It was, in the end, my father’s private word with Madison that led to the appointment. But I played my part. Which is why I took the blame when, after helping to lead a successful attack on Fort Matilda in New York, my husband returned in November from winter camp to learn the president had appointed him to collect revenue.
Tom went from puffed up and proud of his successful military campaign, to slack-jawed and bewildered as he’d read the appointment orders. I sat watching him, my stomach in knots.
He didn’t talk to me for the rest of the day. But at bedtime, when his bewilderment gave way to fury, Tom entered our room and slammed the door. He paced and pulled at his hair, then turned to me and shouted, “What have you done, woman!”
Sitting on the bed’s edge, I fisted my hands in my skirt. “I merely explained—”
“I’m offered a commission on application of my wife?”
I fell silent, because I knew it would anger him, and yet, I’d done it anyway. Still, with my father’s encouragement, it’d seemed the right course.
Tom threw his sheathed sword across the room where it hit the cast iron stove with a clatter. “You and your father would have the president believing I want to hide behind a vile cloak of cowardice as a tax man?”
“Please don’t blame Papa! It was my doing.”
Tom squeezed his eyes shut with a shake of his head. “My confidence in myself has never been blind. I’ve scarcely in my life felt confident before. But on the battlefield, men looked to me. They trusted me. I didn’t let them down. Which made me trust myself. Never did I suppose you might undermine me this way! The whole world might go against me, but never you.”
“I’m not against you,” I cried. I hadn’t done it to undermine him, but to save him! Jeff was young and able-bodied, and if he didn’t serve it would bring shame upon the family. But no one expects Tom to fight, Papa had said. And so, as my husband stared at me, demanding an explanation, all I could think to say was, “The appointment pays four thousand dollars.”
I said it because I knew it grated on Tom that we lived in my father’s house. I knew it made him doubt his worth. This salary would ease that—that’s all I meant by it.
But he heard stark betrayal.
He grabbed me by the shoulders, and I yelped. Then he shook me. He shook me until my teeth rattled. He hurt me. Though I was heavily pregnant, he threw me to the floor, where I lay gasping as he stormed away.
It’d be years before the crack in our marriage became obvious to all, but I always knew it was that moment that shook our foundations. All our married lives, Tom had made a silent plea. Need me. Need me the way a woman is meant to need her husband. I’d finally allowed myself to realize how much I needed him, and look what it had unleashed. For desperate need of him, I’d stolen his pride. And now I feared he’d never forgive me.
Tom didn’t sleep in our room that evening. I don’t know where he went. And when our baby girl was born that winter, he wouldn’t even suggest a name. Seven, I thought. Our seventh daughter. I named her Septimia.
Twenty-one. That was another important number. That’s how old my tall, rock-steady son was on the summer day in 1814 that he was called into active duty in the militia to fend off invasion.
The last time the English attacked Virginia, my father had been pilloried for taking flight. Which meant that for my son, there was nothing to do but fight. And, in the end, all my schemes to keep Tom from the battlefield were for naught. As the summer days grew long, he prepared to command the Second Regiment of the Virginia Cavalry.
Before he departed Tom warned, “If the British win, it’ll be an end to this nation. We’ll likely be made colonies again. The English will consider your father a traitor and our entire family useful prisoners. So think of that before you say another word against my taking to the field.”
Ashamed, I said nothing. For the defense of our country—and our family—my husband would drill troops on the muddy, mosquito-ridden banks of the York River while my son joined a company of artillerists to fend off the invasion. Still smarting and betrayed, Tom gave me the coldest of farewells, and I was too afraid to press him for more.
But before they marched off, I held my son’s freckled face in my hands, memorizing every line. Jeff was as beautiful as his father had been at that age, but without the darkness. In temperament and strength, he was more like my father.
But where was I in that mix?
In his heart, I hoped. Where I’d will it to keep beating.
Chapter Thirty-three
Monticello, 28 August 1814
From Thomas Jefferson to Louis H. Girardin
Of the burning of Washington, I believe nothing. When Washington is in danger, we shall see Mrs. Madison and Mrs. Monroe, like the doves from the ark, first messengers of the news.
