America's First Daughter: A Novel

by Stephanie Dray

  But even believing that, the account in the paper made my fingers rise up to my own throat as I fought back the horror of imagining the blade slicing through it. Who were these Jacobins who had condemned Lafayette a traitor and killed the king? And would they come next for the friends I left behind in France, like Marie?

  Until this news, Papa and I had held in contempt those who complained of the revolution’s excesses. They hadn’t witnessed all we’d witnessed in France. But the men who had seized the reins there now, could they be the same men that Papa and I had known and admired? Surely not.

  Papa could explain it, I was sure. And I was near desperate to have him home—especially when he wrote that the news of Richard and Nancy’s disgrace had reached him all the way in Philadelphia.

  The damned story would not die. The slaves wouldn’t let it. And every white man in Virginia who ever resented the haughty Randolphs called for justice. By the time April wildflowers were in bloom at Monticello, Richard sat in a Cumberland County jail, accused of fathering a child on his wife’s sister and murdering the babe.

  And I was called to testify.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  THE CUMBERLAND COURTHOUSE WAS PACKED, cheek to jowl, between old wooden walls. “Jefferson’s daughter,” someone said as I entered, and the courtroom erupted, every gawker and gossip-monger in the county craning their necks to get a better look.

  “Mrs. Randolph!” someone else cried, but beneath the white satin bow and broad rim of my fashionable hat, I kept my eyes on the magistrates—sixteen men in powdered wigs in whose hands the fate of my family’s reputation now resided.

  I made my way through the crowd with the gliding gait I had learned at the Court of Versailles, my skirts swishing, white lace upon blue-ruffled petticoat, while whispers flew from one row of wooden benches to the next.

  Is her gown from Paris?

  She’s wearing a revolutionary cockade!

  What will she say?

  I knew the lawyers for the defense. The fire-breathing Patrick Henry and the grim-faced John Marshall. Federalists. Both men nodded to me respectfully, as if they thought I didn’t know them to be my father’s enemies. As if those glory-seeking creatures thought to convince me, for even one moment, that they wouldn’t use whatever happened in the trial to tarnish my father in the papers if they could.

  I smiled serenely as I was called to stand beneath the drape of red, white, and blue—the colors of both beloved flags I’d seen waved to champion the cause of freedom. Pushing artfully coiffed copper ringlets of hair from my face, I looked out into a crowd of old Virginia gentry in fine coats and breeches, frontier planters wearing hunting shirts and homespun, and housewives in mobcaps and bonnets.

  Some were friendly. Others were eager to see the Randolphs fall.

  Offered a leather-bound Bible on which to swear, I was informed that the charge was murder. A fact I knew all too well. Murder of an infant, punishable by death. As my hand hovered above the Bible, I glanced at the accused. My sister-in-law and her vile seducer. Richard looked smug, but Nancy trembled.

  Beneath my gloved hand I felt the warmth of the leather. If ever there was a time to repair my breach with God, I thought, it was now. So I swore my sacred and solemn oath to tell the truth.

  Then I thought of the promise I had made to my mother to care for my father always. I thought of the sacrifices I’d made toward that end. A stain on Tom would be a stain on my father’s name, too. A stain on all of us.

  “It was gum guaiacum,” I said, when put to question, my hand still upon the leather Bible. “That’s what Nancy Randolph had been taking in her tea.”

  At the table for the defense, John Marshall didn’t look up; he merely continued to scribble notes of the proceedings. His cocounsel, Patrick Henry, however, threw me a look that blazed with surprise.

  Coming closer, Mr. Henry asked, “How could you possibly know this, Miss Jefferson?”

  “Mrs. Randolph,” I corrected. “I’m a married woman now.”

  He hadn’t called me to testify at this hearing, after all, because he suspected I knew anything material. I hadn’t been anywhere near the Harrison place when the wicked deed was allegedly done. I’d already told him this before the hearing, but he’d insisted on calling me anyway. These two Federalist lawyers had called me to perform at this spectacle for one reason, and one reason only—to embarrass my father. To connect the Jefferson name to this scandal by whatever means necessary, even while arguing on behalf of my Randolph kin.

