I WAS SEVENTEEN the last time I ventured out into any kind of political society. Now, I was almost thirty.
The shimmering bronze gown from my debut in Paris was nothing but a faded memory. Every stylish gown had long since been moth-eaten or worn away to scraps for the quilts on my children’s beds. And I was anxious for how I should go out into the new capital when long seclusion had rendered me unfit for public life.
Moreover, I could scarcely afford a new dress.
But Papa insisted on paying for every little thing, directing my sister and me to charge to his account all the fancy gowns and bonnets we could ever want. And he’d hear absolutely no excuse from my sister this time. When Polly tried to demur by saying that she was too unaccustomed to the attentions she might receive as the daughter of the president, my father sent her an essay on the dangers of withdrawing from society. When she said she couldn’t meet us at Monticello to make preparations because Jack wouldn’t spare the horses from his plow, my father said he’d hire a coach to fetch her. When she worried that little Francis might catch the measles, Papa vowed to clear the mountain of every child but mine within a mile and a half of the place.
There might be no bribe Papa could make that’d induce Jack Eppes to become our neighbor, but my father had finally decided that he was the president of the United States, and if he wanted both his daughters with him, he would have us.
Papa needed us, so we’d join him in Washington City in November, and that was all there was to it.
“Martha, don’t fret!” Dolley said, adjusting the lace of my shawl. “All you need are some new dresses that flatter your bosom. Something distinctive and stylish. You’re already a lovely and charming hostess, so it’ll be no difficulty to transform you into what your father so desperately needs.”
It pained me that my father should so desperately need anything. Dolley was too much of a southern lady to ask if the stories about Sally were true. She didn’t even acknowledge them, but she knew. Everyone knew.
Dolley retrieved her bonnet from where it lay upon the alcove bed in the octagonal bedroom she and Mr. Madison always used when they visited Monticello. Trellis wallpaper in green and white covered the walls, a relic Papa brought home with him from France. “What your father needs right now is a . . . a first lady. And given that he’s a widower, a first daughter will have to do. There needs to be a woman of grace and good sense at the presidential mansion, since there hasn’t been one there before now. Mrs. Washington retreated, and her daughter flitted about at parties like a shameless princess, born to deference. And that’s to say nothing of Her Majesty, Mrs. President Adams, who received visitors seated like royalty in Buckingham Palace.”
Though I still harbored soft affections for Abigail Adams, I knew better than to say so to Dolley, despite the fact that this conversation reminded me of one I’d had long ago with Mrs. Adams as she guided me through what fashions I’d require in France.
“I shouldn’t like to cause any sort of scandal by doing the wrong thing,” I said, glancing out the window toward the corner terrace.
“Martha, your father’s presidency is a new start,” Dolley replied. “Our first real experience with a republic. That’s why they’re trying so hard to bring him down. President Jefferson needs a hostess to set the example, making no distinction between our people and theirs. Everyone will look to you for a model of what a virtuous daughter, wife, and mother of the republic should be. So don’t you worry about gowns. I’ll order everything for you and your sister. Hairpieces and every fashionable thing universally worn by ladies in society today. You must simply play the part.”
THE PUMPKINS WERE FINALLY RIPE, perfect for pies and breads. So I was grateful when Tom came upon me in the garden and instead of scolding me for not leaving the task to Wormley Hughes, he helped me lift the heavy pumpkins into the wheelbarrow. “Sally knows,” Tom said, wiping sweat from his brow on his forearm.
I bit my lip. He didn’t have to say more. He meant that Sally knew what was being printed about her in the papers, and also that I wanted her gone from my father’s mountain. I sighed, shaking my head that my truce with Sally Hemings was now imperiled.
We’d long ago patched up our quarrel and reached accommodation. When I was away, Sally was mistress of Monticello, but when Papa returned with his entourage of guests, she made herself scarce, giving way to my sister and me, certain not to intrude on our time with Papa. In recent years, whenever Sally and I crossed paths, it was always a pleasant, cordial encounter. Sometimes even an affectionate one.