P.S. Since writing this I receive information undoubted that Washington is burnt.
THE SHAME OF IT.” Dolley wept, her pink lips quivering as she recalled her flight from the capital. Their escape was such a narrow miss that British officers actually dined on the meal that had been prepared for the Madisons before they put the President’s House to the torch. The house where my father had served as president. Where I’d been his hostess. Where my son James had been born.
The English also burned the Naval Yard, the War Office, the Treasury, and the congressional buildings—including the Library of Congress and all the books therein. And Dolley sniffled, “My poor husband, when he saw the wreckage, was as shaken and woebegone as if someone had cleaved his heart in two.”
My father looked every bit as heartbroken. “Barbarism,” Papa said, pretending to dab at sweat with a kerchief, when I could see plainly there were tears in his eyes.
“I cannot do justice to the destruction with words,” Dolley continued, having stopped at Monticello briefly on her way to Montpelier. “The country’s monuments and architectural triumphs are all ash. The President’s House burned to a charred shell. The capitol building without a roof and gutted to the marble like an ancient ruin. Priceless paintings slashed; their splintered frames nothing more than kindling now.”
I’d hoped Dolley might bring some comforting word of my son and my husband, who would now face the British as they turned their guns south, but instead, I found myself comforting her. “At least you rescued some national treasures.”
“Only trifles,” she said with a dismissive wave. “A wagonload of papers, some silver and velvet curtains. There wasn’t time to save more. I told the servants to cut down the painting of George Washington or destroy it if it couldn’t be cut down, lest it fall into British hands. We hid it in a farmhouse—that’s what we were reduced to. Mr. Madison sought shelter under armed guard while I spent the longest night of my life without him, hearing cannons booming. Explosions, too. I had to disguise myself in someone else’s clothes to sneak back into Washington City.”
I’d never admired her more.
“And the Federalists.” She uttered the word like a curse. “Never let them tell you they’re true patriots. They cared for wounded British soldiers in preference to our own and crowed at the rout of our army and the destruction of our capital.” She finished with a lament. “I wish I could’ve mounted the battle guns that our ill-trained and cowardly militia abandoned.”
It was the most unladylike thing I’d ever heard her say, and it plucked not even a note of censure on the harp of my conscience. “I pray this war ends soon.”
“Have you turned to your Bible, Patsy?” Dolley asked.
“No more than before,” I said with a nervous glance to Papa. There was, of course, bad blood between God and me. I’d forsaken his nunnery and he’d forsaken my sister. I didn’t wish to provoke the Almighty against my husband and son, too.
Papa excused himself on account of a growing headache, while I poured Dolley tea and readied my napkin in case she spilled it in her agitated state. But her hand was steady as she withdrew from her satchel a packet of papers. “I don’t know on what terms you
parted with your sister-in-law, but you’d better see this before your husband hears of it.”
Curiously leafing through the pages, I recognized the handwriting of Nancy Randolph—though I supposed she was more properly thought of as Mrs. Morris, now. My infamous sister-in-law had found employment in the northern states as the housekeeper of Gouverneur Morris, whose strange sense of humor seems to have led him to marry Nancy in spite of her reputation, if not because of it. But just as she seemed poised for happiness, Randolph of Roanoke sent warning to Mr. Morris, saying that Nancy killed her bastard baby, killed Richard Randolph, and was likely to kill him, too, to steal his fortune.
“Poor Nancy,” I said, reading that. “This goes back to an incident twenty years past now! I tell you truthfully, I believe Nancy was innocent.”
“Not entirely,” Dolley said, pointing to the passage in which Nancy admitted to having been seduced by Theo. “That might be enough to destroy her marriage. And Randolph of Roanoke is nothing if not a destroyer.” Dolley put scorn behind the name, as if to mock his pretensions. “Nancy sent this letter, hoping I’d defend her reputation, but her husband is a Federalist, and as one first lady to another, I’ll let her sink if you wish.”
