Our countrymen delivered the nation into my father’s hands—with much hue and outcry and paroxysms of bitter slander—but ultimately, without blood. Power passed from one faction to the other in accordance with the wishes of the people, and the rule of law was obeyed. It was the first time such a thing had ever happened in our country, or perhaps anywhere.
Papa wanted my sister and I to rejoice, insisting we make annual visits to the presidential mansion and promising that he’d return to Monticello so often we’d be together four or five months of the year. But it was a plan that ignored reality. With all our little children running afoot, Tom couldn’t do without me. And Jack Eppes couldn’t stay off my sister.
Polly gave birth to a little boy at the end of September, and somehow, it didn’t kill her. But she was so ill that she fled to me, fearful of the physicians near Eppington.
When I felt how thin she was in my embrace, I cried, “Polly, you look so unwell.” My nephew was a fragile creature who had still somehow robbed his mother of nearly all her life’s blood. Her pallor was deathly, and as unreasonable as it was, I blamed Jack Eppes for that. “You’re white as a ghost and thin as a scarecrow!”
Cradling her delicate new baby boy, she smiled softly. “Mr. Eppes is so happy to have a son that he says I’ve never looked prettier. Besides, we can’t all breed so easily and often as you do, Patsy. Why look at you, set to give birth yourself any day now and you’re trying to haul my baggage into your house!”
“I’ll carry it,” my son Jeff said, always a little helper even then. Though I couldn’t get him to crack open a book without bribery or threat, he was a sweet boy. And I was grateful that he dragged my sister’s trunk into the house so I could get her inside.
“I’m fine, Patsy,” Polly insisted as my daughters crowded around. But she wasn’t fine. She was so weak she needed to be helped up the stairs. At which point I realized how much nursing she required. And given how ill I had been during the election, and how ailing I still felt now, I determined that I’d have to have my baby at Monticello, where at least I could count on Sally’s help.
Truly, I longed for my father’s house, the attentions of his servants, windows that didn’t leak, and a bed to birth my baby that was comfortable and clean. After all the terrors of the election, I wanted nothing more than sweet seclusion with my family now.
But in that simple desire, I was to be utterly thwarted. For when Papa came riding up his mountain that summer to fetch us home, he was accompanied by a multitude. Neighbors, relatives, well-wishers, sycophants, and every manner of hanger-on all ascended with him, calling, “President Jefferson! President Jefferson!” He rejected all trappings of monarchy, but our guests fluttered about him like courtiers attending a king.
Except royal courtiers—as I recalled from France—had duties and obligations to their sovereign. Royal courtiers were bound by strict rules of etiquette and social niceties. Royal courtiers didn’t demand berths without invitation. Royal courtiers didn’t lounge about in various states of dress, insolently ordering servants who were not theirs to command.
There was very little I could do about it, however, because my father insisted that as a man of the people, there must be no formality in our entertaining.
During the mornings, I planned the menu then waddled up and down the narrow staircase with my big pregnant belly to unlock the storerooms and cabinets so the servants could keep our guests fed. After meals, I played music to entertain or chased after the children, though my ankles had swollen up so much that my shoes were painful. And by evening, I tended to my sister, who was still too weak to leave her bed.
Perhaps realizing how weary I was, Papa promised, “Next time I visit, I’m resolved to do a flying visit by stealth, telling no one but you that I’m coming.”
On the night my labor pains started, I surprised myself with the thought that I was happy for the pain, because it’d confine me to childbed, where I could rest. After a hard night of panting and pushing, I gave birth to a little girl. And Sally swaddled my baby with crisp efficiency. Later, she and Polly sat with me while I nursed my newborn child, the three of us reminiscing about Paris, a time when all options were open before us. Those memories were preserved forever in our minds like bubbles suspended eternally in glittering glass.
Sally liked to speak of them, though whenever she spoke in French, it annoyed the other slaves. It set her apart. Served as a reminder that she was my father’s pretty, genteel, sophisticated mistress. Sometimes I worried about those resentments and jealousies . . . but on this night, I only enjoyed our reunion, all three of us with babies at the breast.