then they’ll be too old for him to force to his will. Unless there are grounds for legal separation, there must simply be a separation of miles. Even if Mr. Randolph comes for the children, I can see to it that they’re hidden away at some distance where he can’t get them into his hands.”

There seems something immoral about this scheme. As well as impractical. I married the man and gave him children. The law puts me completely in his power even though he’s destitute.

As if sensing my hesitation, my son-in-law says, gruffly, “You needn’t fear him. From what I hear, Mr. Randolph is holed up miserably in a little house with much liquor and without a second blanket for his bed. Nicholas Trist will keep him from Monticello, and I’ll keep him from here.”

Far from alleviating my fears, this strikes me as profoundly unjust. Tom barred from Monticello, as unwelcome there as he was at Tuckahoe? Monticello is, until we can find a buyer for it, my home. And if it’s mine, it must also be my husband’s. That was always my father’s intention. It was our vow to Tom, implicit and explicit.

“I cannot countenance abandoning Mr. Randolph to poverty,” I finally say.

“Then he’ll take your money,” is my son-in-law’s harsh reply.

In honor of Papa, the states of Louisiana and South Carolina have voted me $20,000 in bank stocks for my upkeep—not enough to save Monticello, but perhaps enough to support those who depend upon me. It’s a generosity I hadn’t solicited but which makes me the target of opponents who think me unworthy, as my father wasn’t a soldier and I wasn’t his widow.

I suppose they believe I’ve done nothing, and meant nothing, to this country.

It’s a sentiment that has made me redouble my efforts to edit my father’s papers. And it’s made me think hard upon my own character. “So long as property is vested in me, and Tom is destitute, I must make some effort for his support.”

“Surely you aren’t thinking of returning to live as his wife,” my son-in-law replies. “He can make no mischief for you or the children in Boston, but I can’t keep that animal away from you in Virginia.”

Ellen winces, carefully turning her head so her husband doesn’t see how calling her father an animal causes her distress. Whether it’s for love or shame, I cannot say.

I suppose I must now be beyond both love and shame. What matters now are my children, my grandchildren, and my slaves.

There’s an option that my son-in-law hasn’t considered.

One I learned from my father.

Negotiation.

And I’m my own best ambassador.

So in the spring of 1828, I return to Virginia and step into the now dilapidated white house in Milton to find my husband drunk and unkempt in the middle of the day. “Patsy?” Tom asks, squinting at my appearance in the doorway, as if I were a hallucination.

I want to be angry. I want to remember that this is the man who destroyed himself with resentments. The man who struck me and beat my children. The man who tormented me at my father’s funeral. But when he tries to get up from a threadbare chair and his knees nearly buckle under him, I’m nearly undone with sorrow to see the ruin of him.

I’m shocked by the sight of him, so pale and haggard. Truly shocked. He’s so emaciated I cannot think he’s had a meal in weeks. Why hasn’t anyone told me how very ill he is?

“Don’t stand,” I say, helping him back to his chair before he falls.

Clutching my arm, Tom barks, “Why have you come?”

“I’ve come to have a frank discussion.” I hurry forth with the rest, taking advantage of his astonished speechlessness. “I can see that you’re cold and hungry and suffering. You haven’t a proper bath. And though you’ve come to this sorry state through your own stubbornness, understand that I’d never willingly leave you in poverty so long as I have a shilling in the world.”

“My stubbornness?” Tom says, eyes bulging. “What of your son—”

“You must give up this hatred of your own flesh and blood,” I insist, strangely unafraid. Then again, what can Tom do to me? He’s as weak as a newborn babe. “Or do you want us to remember you the way we remember your father?”

Tom’s once-beautiful mouth thins. “That’s all you want?”

“That’s where it must start, Tom. If we come to an agreement, we may all reside together at Monticello until such time as it’s sold away. It’s an unfurnished place now, but it’s better than keeping rats for friends, as you must be here.”

“What are you saying, Martha?”

“I’m saying that I want you to come home to your family. Of course, given your unsocial habits and hatred for the necessary restraints of civilized life, I assume you’d prefer a little establishment of your own on some sequestered spot of Monticello.”