America's First Daughter: A Novel(6)

“Lafayette will come to drive the British from Virginia. Until then, we must know where the enemy is,” Papa replied, calmly.

But Mr. Rose wasn’t reassured by my father’s faith in the young French nobleman who was now commanding part of Washington’s army. In fact, Mr. Rose pounded the table, making me jump. “If the Virginia militia would only turn out!”

Papa never approved of loud shows of temper, and stared into his cider. “But they haven’t. Even the threat of court-martial hasn’t worked. I have no military experience, but even I know this: the whole of the British army may be descending upon us and we cannot guess if we’ll prevail . . . or if we must sue for peace . . . without knowing our enemy’s strength or whereabouts.”

“To go back is folly, Thomas,” my mother said. We all turned to her in surprise that she’d inserted herself into the men’s conversation, contradicted my father, and called him by his given name in mixed company. But the color on her cheeks told me that she was in high temper. “They’re hunting you, Thomas. They’re hunting you.”

Papa rested his freckled hand atop hers. “My dearest, the British are rounding up every legislator and patriot in the state. I am but one more.”

“No, sir,” Mr. Short broke in. “That’s not true.”

It seemed to me at the time that if there were anyone less likely than my mother to challenge Papa, it would’ve been my mother’s unassuming kinsman, Mr. Short. But, the truth is, William has always argued for what he believed was right. Even when it cost him. Even when it frightened him. Maybe even especially then. And that day, when we were all fugitives together, Mr. Short insisted, “The British want you because you’re the author of our independence.”

I knew this about my father, of course. About how soldiers were, as we spoke, fighting and bleeding for the ideas my father so ably expressed in the Declaration of Independence. But the pursuit of the British, the willingness of our neighbors to risk themselves, and Mr. Short’s vehemence gave me a new understanding of my father’s importance. Short leaned forward, intently. “Mr. Jefferson, if the British take you, they’ll take Virginia. And if they take Virginia, it will be the end of our revolution.”

Hope that this argument would change Father’s mind about going back made my heart thunder against my breast. Alas, Mr. Short’s words seemed to have the opposite effect intended. Papa squared his shoulders, a determined glint in his eye. “I’m the governor. Or at least, I was until a few days ago. There are others better suited to this emergency, but there can be no revolution without patriots willing to risk themselves.”

The bread dropped from my hand to my plate, the remains of it like sawdust in my mouth. Papa’s mind was made up. He’d summoned his courage. He’d go back, no matter the risk. . . .

My father’s enemies now claim that when his mettle was tested in wartime, he faltered. Their censure forced him to speak of it ever after as an unfortunate passage in his conduct. But I was there. I witnessed those days as some of his most courageous moments. And though it was plain to me that my mother wasn’t moved by his high-minded sentiments, I was. I was as proud of him as I was terrified for him.

And I knew I’d never want to be anyone else’s daughter.





WHILE WE AWAITED NEWS that the British had been pushed back or that Papa had been captured, Mama was short-tempered with us and declared we must make ourselves useful at the Rose household. Polly and I were sent off to help the slaves fetch water, churn butter, and sweep the floors. Mama herself was always on her feet, helping to cook breakfast and ease the burden on our kindly hosts. But after a week of this, when she was tending to the laundering of our dirtied clothes, she swayed and fell.

Mr. Short rushed to her side and gently lifted her. Together, we settled her into a rocking chair, where she struggled to recover herself. Given how recently Mama had lost her baby, she was apt to be sad and fragile. And the next day, she was still in that chair, needlework forgotten in her lap, when a rider approached the house.

At the sound of the horse hooves, Mr. Rose readied his musket and Mr. Short crouched by the window, pistol in hand. I froze, clutching a broom, wondering if I could wield it against a Redcoat if one should come through the door.

But then we heard Papa call to us.

Dropping my broom, I ran out to meet him. Though he’d been gone only a week, he looked thin and mangy. His skin was sunburnt and he’d traded his gentleman’s clothing for the garb of a frontiersman. Clad in brown leather breeches, a hunting shirt open at the neck, and a black hat that shadowed his eyes, he dismounted Caractacus and grabbed me into his arms, carrying me all the way inside. I clung to him, burying my face in his neck as he entered the house.

From the rocking chair, Mama attempted a smile, but her lower lip wobbled. “Have Lafayette’s forces fought back the British? Have we lost Virginia?” And when Papa’s mouth thinned into a grim line, she asked, “Is it burned? Is Monticello gone?”

“Only some wine is missing,” Papa told us, and relief had me heaving a long breath. But when Papa spoke next, there was ice in his words. “Would that I could say the same of Elk Hill.” Elk Hill was one of Papa’s other plantations where he grew corn and tobacco and raised livestock. “Elk Hill is left in absolute waste. The British burned the barns and fences, slit the throats of the youngest horses, and took everything. They carried off our crops, our livestock, and our people. At least thirty slaves are gone.”