America's First Daughter: A Novel

by Stephanie Dray

  Dedication

  To friendship and perseverance

  Note to the Reader

  DURING HIS LIFETIME Thomas Jefferson wrote more than eighteen thousand letters. It is through these that we framed this story, and took almost all of his dialogue. Whenever possible, for Jefferson, his daughter, and other historical figures, we quote directly from letters and other primary sources, all of which reflect the biases, prejudices, and political opinions of the time period. However, because the language of the eighteenth century was so stilted and opaque, we’ve taken the liberty of correcting spelling, grammar, and otherwise editing, abridging, or modernizing the prose in the interest of clarity.

  Epigraph

  Monticello, 5 April 1823

  From Thomas Jefferson to Robert Walsh

  The letters of a person, especially of one whose business has been chiefly transacted by letters, form the only full and genuine journal of his life.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Note to the Reader

  Epigraph

  July 5, 1826

  Part One: The Dutiful Daughter Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Two: Founding Mother Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Part Three: Mistress of Monticello Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Epilogue

  Note from the Authors

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More … * About the authors

  About the book

  Read on

  Advance Praise for America’s First Daughter

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  July 5, 1826

  SONS OF A REVOLUTION FIGHT FOR LIBERTY. They give blood, flesh, limbs, their very lives. But daughters … we sacrifice our eternal souls. This I am sure of, as I stand in the quiet emptiness of my father’s private chambers.

  I’m here now because my father is dead and buried.

  And I’m left to make sense of it all.

  My gaze drifts from the alcove bed where Papa drew his last breaths to his private cabinet beyond to the adjustable mahogany drawing desk he brought from Paris so many years before. Light filters down on me from the skylight built into the soaring ceiling and plays off the mirrors to make me feel as an actor upon a stage, playing a secret role.

  Even knowing that he’ll never return, I hesitate to settle into the red leather swivel armchair upon which my father struggled to write his letters, fewer and fewer every year. His hands, his eyesight, and his endurance all failed him in the end. But never his intellect; that he had to the last.

  From between the pages of a leather-bound book on his revolving book stand, I find a sketch. A drawing of an obelisk monument and tombstone to be inscribed with what he wished to be remembered for—and not a word more.

  THOMAS JEFFERSON

  AUTHOR OF THE DECLARATION OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE

  OF THE STATUTE OF VIRGINIA FOR RELIGIOUS FREEDOM

  AND FATHER OF THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA

  I brush my fingertips over the sketch and imagine the coarse granite that will bear these words and stand eternal guardian over Papa’s final resting place. Alas, memories are made of more than inscriptions in stone. They’re made, too, of the words we leave behind. And my father left so many.

  Most of his meticulously ordered, copied, and cataloged letters are stored in wooden cabinets here in his chambers. It will take time to go through them all, but time is all I have now. So I start with the earliest letters, warmed to hold the fading pages in my hands, overcome with pride at seeing his confident script soaring so eloquently across the yellowed paper.

  A glass-paned door opens behind me from the direction of the greenhouse where my father’s mockingbirds sing, and I swivel in the chair, startled to come face-to-face with my father’s lover. Sally Hemings doesn’t knock, nor does she apologize for the intrusion. She strides into the space as if she belongs here. And she does. For as much as my father cherished the seclusion of this sanctum sanctorum, almost until his last breath, this was her domain.

  But now Thomas Jefferson is gone, and Sally and I have come, at last, to the final reckoning between us. We stand, two aging matriarchs amidst his books, scientific instruments, and a black marbled obelisk clock—the one over his bed that counted down the minutes of his glorious life and now counts down the moments until we will follow him.

  Sally, who bears a tawny resemblance to my lovely, petite mother, wears a crisp white apron over the gown she sewed from colorful calico. And she surveys the space much as I did moments ago. Silently, I rise to my feet, towering over her in my dark and somber gown, with hair that has gone from red to reddish brown—the image of my father.

  In the reflection of the gilt mirror, we are matched reflections of the ghosts in this room. But it’s my father’s presence that we both feel now. I suppose some might say she was his beautiful mulatto slave wife and I the plain white wife of his parlor. We both birthed children for him: hers of his bed and his body; mine as a daughter of his bloodline, for his legacy.

  He loved us both.

  But only his love for me can be remembered.

  Standing self-possessed as an ancient priestess, holding a bundle of relics collected from her life with my father, Sally informs me, “I’m taking these.” A jeweled shoe buckle Papa wore as the American minister in France. An inkwell that serves, perhaps, as a remembrance of the immortal words he wrote. An old discarded pair of spectacles. Holding them tight, she doesn’t say why she wants them. Perhaps it’s because it was through those spectacles that he looked at the world and saw her.

