Sally was nursing little Harriet, named after her poor daughter who died. But this Harriet, who was as pale and rosy as any little white child, also had my father’s piercing blue eyes. I think Sally loved her best, and how couldn’t she? After all, Harriet, like my Ellen, must be treasured enough for two daughters.
But, of course, daughters were of little help to a planter. Sons were prized—even ones who foamed at the mouth in fits like my sister’s baby, Francis. “Poor little thing,” Sally said to me when my sister drifted to sleep. I thought she meant Francis, but her amber eyes settled on Polly with as much worry as I felt in my own heart. “Miss Polly won’t survive another. She gave Mr. Eppes a son now. That ought to be enough for him.”
No other slave would ever dare say such a thing, but I wouldn’t scold Sally for it. She was only confiding in me what no one else had the courage to say.
“It ought to be enough,” I said.
But I feared it wouldn’t.
“WE’LL CALL THE NEW BABY VIRGINIA—Ginny for short,” Tom said, and I didn’t gainsay him, because I felt his disappointment. A son could help in the fields, but a daughter was another mouth to feed and another bride to dower. He had four daughters, a plantation deeply in debt, and failed crops. And so, at a time when I ought to have been filled with joy for the beautiful new daughter in my arms, I was still sick with worry.
That is, until the day came that I realized I couldn’t afford to be sick with worry.
It started with a cough. First Sally’s children, then my sister’s child, then mine. The illness spread so quickly that our flight from Monticello in the autumn came too late. “It’s the whooping cough,” Polly insisted, wringing her tiny hands. “I’d know that sound anywhere!” She’d been young when she’d taken the cough at Eppington, but she hadn’t forgotten. She’d survived the illness, but our little sister Lucy hadn’t. And at the memory, Polly’s eyes filled with tears.
What could I say to comfort her or myself when our children fell ill, one by one? My clever five-year-old Ellen, after composing her very first letter to her grandfather, promptly fell into a fever and slowly began to strangle with the rest. The children were afflicted with coughing fits that made their eyes bulge, their ribs ache, and their throats so raw they sometimes vomited blood and sobbed. My newborn baby turned blue in the face and gasped for breath. My Ellen and Cornelia both cuddled together under the last clean, dry blanket I had. In her delirium, Cornelia laughed and sang to some unseen spirit above her. But Ellen had the good sense to be gloomy and terrified by her own hallucinations.
“My God, they are dying,” Tom whispered when I passed him in the doorway to the nursery to fetch some honeyed water for the little ones to sip.
Unwilling to credit his whisper, I asked, “Would you do me the favor of fetching my cloak? The blankets and linens I washed aren’t dry yet. But I can keep the girls warm and covered with my cloak.”
Tom took a deep, shuddering breath, then dropped his face into his hands. “We’re going to lose them. Our precious baby girls.”
“We can’t think it,” I said, almost as weary as I was terrified. Then, edging past him, I hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen to scrape the last of our honey from its jar.
Tom was right behind me, his big frame all atremble, and he spoke in a panicked whisper, “I can’t think of anything else, Patsy. I dreamed it last night. Little coffins!”
How was I to hear such a thing and not sink to my knees? But I couldn’t sink to my knees, because our precious children needed me. “Please, Tom. Please stop.”
“It’s my curse, Patsy. Everything I do goes wrong. Everything I make withers away. Now my daughters,” he cried, grabbing hold of my shoulder and sobbing into my hair. “My daughters.”
He was so strong, so hardened from horse riding and laboring in the fields, that I couldn’t push him away if I tried. It wasn’t as if I didn’t want to cling to him. That I didn’t want to offer him solace—and receive it in return. But in his state, I knew Tom couldn’t help himself, or me.
Stroking his hair, I called to my son. “Jeff, fetch my cloak for the girls.”
A moment later, Jeff came into the kitchen. “They’ll only spit up on your cloak. Why not—” His eyes widened at the sight of his father weeping in my arms.
And Tom roared in a sudden rage that burned away all his tears like a brushfire. “Don’t you backtalk your mother!” Then my husband’s long arm snapped out, and a slap sent our boy reeling back, stumbling for balance.
“Tom!” I cried, half in disbelief as he tore himself away from me and grabbed up our boy by the shirt, pushing him against the wall. I couldn’t guess what had turned his mood so swiftly, but my voice came sharp like the crack of a musket. “Tom.”