My hand to his cheek, I whispered, “My dear, beloved man, I’m married to another.”
“I don’t care,” he said hoarsely. “Divorce him or leave him, I don’t care which. I’ll live with you as husband or lover, in discretion or open scandal. I’ve been the subject of notoriety before. I don’t care about reputation. I don’t care!”
It was a wild and reckless dream—one that I would cherish—but one that could only ever be a dream. I cared about reputation and always had. I’d sacrificed for it again and again. Reputation had toppled governments and lost people their heads. Taking a lover as Frenchwomen did would shame my father and hurt my children, but more than that …
“It would destroy me, William.”
“Why should it?”
“Because I’m my father’s daughter. And you’re his adoptive son. That is why you must go before we both bring down disgrace on him. This must be good-bye. This must be good-bye.”
I didn’t need to say more than this. Twice, he’d offered me a life with him, and twice I’d turned him away. With a white-faced grimace, he nodded, then pulled from the inside of his jacket a very old and worn piece of paper, folded many times. He slipped it into my hand and before I could ask what it was, he explained, “This is something I have held onto for too long. I meant to give this to you in farewell when you left France, but I could not bring myself to do it then. In my youth, I thought it was because I was too angry. But perhaps, throughout everything, even through my love for Rosalie, I held out hope for us.” His eyes dropped away. “At least, until this moment.”
With that, he brushed a soft kiss to my cheek, leaving me to open the paper in which a curl of my hair was still enclosed. But the page was no longer blank. In elegant script, it read:
I let myself be sacrificed
For what you hold most dear
Could I love you more?
Do not shed bitter tears
Over my destiny
As you look at the object who knew so well how to please you.
You will soon be consoled of its loss.
The poem was French, the words as painful now as they would have been to read in 1789. And I stared at them in agony, as William Short walked away.
Within the hour, William called for a carriage. He made an emotional farewell to my father, excusing himself on some urgent business up north. He requested that we express his regret to Lafayette, pleading forgiveness for any distress his visit may have caused.
As I watched his carriage roll away from Monticello, I believed that I’d never see him again. And a part of me died, leaving a cold and hollow spot inside my heart where he used to be.
“HE’S GONE,” SALLY INFORMED ME while I scattered feed for the chickens—a job that wasn’t mine, but useful work was the only defense against profound misery.
“I know,” I said, without looking up from the flock of birds pecking in the dirt. “I wish Mr. Short could’ve stayed longer, but his early departure leaves us with another bed for Lafayette’s entourage.”
“Your husband is gone,” Sally said, sharply. “Master Randolph packed up his things from the north pavilion and took his leave, asking me to deliver you this message.”
Sending the chickens scurrying with a swish of her skirt, Sally pressed into my hand a letter, and in her eyes I saw a shade of disapproval. She’d been witness to Tom’s rage at the washhouse. No doubt, she’d overheard his accusations.
Perhaps she even believed them.
I didn’t think it was an accident that he’d chosen Sally to deliver his note.
Though numerous men sought her charms—even my cousins the Carr brothers, a thing I always hinted at when any stranger raised the subject of the scandal—Sally never allowed my father to fear that she shared her body, or her heart, with any other man. Not for a moment. Not even when she burned with grief at losing Beverly and Harriet. And if there was a haughtiness in her, it was in that.
I suddenly understood why my father’s enduring attraction ran much deeper than her beauty. Though she was a servant and a concubine, Sally had nearly perfect self-command. She’d borne a lifetime of slavery without allowing anyone to know her beyond what she was willing to be known. She seldom let pass an unguarded word, she kept a near iron rein over her passions—a virtue my father prized and admired more than any other.
It was my strength, too, but in this, Sally believed she’d finally bested me. I could read it in those amber eyes when she said, “I fear it’ll embarrass your father to have to explain why Master Randolph has absented himself for the ceremonies in honor of Lafayette.”
What she feared was that it was Tom’s intention to cause embarrassment and that I’d allowed matters to come to this dreadful crossroads with a lapse in virtue, or at least in judgment. I didn’t defend myself, but broke open the seal and read my husband’s note.
I don’t recall the exact words of Tom’s note now. I burned it straightaway, for it was both obscene and demented, promising vengeance upon me for my betrayals. And it hardened me against Tom, because I’d just sent away the man I loved and admired to honor vows to the husband I no longer respected.
So instead of feeling compassion for a husband in the grip of madness, I felt only relief that Tom was gone. And fear that he’d return.
In the soft golden veil of that Indian summer, my poor father was nearly eight-two years old, and though he never celebrated his birthday—only the birthday of the country—there was no denying anymore the slow and steady degeneration of his body. Thankfully his mind and spirits remained intact, but it pained me to think anything in connection to me might disturb the latter.
“Don’t fret,” Jeff said, chewing uncouthly upon a stalk he’d plucked from the edge of the lawn while the groundskeepers scurried to clip every stray sprig from a bush. “Lafayette will have an escort of a hundred and twenty armed and mounted men. Not even my father is foolish enough to attempt violence with them present.”
The number of this horde astonished me. “A hundred and twenty men?”
