I was to find out for myself at the start of August, when William arrived in a carriage even more splendid than the president’s, with scarlet velvet curtains and gilt trim on the doors, driven by matching black horses with red plumes.
For a moment, watching William step down from the coach, I was transported in time and place. Paris, before the revolution, when such carriages went every day to and from Versailles. And when William flashed a grin, I could see, to my great disappointment, that he hadn’t grown soft or bald or portly. Nor did he even look as if he’d aged—his facial features remained boyish, even if there was a hint of silver in his sandy hair. In an embroidered blue tailcoat, a dangling gold watch fob, a newly fashionable top hat, and breeches tucked into tall riding boots, he gave every impression of a dignified courtier and man of importance. It was suddenly easy to imagine people calling him His Excellency, Mr. Short, the minister of the United States of America.
All the more when he stepped forward to greet my father and executed a very correct bow. “Mr. President,” William said, as if the words gave him delight and satisfaction to speak aloud.
At their long-awaited reunion, my father pulled into an embrace with the man he’d once considered his adoptive son, patting his back with so much vigor and affection that I thought I might weep. The two men who had been most important to me in my youth held each other by the arms, taking stock of one another after more than a decade, laughing at the joy of it.
William said, “President Jefferson, from the harbor all the way here, I’ve heard nothing but joyous thanksgiving. You’re very much in the public favor, sir.”
With his arms about William’s shoulder, my father replied, “I fear more confidence has been placed in me than my qualifications merit. I dread the disappointment of my friends.”
“Never that,” William replied, even though, in his case, I knew it to be a polite lie. Though he tried to disguise it, his eyes swept uncomfortably to the servants who ran forward to fetch his bags and water the horses. There was no mistaking his loathing of slavery, but it wasn’t in his nature to criticize his host. He was, after all, still a Virginian; diplomacy ruled him. And it’s because I knew that he was a diplomat, well practiced with words, that I startled when he lifted his green eyes to mine and said in French, “Vous êtes une vision angélique, Madame Randolph!”
These were the first words we’d spoken to one another after thirteen years and an ocean of silence. I’d expected some tightness at the mouth that might hint of pain or regret. Instead, he’d made his eyes twinkle while comparing me to an angel, of all things.
Did he mean for his words to cut? Perhaps I’d been so eclipsed in his life, and in his heart, that he didn’t even remember he’d once pointedly praised me not as an angel but an Amazon. And I was suddenly swamped by the memory of that day, when he confessed to having stolen a lock of my hair to keep as a token—a memory so bittersweet that it was hard to speak the words, “Welcome home, Mr. Short.”
But I said it, and then it was done. The moment that had filled me with dread and anticipation was simply over, as if it were of no significance. Not even attended by the awkwardness that might have made it of some comforting consequence.
Instead, the awkwardness belonged to Sally Hemings. Seeing her on the portico with her two light-skinned, blue-eyed, freckled children clinging to her skirts, William made an elaborate and courtly bow. “What a delight to see you again, madame.”
We all froze in an awkward tableau, for William had acknowledged my father’s slave-mistress with a courtesy title, one accorded ladies or women whose marital status was unknown, as one might do in France when openly acknowledging a man’s mistress. At Monticello, my father kept quiet his relationship with Sally—such that even my children seemed unaware of it.
But, of course, William had been there when it started.
Thankfully, Sally was quick to bob an exaggerated curtsey like a French courtier, then adopted the strange sliding gait we’d all practiced at Versailles. “Monsieur.”
Her antics broke the tension and allowed everyone to laugh, but I was unsteadied enough to miss a step going into the house. Tom noticed, catching me by the elbow and hugging me against his side with the fit of good humor that had struck him since his election to Congress.
“It seems Mr. Short will be amiable company,” Tom said, oblivious to the storm of emotions inside me. “The children certainly like him.”