  They thought they were so clever. They thought they knew my father’s weak spots. Maybe they did. But they didn’t know me or mine. “You’re asking how I know Nancy Randolph took gum guaiacum?”

  I let my eyes slide past the old firebrand to settle upon my pale and trembling sister-in-law and the devil that brought us all to this state. Not Richard—though he, too, was a villain—but Colonel Randolph, whose indifference to his children had sent them fleeing his house. There the old buzzard stood, gouty and in ill health, doing nothing whatsoever to save his own daughter’s life. And standing next to him was Gabriella Harvie, with a sweet smile on her face, as if she weren’t half to blame for driving her stepdaughter to such peril.

  Richard stood accused, but Nancy’s life was at stake, too. Popular sentiment ran so strongly against them that the prisoner had to be taken to the jail under heavy guard. If this hearing went badly, he’d face the gallows, because murder was a capital offense. Adultery, fornication, incest, and bastardy were crimes, too, but I doubted anyone could remember the last time someone was prosecuted for those, even here in Virginia. No, it was the death of the baby that’d put Richard in his grave, and Nancy thereafter—for she’d be charged with infanticide, the only crime for which women were legally presumed guilty, rather than innocent.

  Knowing this, I steeled myself. I made sure not to look at my tall, beautiful, but temperamental husband. And though each false word bit at the edge of my tongue with the sharp conviction of the guillotine, I let the blade fly. “The reason I know Nancy Randolph took gum guaiacum … is because I gave it to her.”

  A collective intake of breath punctuated a chorus of shocked murmurs that echoed from one side of the courtroom to the other. All sixteen magistrates leaned in closer to hear my words, the curls of their powdered wigs bobbing as they stared. Even the unflappable John Marshall looked up from his scroll, one eye twitching.

  Patrick Henry’s jowls reddened. “You mean to say—do you mean to say—Miss Jefferson—”

  “Mrs. Randolph.”

  The fire breather advanced. “Are you telling this court that you provided an abortifacient to your sister-in-law?”

  Without lowering my gaze, I nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  The prosecutor was suddenly on his feet. “Do you know what you’re saying, woman? It is your testimony that you knowingly aided and abetted Nancy Randolph in ridding herself of a bastard child by giving her a dangerous medicine to produce an abortion?”

  Inside, I was all atremble, but I somehow kept my voice steady and calm. You’re a Jefferson, I thought, as if to spite Colonel Randolph. Sunny disposition, but ice water in your veins. “No sir, I’m not confessing to a crime. In truth, I hadn’t the slightest notion that Nancy could’ve been with child, though, obviously, I suspect it now.”

  At my words, Patrick Henry couldn’t recover swiftly enough. It was John Marshall whose cool question cut through the crowded courtroom. “If you had no notion that Nancy Randolph might be with child, why did you supply her with the gum?”

  That was the question I’d needed someone to ask, and I wanted to pat Mr. Marshall on the head like a good dog for asking it. “I gave her the gum because I know it is an excellent medicine for colic. So when my sister-in-law complained of colic—you know, Nancy has been afflicted with colic as long as I’ve known her—”

  The judges looked impatient with my aside, but I saw hatted heads nod amongst the spectators. I’d laid my ground over a hundred teacups these past w
eeks, sighing of Nancy’s delicate stomach. Was there a soul in Virginia who wouldn’t swear she’d always had colic? Not after the seeds I’d sewn.

  “She’s delicate that way,” I said. “It runs in the family. So when I visited a few weeks before the incident, I added some of the resin to her tea and encouraged her to avail herself of it whenever she felt her pains coming on.”

  Nancy went even paler at my story, shock and confusion warring in her expression. Meanwhile, Mr. Marshall was quick to seize upon my testimony. “Did the defendant, Richard Randolph, know that you provided such medicine to the women in his household?”

  I gave a disdainful sniff. “Womanly troubles are hardly the sort of thing a gentlewoman of Virginia discusses with menfolk … unless, of course, she’s dragged from hearth and home to talk about it before the whole county.”

  I heard a chuckle in the audience, followed by another. I’d been a little tart, but not too tart. They were charmed by me, I hoped.

  Marshall leaned forward. “Is that why you didn’t mention it before now?”