Jeff nodded. “At least two hundred more on the east lawn. There isn’t a gentleman in Virginia who doesn’t want to witness this reunion.”
When that glorious and golden November day came, the first thing we saw were the banners of the horsemen in red, white, and blue. A bugler blew his horn in small mimicry of the grand French ceremonies to announce the arrival of the prancing smoky white horses and Lafayette’s elegant calash.
All this delighted my young sons, who were arrayed in their finest clothes, standing next to their sisters, whom I’d dressed in white robes for the occasion.
Until the bugle blew, I’d allowed myself to feel nothing but anxiety that everything should go well. But seeing the cavalry with their pikes and the train of carriages roll to a stop at the edge of the lawn, I found myself longing to see our old friend. And my father, standing at my side amongst the Doric columns of the portico, slipped his aged and shaking hand in mine and squeezed with all his strength.
The footman set down a stair for Lafayette, and the Guest of the Nation emerged gingerly—bulkier than in his youth and without the powdered wig that covered his now cropped graying hair. But it was him. He limped from the wound he’d taken in our war or from whatever they’d done to him when he rotted away in the dungeon at Olmütz.
But at the sight of me helping my father to slowly and painfully make his way down the steps, Lafayette hurried toward him, crying, “Ah, my dear Jefferson!”
At this, my father let go of my hand and his decrepit shuffle somehow became a run. “Ah, my dear Lafayette!”
They fell into each other’s embrace, both of them bursting into tears. By my accounting, no two men in the world had done more for the cause of liberty. Together, they’d changed the world. And I loved them both. These two giants of my childhood now come together in the evening of their lives.
And emotion swelled in my throat, forcing from me a little sob.
I wasn’t the only one caught up in the st
orm. There wasn’t a dry eye in the crowd as the two men kissed each other’s cheeks in the European fashion and sobbed on each other’s shoulders with abandon.
We watched in respectful, sniffling silence. Even the slaves choked back cries of their own.
When at last the two heroes broke apart, my father led Lafayette up the stairs. “This is my daughter Randolph—you knew her slightly in France.”
“Slightly?” Lafayette looked at me with red and watery eyes. “Mon Dieu! I remember very well tall Patsy, the schoolgirl from the convent, the indomitable young mistress of her father’s house.”
Lafayette kissed both my cheeks, then captured my hands and brought them to his lips, pressing tearful kisses into them with great affection. “Madam, the sight of you makes my heart sing with pride and joy.”
My vision blurred with tears. “My heart sings in echo.”
Four hundred people waited for introductions, but Lafayette lingered with me, drawing my hand to his stout chest, placing it over his heart. “My dear, you won’t remember this, but there’s a moment in time as real for me still as if it were happening now. I was leading the royal procession into Paris—facing down thousands of angry citizens with pistols, swords, and pitchforks… .”
Oh, but I remembered that day perfectly well. It was the first time I refused William. The first time—but not the last time—my head conquered my heart. And the scars of that victory throbbed with such renewed vigor that I said, “How could I forget, General? It is emblazoned on my soul.”
Our eyes met again, and he shook his head very slowly. “You cannot remember it as I do. For you cannot have guessed your part. I was still a brash young man then, a soldier who thinks more of glory than fears the loss of his life. What I feared that day was to lose a king, a queen, a whole nation … and be blamed for it. In truth, even as the people chanted my name, I’d never been more afraid. Then, in my terror, I looked up at a window and saw a flash of red hair, like the very fire of liberty itself. There you were, my lady liberty, looking down at me, a reminder of your father and his words. You gave me courage, for I couldn’t bear to disappoint him … or you.”
These words obliterated me to dust, then lifted me toward the heavens on a breeze. I had been Lafayette’s lady of liberty? Made timid by the reverence in his eyes, and the stares of onlookers from whom I couldn’t hide my tears, I tried to shrink away, but he still held my hand against his lion’s heart. “You were my touchstone, sweet lady.”
And he had been mine.
I felt somehow that we were two veterans of the same wars. Perhaps we were… .
Looking into his eyes, his courage became mine, once again.
The debts, my husband’s madness, the loss of my love—like Lafayette, I knew I’d somehow survive them all. And I whispered, “I remember you bowed to me, General. And never before or since have I received a bow of which I was so proud.” I showed him then the old, faded tricolored cockade pinned to my hat. “I’ve kept mine all these years since.”
Lafayette inhaled deeply, filling his chest until it puffed out with pride. “How blessed my friend Jefferson is to have such a lady at his side. Are these your children?”
I nodded, introducing each and every one of them as they crowded around, eager to touch the hand that had wielded a sword in our great Revolution. With this and other introductions, we were treated to addresses. Then, at last, we retired into the entryway with its Indian trophies and antlers and animal bones, a fireplace burning a cheery wood fire, leaving the crowd to wave handkerchiefs in farewell, cheering Vive Lafayette! Vive Jefferson!
Inside the house, we retired to the crowded dining room where tables had been squeezed to accommodate nearly fifty people, with not an inch to spare. There, the two aging patriots presided at the main table, recalling stories of the Revolution in the heavenly glow of the skylight overhead. And so animated did they become, with such eloquence did they speak, that, carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, we found ourselves abandoning all decorum, rising from our own chairs to surround the two old sages.
