America's First Daughter: A Novel(8)

He urged the stallion into a gallop. The fence was no obstacle for the stallion, who flew up, up, and over with an ease that delighted me. I was still laughing with the thrill of it when we landed on the other side.

Then we heard a rattle. . . .

A coiled snake near its hooves made the stallion snort in fear, rearing up wildly. I held fast to the horse’s black mane and my father used his body to keep me from falling. But in protecting me, Papa lost his balance, toppling from the horse. He threw his arm out to break his fall but came down hard upon his hand and howled in pain.

Caractacus trampled a circle and I tried desperately to calm him by digging my knees into his sides. Meanwhile, the overseer of the farm came running to help, several slaves at his back.

“Rattlesnake,” Papa gritted out as the serpent slithered away.

The overseer grabbed the horse’s reins and called to the closest slave. “Kill it, boy.”

The sweat-soaked slave shook his head in fear and refusal as the serpent escaped into the woods.

Outraged, the overseer lifted his lash.

“Stay your whip!” Papa barked, cradling his injured hand against his chest as he slowly rose. “Everyone back to work.”

As the slaves dispersed, I could scarcely feel my fingers, so tightly were they wound in the horse’s mane. My heart still pounded with fear and thrill. The overseer, by contrast, was overcome with anger. Cheeks and jowls red, he said, “It does no good to be gentle with them, Mr. Jefferson. A firm hand is all the Negro understands.”

Papa’s voice pulled tight with pain and . . . something else. “What I understand is this: we’re two white men, one gentlewoman, and two little girls on a secluded farmstead, hiding from an army promising freedom to the Negro.”

My father’s gaze darted to the men in our fields with sharp instruments in their hands, and a strange and sickly feeling stole over me. Is my papa afraid of them? Afraid of his own slaves? It was the first time I ever wondered such a thing.

Papa’s wrist was bent at an ungainly angle. The overseer rode out to fetch a trustworthy doctor while Mama fretted that there might not be one so far from Charlottesville. It was nearly night when the doctor arrived to do his grisly business of resetting Papa’s bones. After, Mama wrapped my father’s wrist and gave him the last of our brandy for the pain. Upon orders from the physician, Papa was forbidden to ride or go out from our cabin for two weeks. Unless, of course, the British chased us from here.

I remember that in those weeks, Mama and Papa were tender with one another every moment of every day. Our meals were simple. Our days were long. I was forever keeping Polly from mischief. At night, in spite of his painful injury, Papa led us in cheerful song while Polly and I bundled together atop a little nest of quilts.

Kissing us good night, my father gave a sly smile. “Do you girls know how it was that I wooed and won your mother?”

Mama looked up from tucking the blankets around us with a sly smile of her own. “Mr. Jefferson, you’re not going to keep our daughters awake with an immodest boast, are you?”

“Indeed, I am. You see, girls, I wooed your mother by making music with her in the parlor—me with my violin and tenor, she with her harpsichord and soprano. And when two other waiting suitors heard the beauty of our song, they left, vanquished, without another word, knowing they had heard the sound of true love.”

With that, he kissed my mother’s furiously blushing cheek. And, cleaving to one another, our little family, we could almost believe the British would never find us here.

Then one evening we heard the dreaded clatter of a horse’s hooves up the path. From the window, I peered out to see it was a horse-drawn wagon. To my relief, William Short rode in the buggy seat—still wearing his now much-dirtied cravat—bearing corn, brandy, and chickens. And that wasn’t all. Mr. Short had breathless news. “Tarleton has turned back to join up with Cornwallis, who is being harried by Lafayette. They’re retreating, Mr. Jefferson. Thanks to Lafayette, the British are retreating!”

I squinted into the firelight, trying to make sense of Mr. Short’s exhilarated glee. Retreating? Then . . . the British wouldn’t capture and hang my papa! And whatever British soldiers had done to that nine-year-old girl, they wouldn’t do to me. Tears of relief pricked at my eyes while Papa breathed out a long exhale. “What of the legislature?”

“We were able to convene a session.” Mr. Short stared into his cup of brandy, as if he were reluctant to tell the rest. “A motion passed accusing you of having failed to defend Virginia. I argued on your behalf, Mr. Jefferson, but I was no match for the machinations of Patrick Henry. There’ll be an investigation into your conduct.”

My shoulders tensed in indignation. How could anyone question my father’s defense of Virginia? No one had been braver! I remembered how he stood so tall, refusing to leave Monticello until everyone else had gone. How he went back to scout for soldiers . . .

Father groaned, as if this news caused him more agony than his injured wrist. “So, my honor is gone.”

“Only imperiled,” Mr. Short swiftly replied. “A thing that can be remedied if you accept an appointment to France. The Marquis de Lafayette sends word that your countrymen wish for you to represent us in Paris.”

Renewed hope danced in Papa’s eyes. “That would be a singular honor.”

Paris? I could scarcely conceive of such a place! Would he take us with him?