I smiled at Dolley giving me that title—a role she created herself—and I spoke from the heart. “In truth, I seethe for her. Nancy has finally found a respectable place for herself, and John can’t leave her in peace.”
Dolley watched me carefully. “So you take her side?”
“Whatever side John takes, I’m on the other.” That made Dolley laugh. But then I added, “No matter where I stand with Nancy, it’d be a disgrace to let that villain harry her to death.”
Dolley rose to stare out the parlor window to the gardens beyond. “That does seem to be his aim. I hope he doesn’t succeed.”
I’d relied altogether too much on hope. Papa’s stubborn faith in the goodness of humanity seemed to bear itself out less and less every day. And after seeing all the ills in the world, I no longer merely hoped justice would come to the wicked. “John Randolph is running in the upcoming election against my former brother-in-law, who’d be far more helpful to your husband in Congress.”
John Randolph had miscalculated the damage ladies could do. We couldn’t fight in the war, but reputations were won or lost on our fields of battle. And Dolley and I were prepared to set our cannons blasting. Tom wouldn’t like my meddling in politics, would like even less my doing anything to help Jack Eppes. But he might approve for the sake of his sister. I’d saved her once before, and he’d been grateful. I was desperate to win back his affections now. So I sat down with Dolley to write some letters to influential ladies, taking up Nancy’s banner and blackening John Randolph’s name. If we’d been men, he’d have called us out. Unfortunately, the only advantage afforded a woman in Virginia was that we couldn’t be challenged to a duel.
“Soldiers!” The cry came from Sally’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Harriet, who came running in with her dark auburn hair streaming behind her, marshaling my younger children into the house. For a moment, I saw my sister in her. It was Polly that I saw in fright, and my heart stopped.
But Dolley had the presence of mind to ask, “Redcoats?”
“Our soldiers, I think,” the girl said.
We crowded onto the portico steps, watching a ragtag group of boys marching up our mountain wreathed in gray mist. Even from a distance, they looked dirty, lean, half-starved. Some used their muskets like canes. One towered over his compatriots, and I caught a glimpse of auburn hair.
“Jeff!” I cried, wilting with relief. “It’s my boy.”
He broke away from the company, raced up the drive, and clomped up the stairs. He spoke in a rush as he swept me into his arms. “The British went north. We never saw a redcoat!”
That meant the British never met my husband’s regiment, and the men in my life were safe. The British might’ve attacked Richmond and won, but instead they chose Baltimore, where Fort McHenry withstood a bombardment of more than twenty-four hours, leaving our flag, as immortalized by Francis Scott Key, still there.
“Where’s your father?” I asked, overjoyed by the news.
Jeff only shrugged. I learned later that my son and husband had quarreled so violently that Jeff was nearly brought up on charges. My son wouldn’t say why, but the details didn’t seem important if the peace was won.
BY FEBRUARY OF 1815, everyone was giddy. Southern gentlemen swaggered about, confidence restored, honor defended, reputations built as a new generation of Americans defeated the British once again. Some called it a second American revolution.
“Get on your best dress, Mother,” Jeff said, his spirits high since returning home. “I’m taking you and Ann to visit my lady love.”
With his father’s looks and his grandfather’s charm, Jeff caught the eyes of beautiful women. But I’d heard the name of the governor’s daughter bandied about more than once. And now that the war was at its end, Jeff was eager to see her. I was just as eager to lay eyes on the girl, so I dug through my closet.
Homespun wasn’t in fashion anymore, but we hadn’t had occasion to buy anything new, so Ann and I donned our decade-old dresses from when we played hostess at the president’s table. Mine fit without alteration. But motherhood and marriage to a drunk had made my daughter so thin that her dress positively swallowed her up.
“I’ll take it in,” Sally said, going for her thread and needle. And when she was finished, we went off to meet the girl my son wanted to marry.
Jeff rode ahead on horseback, while Ann and I followed in the carriage, a blanket on our laps to guard against the cold. When we arrived at Mount Warren, Jane Nicholas bid us welcome. I was surprised to find her quite plain, but she had a warm smile.