  I see her, too.

  With black glossy hair shot through with only a little gray, the long length pulled back in a chignon at her neck, Sally possesses a beauty that hasn’t faded. Is it sadness in her expression for the loss of a great man who left us both alone and in ruin? Or is it defiant triumph?

  I cannot know, so my gaze drops to the bundle in her hands and I nod. She’s entitled to the spectacles. She’s entitled to more than he gave her—more than I can give her.

  She nods, too, the culmination of a lifetime of conversation between us—sometimes spoken aloud, sometimes in passing glances and measured silences. But now we have nothing left to say. Sally looks one last time at the alcove and my eyes follow the direction of hers, taking note of how his bed sits between his private dressing room and
his study—caught between his private and public life, just as he was.

  Just as Sally and I have been.

  Finally, she shakes her head, as if pulling herself from a memory, and steps toward me. With quick, deft fingers, she unlaces the ribbon at her hip where the key to this room has dangled for nearly forty years. She surrenders it to me, just as my father surrendered to me the fate of everything and everyone that once belonged to him.

  Our hands meet in the exchange of the key—her bronzed fingers against my pale, freckled ones—and it feels like a circle closing. We’ve made this whole journey together, from the time we were innocent children on my father’s mountain when this grand house was a mere shadow of itself. I meet her eyes wondering if she knows the sin I’m about to commit and if she would give her blessing, or if she dreads it like I do. But Sally’s eyes are like hardened amber in which secrets are preserved but trapped beyond reach.

  She doesn’t grant permission, nor does she ask it anymore.

  She merely walks away.

  And I let her go, because she’s a part of the story that must remain untold.

  I’m then alone again in the quiet of this sacred place where my father’s belongings remain exactly as he left them, as if awaiting his return. The silence is suffocating in both its finality and protection, like a cloak that shelters me against a storm, that protects my very nation.

  Returning to his desk, I take my seat once more. And I set my mind to the task I and I alone must do.

  For my father was the author of our Independence. His pen unleashed one revolution after another by declaring that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.

  Deceptively simple words—the greatest words he ever wrote.

  Perhaps the greatest words anyone has ever written.

  Words that inspired men to pledge their lives and fortune to the cause, that inspired women to make countless sacrifices, and that inspired nations to embark upon an experiment of freedom. My father’s words gave voice to a movement. His voice was the voice of a nation. A voice that changed the world.

  Who am I to censor that voice?

  I am a daughter who must see to it that he is remembered exactly the way he wanted to be. I recall the instructions he’d written for his tombstone: and not a word more.

  Which is why I light the wick of a candle in one of the holders—ingeniously, and somewhat dangerously, fastened to the arms of my father’s chair. And with shaking hands, I hold one of his sacred letters above the flame. In so doing, I feel the heat, as if a prelude to hell’s fires awaiting me.

  But I have defied God before.

  My heart is already heavy with sins and secrets and betrayals. I’m stained with the guilt of slavery. I have counted as a necessary sacrifice the blood of patriots. I have denied the truth written upon my own skin in the black and blue ink of bruises. I have vouched for the character of men without honor. I have stayed silent to avoid speaking the truth. What is one more silence when it preserves all we have sacrificed for?

  That will be my legacy.

  The service I render my country.

  For I’m not only my father’s daughter, but also a daughter of the nation he founded. And protecting both is what I’ve always done.

  Part One

  The Dutiful Daughter

  Chapter One

  Charlottesville, 29 May 1781

  From Thomas Jefferson to the Marquis de Lafayette

  I sincerely and anxiously wish you may prevent General Cornwallis from engaging your army till you are sufficiently reinforced and able to engage him on your own terms.

  BRITISH! BRITISH!” These words flew with blood and spittle from the gasping mouth of our late-night visitor, a rider who awakened our household with the clatter of horse hooves and the pounding of his fist upon the door. “Leave Monticello now or find yourself in chains.”

  Still shaking off the fog of sleep, my eight-year-old heart could’ve kept time with a hummingbird’s wings as I stared down from the stairway to where my father greeted our late-night guest wearing only a pair of hastily donned calfskin breeches and a quilted Indian gown of blue. “Are you certain the British are so near?” Papa asked.

