America's First Daughter: A Novel(77)

In those words, I heard the echo of William Short.

That’s when I stole off with Tom. And so it was that on the very last day of the most eventful year of my life, I spent its waning hours locked in a lustful embrace with a man who terrified me more than a little.

Fortunately, I was no longer naive. I wasn’t about to be fooled by reckless words about marriage. Not for a second time. “Tom Randolph, do you think for one moment I’d surrender my virtue for a betrothal?”

Hands still fisted in my coat, he stiffened, as if my words were a mortal affront to his honor. His next words puffed angrily in the cold winter air. “I’m a gentleman of Virginia. I’m not whispering words in the dark to be forgotten in daylight. I’m asking for your hand, Miss Jefferson. You could at least do me the honor of considering my proposal.”

I couldn’t credit that he meant it. We hadn’t discussed books or politics or music. And we hadn’t exchanged a single word about love. “But—but this is very sudden. You think we’re well suited?”

He nodded, resolutely. “We’re of an age. There’s a long-standing bond between your family and mine. And the fortune that’ll be mine . . . it’s not inconsiderable. Your father agrees; he’s told me we’d have his blessing to wed.”

I cannot overstate the impact of learning that my father had already discussed this match with Tom. Did Papa want me gone, now that Sally was to give him a new child? How it pained me to think that she might replace me as his most constant companion, the one most dear to him. . . .

And as this agony of the spirit ripped through me, Tom Randolph knelt, holding his hand over his heart, as if it might burst out of his chest if his desires weren’t satisfied. “I must have you for my wife, Miss Jefferson. I must have you. So don’t keep me in the misery of suspense, but give me an answer soon.”

As I stared down into his brutally beautiful face, his proposal still echoing in the cold air, an unwelcome and unbidden thought came to mind. William Short never went down on his knee for me. He never made a formal proposal. Not like this.

Confusion swamped my racing heart and spinning head. Papa approved. Our families would approve. Society would approve. But the last time I’d considered such a thing, I’d ended up with a broken heart. So I wasn’t sure how to make the decision.

Indeed, given how little time had passed since we’d returned to Virginia, I could scarcely believe I was being confronted with making it at all.





Chapter Seventeen


SALLY HEMINGS GAVE BIRTH TO A BOY.

A boy named after my father. A boy who was both my cousin and my brother—and neither. Here on my father’s secluded mountain, where Papa’s wishes reigned supreme, no one would ever acknowledge Sally’s boy as my father’s son unless he did. But the Hemingses were as tightly knit a family as ever lived. They all knew, which meant all the slaves knew. And probably some of our nearest neighbors, too.

But it wasn’t our only scandal.

Papa’s debts were such that he had to sell our mother’s favorite plantation—Elk Hill. He’d been forced to sell land. Land, which meant everything to a Virginia planter. Everything to him. And I understood that in his perilous financial situation, the only asset I had to contribute was myself.

I’d have to marry, and I’d have to marry well.

Given that my heart was already shattered to pieces, love need be of no consideration in my decision to marry. Sally’s words from that day in the foyer at the Hotel de Langeac played back to me. Women have to give hard thought to the men we’ll wind up with. . . . Her words held a relevance now that I couldn’t have known then, and it made me all the more regretful for the way I’d treated her.

So, yes, let my choice of husband be a wealthy man, but also a kind one. A country neighbor and friend. Someone with whom my family shared a history.

If I was to marry, why not Tom Randolph?

I could never hope for a man to see me the way William had, but Tom wanted me. And that would have to be enough.

I saw no reason to delay.

William and I had parted in September. It was now January of a new year, and he’d still not written to my father or me. William had waited two years before declaring that he’d wait no more. I doubted the young Mr. Randolph would wait that long. And if we didn’t marry soon, my father wouldn’t be there for the wedding, because William’s predictions had proved to be true—President Washington had, indeed, named my father secretary of state. And Papa’s friends, like Mr. Madison, convinced him that it was an honor he couldn’t refuse.

None of us would return to France. Instead, my father would ride off to the new capital to serve in the president’s cabinet before springtime and would send me and Polly to live at Eppington, where we’d learn housewifery from Aunt Elizabeth.

Or . . . I could marry now and be my own mistress. So, I accepted Tom’s proposal, and the wedding was planned a few weeks hence.

Tom never smiled at my answer. Instead, standing beneath the pillars of my father’s neglected house, he took my hands and crushed them to his chest so I might feel the throbbing pulse beneath my fingers to prove his happiness. “My heart is yours, Patsy. It’s racing for you. Galloping with eagerness to make you mine.”

I might’ve hesitated, in that moment, if my own heartbeat hadn’t answered in kind. “I’d like to know your plans for our future,” I said.