“You’re too kind, William. Both to my father and to me.”
“I would be kinder, if I could,” was his reply. Then, after a few moments of silence, he added, “Your children are wonderful.” William breathed in sharply, then snapped off his succinct evaluation. “Jeff seems a very robust little fellow. Ann and baby Ginny are sweet enough to rot teeth. Your Ellen is very clever. But I see the essence of you in Cornelia’s eyes. That little girl isn’t all she seems to be.”
I smiled. “I’m afraid I’ve become exactly what I seem to be.”
He gave a dubious laugh. “And I’m afraid that I have become an old bachelor, with nothing to show for my efforts but the adoration of other men’s children. I suppose I’ll have to take more of an interest in my nephews.” With a comedic sigh that in no way disguised the seriousness, he added, “In the meantime, I suppose I must now leave you to your gardening and sow seeds of my own. We dine with Mr. Madison tonight, and, as your father has made plain to me, I must reacquaint myself with our countrymen.”
I must reacquaint myself with our countrymen. . . .
William had said this lightly, but at supper that night, it became manifestly evident that my father wasn’t wrong to have insisted upon it. The unique situation of my father’s house being unfinished—the expense of the redesign project Papa had conceived upon our return from Paris combined with his frequent absences to make the rebuilding of a large portion of Monticello an unending affair—led to an informality that permitted women to remain in the dining room after the men began to drink, and I was present to witness an argument.
It began amiably enough, with the Virginia gentlemen all sipping wine and peppering William with questions about Europe. They wanted to know especially of Napoleon Bonaparte, the new First Consul of France, which now modeled itself even more closely after ancient Rome. William harbored some admiration for the sense of order restored by Bonaparte, but warned against embracing the brilliant revolutionary general, given his hunger for power.
This quickly turned into a disagreement about the nature of French diplomacy, pitting Mr. Short’s cynicism about French revolutionaries against Mr. Madison’s faith in their good intentions, leaving Madison to simmer like a teapot, growing more florid by the moment. The conversation went from bad to worse when the subject turned to finances. My father and Mr. Short agreed that the James River Canal Company was an opportunity for profitable investment. I confess I was distracted in that moment, scolding Jeff for running past the tables, so all I caught was Mr. Short making the wry remark, “No doubt the Virginia legislature will attack the canal company as soon as the dividends begin to excite envy.”
A scandalized silence followed until Jack Eppes cried, “An outrageous accusation!”
My husband, thankfully, only set down his glass. “Why ever would you say such a thing, Mr. Short?”
Mr. Madison accused, “Because he’s thrown in with the stock jobbers and paper men.”
It was so chilly a remark, filled with such disdain, that it couldn’t be dispelled by the thin smile that followed. Good southern Republicans were planters. Northern Federalists were stock jobbers and paper men. Virginians were suffering financially, suffering badly, but William had profited. I understood the unspoken assessment of the secretary of state, my father’s closest political friend and ally. Madison was saying that William Short wasn’t one of us anymore.
Though William ignored the insult and quickly steered the conversation to more pleasant topics, I worried for his reputation, not to mention his future as a diplomat at Mr. Madison’s Department of State. And I worried for the disruption of our domestic tranquility when Tom was still brooding about the discussion that evening.
As we checked on the children in the nursery, he murmured, “This country is so divided.”
“Yes,” I said, though a part of me wondered if it was ever thus.
“Mr. Madison and Mr. Short . . . they’re accomplished men. Lawyers. Jack fits with them better than I do. I feel like the proverbially silly bird who can’t feel at ease amongst the swans.”
Had I somehow betrayed my feelings for William in a way that brought Tom’s insecurities about? Lacing my fingers with his, I said, “You really are a silly bird if you think Jack Eppes is better than you in any way at all. You’re more thoughtful than he is, and the country needs men like you, Congressman Randolph. My father needs you.”
I did mean that, even though the thought was eclipsed the next day when I came across the strangely nostalgic scene of William Short in the hallway, lurking near Papa’s door like he used to in my father’s times of trouble.
In his hand, he held folded pages, newsprint upon his fingers.
Another man—any other man—would’ve told me it wasn’t fit for ladies to read. But William merely reddened, saying, “You need to see this, Patsy. Though you won’t thank me for showing you.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
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