“She does please me,” he protested, looking between us. “I found no fault in her. I said nothing harsh whatsoever.”
My sister put a hand on her hip, addressing my father as no one else dared. “You didn’t have to say it, Papa. You don’t let her do anything for you. Not even pour your tea.”
My father gave a little snort. Then, as if to make us forget the scene with Sally, he asked me, “Isn’t Mr. Randolph coming down?”
“Tom’s not hungry.” Or at least, that’s what he said whenever I tried to take something up to him. He’d taken ill after his father’s death and was now unable, or unwilling, to rise from our bed. But it was an erratic illness.
One day, Tom would be so low in spirits he couldn’t muster the energy to rise and shave his own cheek. The next day, he’d be up before dawn working on threshing machines at such a fevered pace he’d forget to come to bed entirely. It’d been that way for weeks.
I worried for him.
Since he wasn’t hungry, I had some strong tea sent up with white sugar—some of the few goods that could still be bought with cash, for the smallpox outbreak and want of commerce had rendered the whole of Virginia a place of only barter and trade.
But when he refused it, I went up myself to coax him. “At least drink a little tea, Tom. Then maybe you’ll want supper with us tonight. Asparagus has finally come to our table and pairs nicely with eggs.”
The toll on him was evident; it hollowed out his beauty and made his eyes sink into his head. “I can’t keep anything down,” Tom insisted, bunching the quilt under his chin and turning away toward the wall. When he did, I saw his ribs beneath the broad expanse of his muscular back. He was wasting away while trying to make sense of who he was if he wasn’t his father’s heir.
Wasting away to the nothing he feared he’d become.
And I didn’t know what I could say, or do, to help him.
When I went back down, my father asked, “Is he feeling any better?” I gave a quick, distressed shake of my head and Papa frowned. “You know that you’re both welcome to stay here at Monticello as long as you like.”
“We’re so grateful,” I replied, wishing that my husband could see that even if his own father had never valued him, mine did. But Monticello wasn’t Tuckahoe. My husband had been hurt and humiliated by his father’s last wishes. What Tom wanted now was to make his own lands profitable, because the longer he lived in another man’s house and managed another man’s farm, the more he doubted his worth as a man.
My father had his own solution for the problem. “There’s an opening for justice of the peace; Tom should run. It’ll be an honor and a distraction. He’ll have more time for studying the law if he puts off leaving. Besides, it’s been a great comfort having you both here to look after my farm, and now that I’m in a position to enjoy Monticello, who else can I share it with?”
My father had no sons to give it to, that’s what he meant. Not by blood. Not even Sally’s dead boy. And I was reminded again of just how much my father’s promise never to remarry had cost him. My mother had extracted that from him to fend off women like Gabriella Harvie. And my father had given his word without hesitation, even though it now left him without an heir, and fearful of his legacy.
But I had given him a grandson. A namesake. Jeff. My thriving baby boy. And I hoped I was about to give him another. Touching the small swell of my belly, I said, “Perhaps my husband will be persuaded to stay when he learns that I may be in a delicate condition.”
Papa’s face lit up. “Why, that’s wonderful, Patsy. A baby is just the thing to give a man a renewed sense of purpose.” Then I watched the direction of Papa’s eyes as they settled on Sally in the far room, where she was making noise by scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees like my mother used to do. He watched her with longing, his throat bobbing with every bounce of her earrings as she worked. “Do the floors really need scrubbing?”
“Sally must think so.” When it came to the servants, I never had to ask Sally or Mammy Ursula to do anything. But whereas Mammy ruled over the other slaves like a queen who must be obeyed, Sally just quietly claimed dominion over whatever she felt needed to be done.
And in her unhappiness, I suppose she’d decided the floor needed scrubbing.