Her mother, however, did nothing but scowl, apparently flummoxed to see us. As was the custom, Jeff went off to call on the gentlemen, whereas we were left to socialize over tea. And though Mount Warren was a prosperous house, we were offered only tea.
At some point during the surprisingly stiff and chilly conversation, I urged Jane and her mother to call upon us at Monticello, and Mrs. Nicholas asked, “Why ever would we do that?”
Sure that I’d heard her wrong, I only sipped at my tea. But Ann flushed to the tips of her ears.
The rude mistress of the plantation eyed me squarely and said, “My people were merchants. Merchants know that wealth is money. But planters prize land, no matter how useless. And I pray that none of my daughters will bury themselves in Virginia, married to boys who have nothing but an old name and a patch of dirt.”
Jane cried, “Momma!”
Refusing to reveal my own shock, I patted the girl’s hand. “Don’t be upset, dear. Your mother is only speaking her mind, as we’re free to do in the glorious nation my father helped to build.”
Mortified, Jane rose, dragging her mother from the room. “Please excuse us. We must find some biscuits to go with our tea.”
Ann fanned herself furiously against the stifling heat of the fire. “Why, I never.”
From the entryway beyond, where Mrs. Nicholas argued with her daughter, I heard her call me a very vulgar-looking woman. I seethed when I heard her say Ann was a poor stick. And I burned to hear her ask, “Don’t you find it strange that Jeff Randolph, who owns nothing but a small tract of land and five Negroes, thinks he’s ready for a wife? Of all the pretty girls who pant after him, you think he’d choose you?”
Having heard quite enough, I said, “Come along, Ann.” We didn’t wait for Jeff. While Jane and her mother argued, my daughter and I simply climbed into the carriage and rode off.
All the while, Ann kept saying, “I never! They think they’re too good for us. They think Jeff’s after her money!”
“If a girl may be judged by her mother, Jeff is better off without her.”
We were still carrying on this way when we reached the top of my father’s mountain, and someone wrenched open the carriage door. Ann shrieked in surprise to se
e that it was her husband, drunker than usual. And though the air was chilly, his face ran with sweat as he hauled her out. “Where were you?” Charles demanded.
Wide-eyed, Ann stammered, “We—we went to meet Jeff’s girl. I told you—”
“Are you going to lie to me?” He threw her to the cold, hard ground. “Go on, lie to me.”
“Charles!” I cried, scrambling out of the carriage. But I wasn’t fast enough to stop him. He kicked her. He kicked my delicate daughter in the ribs, and when she tried to rise up, he kicked her in the face, sending a spray of blood from her mouth. “You lying little bitch.”
People would say he had a right to do it. He had a right by law. But I was her mother, and there were other laws than the ones made by men. Seeing my baby girl’s bloody mouth, I reached for the coachman’s horsewhip and lashed at Charles. The whip caught him on the side of the face, where he was still scarred from the blow my husband had given him with a fire iron.
And Bankhead seemed so shocked to see that this time I was the one to lay open a stripe of blood on his cheek that he stood like a stunned ox.
“Run, Ann!” I cried, ducking a swing of his arm. I wasn’t afraid for myself; it wasn’t me he wanted to hurt. So I grabbed hold of him, making myself a dead weight. I might be a vulgar-looking woman, but I was sturdy, and my rampaging son-in-law couldn’t easily throw me off. We grappled while Ann staggered to her feet, and while Burwell and Beverly Hemings went running to fetch the overseer.
“You leave her alone, Charles,” I said, gripping his shirt tight. “You’re mad with drink.”
“You may rule your husband,” Charles snarled. “But Ann’s my wife and I’m going to beat her until she remembers it.” With that, he tore himself from my grip, leaving a patch of his shirt in my hand, then took off after Ann at a run.
Monticello was in an uproar, servants shouting, Bankhead kicking everything and everyone in his way. Chickens went squawking. Dogs yelped and growled. And after a few moments, Sally rushed out of the house to help me up from the ground, whispering, “Charles passed her by. She’s hiding in a potato hole.”
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