  Standing in the open doorway, bathed in the light of a slave’s lantern, the rider panted for breath. His bloodstained hunting shirt was slashed at the shoulder, leather leggings spattered with mud. And his face … oh, his face. It was a grotesque mask of burrs and blood, red and cut open in a dozen places, as if he’d been whipped by every branch in our forest during his frantic ride. “Tarleton and his dragoons are very close, Governor Jefferson,” he said, still gasping and wild-eyed. “Neither the militia nor the Marquis de Lafayette and his army will arrive in time to defend us. You must go now or be captured.”

  My scalp prickled with fear and I clutched the railing tighter. The men of the household—many of them members of the Virginia legislature who recently sought refuge at Monticello—stumbled into the entryway in various states of undress, some shouting in panic. My little sister Polly whimpered, and I put my arm around her shaking shoulders, both of us still in our bed gowns. I softly shushed her so I could hear the conversation below, but I already understood more than the adults thought I did.

  How close are the British soldiers? How many? And what will they do if they find us? These questions raced through my mind as more of the plantation’s servants spilled into the space, as anxious as we were, though perhaps in a different way. For I’d heard the men say the British promised the slaves freedom.

  Sally, my friend and playmate, and a slave girl just my age, tucked herself into the far corner. Her amber eyes were carefully shielded, hiding whether she felt fear or excitement. My mother, however, wore her alarm like a shroud. Though she’d taken the time to dress in frock and mob cap, her skin was pale, her hazel eyes wide with panic. “The British? How near?” Mama asked, the candlestick shaking in her hand.

  Only Papa was serene in the face of the coming danger. Looking from the men to Mama, he straightened to his full height—and he was the tallest man I knew, with ginger hair and piercing blue eyes that shone with fierce, quiet power. He held up his hand to silence the room. “Worry not, my friends. The mountains and darkness will delay the British,” he said, the certainty of his words calming the panic. He turned to the servants and spoke with a reassuring authority that reminded us all he was master of the plantation. “Martin and Caesar, secure the valuables. Robert, ready a carriage to take my wife and children away after they’ve had some breakfast—”

  “There’s no time, sir,” the rider dared to argue. “The British are already in Charlottesville. They’re coming to burn Monticello.”

  Burn Monticello? My gaze darted about the brick-walled rooms of our plantation house—cluttered even then, in its first Palladian incarnation, with Papa’s cherished artifacts, marble busts and gilt-framed paintings, red silk draperies and a pianoforte, books and buffalo robes. Would all of it go up in a blaze of fire?

  My father and mother exchanged a tense glance. Turning to his visitors, Papa said, “Gentlemen, you must forgive my lack of hospitality and reconvene elsewhere. Make haste. My servants are at your disposal.”

  The room erupted in a flurry of motion. The slaves hurried about hiding the valuables. Metal clanked from the direction of the dining room, the sound of the silver forks, spoons, cups, and candlesticks being stuffed into pillowcases. Mama called Polly and me down to her. We rushed to her side, and she swiftly bundled Polly into her arms, snatching me by the hand and rushing us out into the damp night. My heart galloped as my bare feet scrabbled on the cold ground and I could feel my mother’s answering pulse pounding as she tugged me with a cold, clammy hand.

  Mama had been in poor health since the recent loss of a baby, and she couldn’t h
ide her trembling from Papa as he hurried us to our carriage. “Hush,” he said, though she’d not spoken. Pressing his forehead against Mama’s, he murmured softly to her and I wished I could hear what he said. All the commotion—heavy feet trampling our flower beds, horses whinnying and jangling in their bridles, and men stuffing papers into saddlebags—obscured whatever words my parents shared. But anyone watching would know that their whispered words were laced with passionate devotion. Then, Papa kissed Mama and released her into the carriage.

  “Papa!” I cried. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

  “Don’t fret, Patsy,” he said, reaching into the carriage to stroke my cheek and brush away a tendril of ginger hair, just like his. “I’ll secure my papers then follow on horseback.”

  But the rider had warned us to go now. The British would capture Papa if he stayed. I wasn’t supposed to know that the king had branded my father a traitor nor that the British would hang him if they captured him. But more than once I’d overheard the legislators’ fiery speeches ring through Monticello’s halls, so fear crawled into my throat. “Come now, Papa. Or they’ll catch you. They’ll catch you!”

  “Never,” he replied with a soft, confident smile. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it. “My escape route is well planned. I’ll take Caractacus. There’s no faster horse in Virginia.”

  The thought of him alone with enemies all around, the thought of us fleeing without him, the terror of never seeing him again—all of these horrid imaginings had my heart pounding so fast it was hard to breathe. I clutched at him. “Surely you won’t send us alone.”