Papa murmured, “When we left Paris, I promised never to work her hard. That’s why I don’t ask her to tend me.” It was, I thought, a startling dishonesty, for tending to him was the easiest work on the plantation. Then he added, “Your sister’s right about women. Even while employed in drudgery, some bit of ribbon, ear bob, or necklace, or something of the kind will show that the desire of pleasing is never suspended in them . . . they’re formed by nature for attentions, not for hard labor.”
It was none of my affair. Truly, it wasn’t. But at a loss as to how to fix everything else that had gone so wrong for the people I loved, I wanted to fix just this one thing. There was no undoing what had passed between my father and Sally, but I was convinced that no good could come of their continued estrangement.
“Why, Papa—you’ve just reminded me that I meant to buy some ribbon from Mr. Bell’s store. He’s been a good friend while you’ve been away. He treats Sally’s sister kindly.”
“Pleased to hear it,” my father said, eyes still far away.
“People talk, of course, about how he can possibly keep a former slave as his lady, but since he holds no public office, society seems content to let him live as he pleases.”
My father, who no longer held public office, slowly lifted his eyes to mine, seeking something in my gaze. Redemption, forgiveness, or permission. I wasn’t sure which. But whatever he wanted, I was happy to give. I ought to have made my peace with his relationship with Sally long ago. Perhaps the moment Sally had chosen to return with him to Virginia. “Would you like me to bring back some papers?”
“What?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.
“From Mr. Bell’s store,” I replied. “I’m sure there’s news from the capital . . . then again, you’re free from public business now, aren’t you?”
“Indeed.” A dim light grew behind his eyes. “I believe I’ll stop taking newspapers altogether.”
From that day forward, things changed at Monticello.
Instead of writing ten or twelve letters a day, as was Papa’s habit for as long as I could remember, he now put his correspondence aside and replied only on rainy days. He told us—and anyone who would listen—that he was happy to have left the service of his country into abler hands. He styled himself a simple farmer, the master of his plantation and everyone on it.
Now, it’s true that I never saw Papa and Sally strolling in the fields, hand in hand. Never saw them share a kiss. He certainly didn’t squire her around town to shop for dresses, and if he gave her jewelry, she never flaunted it. But after that day, no one but Sally was ever allowed to tend his chambers. She had dominion over his most private places and possessions. And I was grateful my father found solace, comfort, and companionship in a woman so much better than Gabriella Harvie.
Sally would never steal my father’s name, love, or fortune. I believed that she would never, and could never, be the cause of harm to my family. And so I raised no objection to the fact he left her spending money in a drawer, to do with as she liked. Nor did I mind that she was left to her own authority about the plantation. Within a year, she was again with child. A fact that seemed to satisfy—and even embolden—the brothers Hemings.
James still earned a wage as he’d become accustomed but considered himself free as soon as he trained up his replacement in our kitchens. And Bob Hemings pressed for his freedom, too. Like almost all the Hemingses, Bob was a bright mulatto who sometimes passed as white, making it easier for him to travel freely when he had the yen. For years now, Papa had let him come and go as he pleased, and maybe that’s why Papa reacted to Bob’s request for emancipation as a personal rebuke.
“He’s already a free man in all but name,” Papa groused.
I was a little vexed that my father, who had penned so many lines about liberty, might be surprised a man might not be content with freedom in all but name. When Papa grudgingly granted Bob’s request, I resolved to make peace in that quarter if I could.
Because at long last, we had my father happy and contented at home. And we aimed to keep him there.
Chapter Twenty-three
Monticello, 27 April 1795
From Thomas Jefferson to James Madison
My retirement from office had been meant from all office high or low, without exception . . . the little spice of ambition, which I had in my younger days, has long since evaporated, and I set less store in a posthumous than present name.
TWO YEARS AFTER MY FATHER wrote these words, he lost the election for the presidency of the United States. My sister and I believed this to be an utter calamity, but not because he had lost the presidency. It was a calamity because, through a quirk in our system, having won the second highest number of votes, he would now be obliged to serve as vice president to John Adams—the very man he’d run against, and whose political sentiments he opposed.
We urged him to refuse the office for fear he’d again be the subject of scrutiny, censure, and newspaper attack. He’d again have to leave his plantation and his people and his family. And this time, he wouldn’t even have James to look after him, for Sally’s brother had since quit the plantation with his freedom to travel the world.