Even the servants drew near so as not to miss a word that fell from their lips, as the golden glory of the setting sun shone through the many tinted mountains behind which it was sinking. Seeing them sit together, their heads bent in the occasional quiet remark, I could imagine us in Paris, all of us young again. For this visit had restored Papa’s vigor to the point that he wished to stay awake past ten o’clock.
The next day, Lafayette was to be feted at the University of Virginia, with Presidents Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe. What a sight the four patriots made in their carriage. When Papa returned, he said, “The government is voting Lafayette a pension, you know. He deserves it.”
I didn’t doubt that for a moment. “As do you, Papa. You built this country.”
My father’s dry lips pulled to a thin line. “In truth, I merely held the nail; Lafayette drove it.”
But, of course, even two such old and loving friends cannot be at ease in all things… .
The general wasn’t shy to confront my father in the presence of our servants. Their faces strained to show indifference, but I wasn’t blind to the way their bodies leaned in, how they made themselves busy in such a way as to best hear every word when Lafayette said, “I gave my best services to, and spent my fortune on behalf of Americans because I felt you were fighting for a great and noble principle—the freedom of mankind. But instead of all being free, a portion were held in bondage. My old friend, surely you must concur that it would be mutually beneficial to masters and slaves if the latter were educated and emancipated.”
“Indeed,” Papa replied easily. “I believe there’ll come a time when the slaves will all be free, but I leave its accomplishment to the work of another generation. At the age of eighty-two, with one foot in the grave and the other uplifted to follow it, I do not permit myself to take part in any new enterprises.” Of course, Tom’s experiences as governor taught us the difficulty of the enterprise. But my father was ever an optimist, and spoke those words with confidence and conviction. “I do favor teaching slaves to read … but to teach them to write will enable them to forge papers.”
“For the better!” Lafayette had insisted. “I’ve heard it argued that black faces cannot make their way in white society,” he said, his eyes flicking briefly upon Madison and Eston Hemings where they readied to entertain us with their violins. “But I put this to you. Whatever be the complexion of the enslaved, it does not, in my opinion, alter the complexion of the crime the enslaver commits. A crime much blacker than any African face. It’s a matter of great anxiety and concern to find that this trade is sometimes carried on under the flag of liberty, our dear and noble stripes, to which virtue and glory have been constant standard-bearers.”
My father was unaccustomed to anyone speaking so baldly to him on the matter. But Lafayette was more than a guest. He’d saved our lives and our Revolution and enabled us to live in this beautiful house atop the mountain in Virginia. He had the right, more than any man alive, to harangue us.
My father endured it gracefully and I could never bring myself to be angry at Lafayette. Not only because of all I owed him, and all he’d inspired in me, but also because he was the only guest present who never asked me to account for the absence of my husband.
Tom had left himself, and us, without a fig leaf. We couldn’t say that he was ill, because he was seen in taverns by our neighbors. We couldn’t say he was about urgent business, since everyone seemed to know he was ruined. So we employed artful dodges when possible and inartful ones the rest of the time.
In spite of this, I was enormously relieved not to have him there. He left no lonely gap in our society, no awkward place at the dinner table. His absence left us strangely comfortable as a family. And as I hosted the greatest patriots of our age, I was as content as I’d never been before in my place as the mistress of Monticello.
Chapter Forty
Monticello, 5 June 1825
From Thoma
s Jefferson to Thomas Mann Randolph
You can never want a necessary or comfort of life while I possess anything. All I have is devoted to the comfortable maintenance of yourself and the family. I have no other use for property. Restore yourself to the bosom of your family and friends. They will cherish your happiness as warmly as they ever did.
I SHOULD BURN THIS LETTER for what it reveals about my husband’s abandonment of me—and perhaps mine of him. But these words are a testament to my father’s character. Proof of how warmly he reached out to my husband, when I could scarcely find it within myself to do the same.
That spring, I found Tom brooding in a little white house in Milton he said he was using as an office, alone, drunk, unshaven, and in squalor. In the dark recesses of the entryway—for he’d shut the curtains against the sunlight—Tom heard my plea, then said, “I’ll never go back to Monticello with you.”
“I’m not asking for myself,” I said, trying to quell my rising anger. “I’m asking for Ellen. She wants you at her wedding.”
“Of course you’re not asking for you. You’d have been happier if I died in the war.”
“That’s not true,” I said, knowing that most of the bitterness between us had arisen precisely because I was desperate to keep him from dying in that war!
Tom snorted. “I won’t subject myself to the supercilious stares of your father’s guests. So get out, Martha. Go.”
I stood there, wringing my hands, wishing I knew the words that might help matters—but it occurred to me that everything we’d ever had to say to one another of import we’d said skin to skin. And though he was still, even at his age, rugged and well made, my desire for him had died completely.
“I said get out!” Tom shouted, launching his boot at me. Fortunately, his drunken aim was so poor that the boot sailed harmlessly by my head and crashed with a clatter into the wooden door behind me. “Just go and be grateful that I haven’t taken the children from their whore of a mother.”
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