America's First Daughter: A Novel(189)
We live only two blocks from the President’s House, which has been rebuilt since the war. It’s now inhabited by Andrew Jackson, whose riotous inauguration has scandalized my lady friends. They’ve all warned of the new administration’s vulgarity.
Nevertheless, I’m thunderstruck when I am summoned down the stairs one morning to find the president of the United States in the parlor.
“Madam,” he says, with a courtly bow.
Though I’ve known personally five of the six presidents before him, I’m somewhat awed by the craggy-faced war hero turned populist politician. “Mr. President,” I say, curtseying before I think better of it. “You must be here for my son-in-law.”
“To the contrary, I’ve come to call upon the sole surviving daughter of Thomas Jefferson,” Andrew Jackson says, as if he were in some awe of me. “Would you do me the honor of sitting for a spell, Mrs. Randolph?”
We find a sunny spot at the front of the house, overlooking the streets of the now bustling capital, filled as it is with shops and the comforts of a thriving city.
And no sooner have I congratulated him upon his election than does he say, “I need you, Mrs. Randolph.”
“I can’t imagine what you might need from an old woman.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Next to me, you’re a young lady!”
Though he can’t be much older, it becomes a small joke. He encourages me to call him an old gentleman. And finally at ease, I say, “Whatever you need, I’ll be happy to give it if it’s in my power.”
“What I need is a woman more worthy than my niece, who has failed me utterly as first lady. I need a woman of tender sentiment who will prevent the harpies in this town from shunning the wives of my cabinet members.”
He must be speaking of the notorious Peggy Eaton, wife of his secretary of war, John Henry Eaton, whom the ladies of Washington will not receive because they believe she was a tavern whore. “Nasty bit of slander,” Jackson says. “The kind of thing that killed my dear wife. I’d rather have vermin on my back than the tongue of one of these Washington women on my reputation. There’s nothing I can do to stop their pettiness. But you’re one of the worthiest women in America, deserving of honors long overdue. I’d like to have you at the White House at the seat of honor beside me.”
“Why, sir, I’m beyond flattered.” With that, I cheerfully agree.
My swift assent sends his eyebrows up, his eyes wrinkling with happy surprise. “You’ve no scruples against Mrs. Eaton’s attendance?”
There isn’t a speck of anything but sympathy inside me for the women of public men. “I look very much forward to meeting her.” And I look forward to blasting anyone who takes pleasure from the pain of such women.
A feral glint comes to his smile, and he takes a small pouch from his pocket, digging out some tobacco to chew, as if he means to stay a while. I think he’ll ask me to tell him stories of my father—but he asks my opinions. He becomes my friend and ally, from that moment on. I am his standard-bearer of Jeffersonian democracy. He has my unwavering support for the primacy of the union over the rights of the states, and I don’t mind that he wields me like a silk-clad sword against the ladies of Washington.
I am, after all, now the Grand Dame of the place.
The ladies will find it difficult to shun anyone I embrace, as I’m now regarded as a paragon of virtue. So formidable is my reputation that even John Randolph of Roanoke must praise me as the sweetest woman in Virginia.
I’m not in Virginia anymore, of course. And I am grateful for it. Virginia is stained now in the blood of Nat Turner’s slave rebellion and consumed with terror that whites will be murdered in their beds. My son Jeff is an unflinching advocate of abolition. In the tradition of his father and grandfather, he’s introduced legislation to remove the evil by emancipating slaves. But I’m sure this will destroy his future in politics, just as it destroyed his father’s. The mean spirit of jealousy will win out and, in anticipation of that day, I’ve concluded that Virginia is no place for the family of Thomas Jefferson. Virginia’s glory is gone. But our glory, I think, is returned. Here in the capital, the seat of liberty my father built, his family thrives.
“Do you have a smile for me, Mother?” It’s my son Lewis, bedecked in green coat and cap, complete with bow and arrow. He has a government clerkship, but tonight he’s Robin Hood at a costume ball at the rebuilt White House, where everything is a cherished reminder to me.
There is my dear father’s cabinet . . . his favorite sitting room . . .
My unmarried daughters swirl past in gay colors as varied as nature; they are popular in the capital. Ginny’s husband, whom William Short has taken under his wing, is to become the new American consul to Cuba. My son Ben is to graduate from his grandfather’s university as a doctor. George has become a naval officer. I’m a very proud mother.
At the costume ball, near the dance floor, I spy the notorious Mrs. Eaton, at whom I’m sure to smile. Not far from the embattled woman is a senator who has sought my support for his legislation, and I escape him by turning to the punch bowl.
It is by this happenstance, as I reach for the refreshment, that I come face-to-face with a beautiful woman whose piercing blue eyes stop me where I stand.
My father’s eyes.
I see through her mask. Through the palest amber sheen of her freckled hand, bejeweled as it is with a wedding ring, I know her at once, and she knows me, too.