  Acutely aware that my husband was in this courtroom, no doubt burning a hole in me with his dark eyes, I replied, “I hadn’t thought of it before now. I came here believing the accusation was against Richard for some criminal mischief. But when I heard witnesses blaming Nancy for taking an elixir, that’s when I remembered the gum.”

  I don’t think I fooled the owlish Mr. Marshall, but he wasn’t about to lose a case by contradicting me. I’d given him the bait. Now it was up to the illustrious lawyers for the defense. I’d provided all the evidence they should need to persuade the magistrates that even if Nancy had been delivered of a child, it was likely stillborn—its death an accident, not murder.

  But would anyone believe me?

  “NOT GUILTY,” CAME THE VERDICT.

  Richard let out a triumphant cry, while Nancy’s knees nearly buckled underneath her. Some people cried, “Shame, shame!” Not at Richard, but at his accusers, many of whom were slaves, forbidden from testifying at all.

  Given the glee with which Richard celebrated the verdict, hooting with no sense of decorum, he seemed to believe himself vindicated. His honor restored.

  I knew better.

  In the end, he’d been saved by women. By Nancy’s willingness to sacrifice her own honor by writing that letter, by my willingness to lie, and even by his poor betrayed wife.

  Judy had stayed by his side, insisting to the court that her husband and her sister were innocent. What other option did she have? She couldn’t let him die. Neither could she leave him and go back to her father, even if Colonel Randolph would’ve had her back. She was Richard Randolph’s wife and could never be separated from him. His fate was her fate. If he was ruined, so was she. So if she had to pretend her husband had no carnal knowledge of her sister, then that’s what she’d do.

  I felt so sorry for Judy, betrayed once already by her husband and her own sister. Sorrier, still, when Richard insisted that Nancy return with them to Bizarre. For a moment I feared that my husband would rush upon Nancy and tear her away from her lover. Or, much worse, that he’d descend upon Richard and dash his head open on the cobblestones. But in spite of all the rage brewing in him, my husband kept his silence, a thing more galling to him than perhaps any other indignity of his life.

  And I was so unutterably proud of him, though I remained more than a little frightened of his reaction to what I’d done. Nancy never thanked me for it. Never spared me a glance. I supposed it was because she knew perfectly well the judgment she’d see in my eyes—for she’d already seen it, that night in the darkness of Bizarre’s kitchen. For my husband’s sake, I’d saved her life, but I knew they were guilty. I knew not only that they were guilty, but also that only a small part of the world would be influenced by the decision of the court.

  Nevertheless, we watched Tom’s disgraced sister climb into Richard’s phaeton and drive off with him, either too stupid, or too deluded, to realize that she ought to be chastened to her soul by the entire sordid debacle.

  In our carriage back home, Tom quietly said, “They’d have strung my sister up.”

  “Yes,” I replied, nervously wetting my lips.

  His gaze burned into the side of my face. “They would’ve strung her up—if not for you.”

  “Yes,” I said, again, swallowing hard.

  This dark man of savage impulses stared so hard I felt on the precipice of something awful. But then his voice lowered to a whisper. “I suppose, then, it’s good you remembered the gum.”

  I turned to him but wasn’t able to meet his eyes. “I wish I’d remembered it sooner.”

  He tilted his dark head of hair against the cushion as we rattled down the road. He was tired, wrung out from the whole ordeal. But just when I thought he’d fallen asleep, he said, “I pray I never hear another word about it.”

  AT SUMMER’S END, Papa burst in the front door of Monticello, my little sister all but yipping at his heels with the dogs she’d left behind. After patting their ears and kissing their heads, Polly ran to me, threw her arms around my waist, and hugged me so tight I could scarcely breathe.

  I couldn’t get enough of looking at her. During her time with Papa in Philadelphia, she’d somehow transformed into a beautiful girl of fifteen with a heart-shaped face, bones like a bird, and a tiny waist that would be the envy of every woman in Virginia. My father shook Tom’s hand, and Tom managed to smile—he’d been dreadfully ill that summer, as though the family scandal had sickened him to the core. But at his smile, my father’s return, and Polly’s embrace, I felt whole again.

