I felt myself blush for his characterization of it. How was it that he always saw me as some sort of warrior? And how was it that I never minded? “I hope I did some small good.”
“Margaret Bayard Smith sings your praises,” he said. “You may count yourself a success when a newspaperman’s wife says that you’re one of the most lovely women she’s ever met, with manners so frank and affectionate that you put her perfectly at ease.”
Margaret’s husband was a Republican, so she was apt to praise me, but still my cheeks burned with peculiar pleasure. “Given such a recommendation, Mr. Short, I’m confident enough to advise you. If you’re seeking a diplomatic post, you must reach accord with our secretary of state.”
William’s gaze slid from mine and landed at our feet. “Your father is the president. If he wishes for me to serve as an ambassador, I’m pleased to serve in that capacity. Madison’s approval shouldn’t be required.”
But it would be, I thought. Mr. Short ought to have known it. Surely he did know it. And I suddenly suspected his unwillingness to swallow his pride was a ruse. He was, for some reason, postponing a return to Europe. I traitorously wondered if it had to do with me.
It would be better if he left. Better for him. Better for Rosalie. And better for me.
Because I was unsettled every time we met. Unlike Jack Eppes, I would never risk all that I loved for fleeting desire. But it would be better never to be tempted in the first place.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Washington, 23 January 1804
To Martha Jefferson Randolph from Thomas Jefferson
The snow is still falling with unabated fury. I expect Mr. Eppes will leave in order to be with Maria at the knock of an elbow in February. On Friday Congress gave a dinner on the acquisition of Louisiana. As much as I wished to have yourself and sister with me, I rejoice you weren’t here. The brunt of the battle falls on the Secretary’s ladies, who are dragged into the dirt in every federal paper. You’d have been the victims had you been here, and butchered more bloodily. Pour into the bosom of my dear Maria all the comfort and courage which the affections of my heart can give her, and tell her to rise superior to fear for our sakes.
MY SISTER’S CHILDBIRTH was no knock of an elbow.
As the bloody child tore itself out of her, Polly’s screams drowned out the howling winter wind. Though I was scarcely recovered of giving birth myself, I held my sister’s hand, mopped sweat from her brow, and coaxed her to breathe when she was too tired to do even that. When the childbed fever ravished her, she had no milk for the child either, so I took my sister’s newborn to my breast with my own. Two precious baby girls. Mine dark-haired, dark-eyed, and plump as a piglet. My sister’s pale, ghostly, and fragile as a flower. I cradled them both in my arms until I was so tired and sore and weary I could no longer feel my arms at all.
But still I held the baby girls. Because it was the only thing I could do for my sister, who tossed and turned in pain that radiated from her empty womb, while she whispered, “Jack . . . where’s Jack?”
I suppose he must’ve set out from Washington City as soon as he got my letter, but it wasn’t until almost the end of February that Jack Eppes walked his half-frozen horse up the road. My son ran out to take the reins, and Jack took giant strides into the house. “Is she—”
“She’s asking for you,” I said, and watched him dash to her, leaving puddles of muddy snow on the wooden stairs in his wake. My sister loved him, and his kisses on her forehead brightened her mood. She seemed happier still to see him take his newborn daughter from my arms and cradle her in his own.
And I began to hope.
At least, until the morning she rasped, “Patsy, take me home.” Perhaps she meant Eppington. I couldn’t be sure. But a journey that far would certainly kill her. Monticello was closer. The air was healthier there. And we could dose her with my father’s sherry. Yes, I decided. Now that the spring thaw had come, we’d take her home to Monticello.
She couldn’t sit a horse, nor could I risk her in a bouncing carriage. So we put her down upon a litter, and slaves carried her the entire four-mile journey. Jack and I followed on foot with all the children, splashing across a muddy stream, and scrambling up a thorny and overgrown mountain path with a fierce determination to make my sister well.
Dear God, I prayed. Make her well.
But I’d prayed this prayer before and reneged upon my bargain with God, and I feared retribution was now at hand.
“Make your sisters keep up,” I said to my eldest.
“Momma, they won’t do as I say unless I holler,” Ann said. “And you told me a lady should never holler.”