  Everything was right. Safe in the warm glow of my father’s love, I hadn’t the faintest urge to tell him anything more than must be told about the recent unpleasantness.

  Meanwhile Sally, who hung back in the hall, twisted her hands anxiously, as if it took a real effort not to run to Papa, too. Papa noticed her, I was sure, but turned away as he settled into his favorite chair in the parlor and said, “I have news… .”

  President Washington had personally asked him not to resign as secretary of state, but he felt that his term would soon come to an end. First, however, he hoped to negotiate for the release of Lafayette from prison.

  Polly piped up with, “Hopefully Mr. Short can help. He’s been appointed minister to the Netherlands, but he’s had contact with Lafayette.”

  The sudden pain William’s name caused caught me entirely unawares. I’d forbidden myself to think of him. I was a wife and mother and I loved my little family. I loved Tom. But I’d never told my husband about William, and the unexpected mention of him now, with Tom sitting close beside me, holding my hand, made me acutely aware of the lie of omission. I nearly burned with it.

  But my curiosity pricked at me even more sharply. Affecting nonchalance, I asked, “I thought Mr. Short was to be the minister of France.”

  “That post went to Gouverneur Morris,” my father replied. “Some say it’s for the best. Mr. Short has, after all, become disenchanted with Paris since the king and the Duke de la Rochefoucauld were executed.”

  The duke, much like Lafayette, had helped give birth to France’s constitution. Why was the revolution now eating its fathers? I wondered if such a thing could happen here.

  Polly said, “After the duke was executed, Mr. Short was quite frantic for the safety of the widowed duchess. He proposed marriage to her, to rescue her from the violence in France, but she refused him.”

  I doubted that William’s motives in proposing marriage were entirely altruistic, as I’d heard too many rumors of his love for Rosalie. But at this news, I was surprised to feel more sadness than jealousy. More pity than bitterness. I felt sorrow that William Short had twice tried to marry a woman, and twice been refused.

  The conversation turned to the latest conflict between Papa and his nemesis, Mr. Hamilton, but my thoughts stayed with poor William. He’d wanted nothing more than a wife and children and to follow in my father’s footsteps. He’d wanted it desper
ately. And yet, nearly four years had passed since I left him in Paris, and he still had no wife, no family, nor even my father’s post in France, where he’d made his career.

  But he had been made the minister to the Netherlands. That had to have pleased him. He’d wanted to be of both service and consequence to his country, and he was. I was glad for him, and I pushed down the treacherous, unworthy part of me that imagined myself the wife of an ambassador, strolling with my parasol through the streets of The Hague, wearing fine gowns, having my hair done at my toilette before going down to entertain at a dinner table set with the finest silver… .

  That evening I strolled with Papa at Monticello. My arm looped through his, we made our way down the pebbled walkway along the vegetable garden as the sun went down. The vibrant hues of autumn stretched out for many miles in every direction, Papa’s mountain providing an unmatched vista of the new country unfolding below. We walked for many long minutes in silence.

  “How are you, dear Patsy?” he finally asked, peering down at me.

  Because I worried he’d see in my expression my troubles—the scandals, the rift with Tom’s family, Tom’s long illness, our debts—I plastered on a smile. “I’m well, Papa. Even better now that you’re home.”

  He leaned into me and winked. “Always my brave girl, aren’t you?”

  “I try.” In truth, I felt ridiculously close to tears in that moment and had to look away. Perhaps it was how small I felt beside him, or the knowing look in his eyes, or the relief that we were all together again. “It will be nice when you can stay for good.”

  “I desire very much to exchange the labor, envy, and malice of public life for ease, domestic occupation, love, and society. Here, where I may once more be happy with you.”

  The words lifted an unseen burden from my shoulders. “Soon, Papa?”

  “Soon,” he said.

  The conversation marked the beginning of a period of happiness at Monticello. We celebrated my twenty-second birthday in grand style, with a fine dinner, and a chorus sung round my harpsichord while I played. Papa lavished love on his little grandchildren; it wasn’t unusual to find him on the floor of the parlor, telling stories and playing at games with Ann and cooing over Jeff. All of us reveled in the bounty of the season, everyone healthy and happy, until the cold of November struck with bad tidings.