Mortified, I pressed my hot cheek against the cool door and heard Mr. Short chastise my aunt in no uncertain terms. “Never say it! Or you’ll inspire every man of Tory sympathies left in the country to crow that the author of the Declaration of Independence has gone mad.”
Papa couldn’t be mad. I wouldn’t let him go mad. He was writing about birds, but at least he was writing again. Though the sight of my sisters still disturbed him, he was eating again, too. Little nibbles, here and there. And that night, when he collapsed onto his pallet in exhaustion, I stroked Papa’s red hair, singing softly a song my mother used to sing to soothe him.
I made sure he was asleep before finding my way to my little sister in our bed. “Courage, Polly,” I whispered to soothe her tears, bolstering myself as much as her. “We mustn’t cry. We must be of good cheer. Our papa is burdened with such sorrows that we must never burden him with our own.”
Chapter Three
WE ROAMED AIMLESSLY on horseback through the dense, mountainous woods that, themselves, seemed to have taken on Papa’s sorrow. A misting rain remained after a night’s steady showers, and the branches hung heavy. Turning leaves sagged and droplets splashed to the ground, as if the forest grieved with my father. For him. I wiped moisture from my face with a gloved finger, but I was glad for the rain, because I resented the sun as a liar.
No matter how much it shined, there was no light at Monticello.
Since my mother’s burial, my father and I had taken many long solitary rides like this, but he got no better. I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t let him go mad, but I’d come to understand that my mother was gone forever, and my father was only one step out of the prison of madness her passing created.
On that particular day, Papa’s arms rested listlessly around my waist; I wished he’d held me tighter. Not because I feared Caractacus, but because I craved proof that Papa actually saw me, actually knew I was there with him. I missed the warm strength and protection of his embraces.
He was behind me on the broad back of the stallion, but I missed him as if he were the one in the grave. The thought made me bite down on the inside of my cheek until the tang of iron spilled onto my tongue. The curious taste, more than the pain, helped me resist the urgent pressure of my tears. My mother bade me not to grieve, and before my Aunt Elizabeth’s recent depar ture she had encouraged me to be strong. As for Papa, it’d been hard enough to coax him out of his confinement. I knew that I mustn’t cry.
Caractacus’s hooves thudded against the wet ground, and occasionally he gave a low nicker. The trees creaked under the weight of the recent deluge and in the distance, the hammering of a tenacious woodpecker echoed. And yet, it was quiet. That special quiet. My father’s quiet and mine.
The memory of how we sang together at Poplar Forest, when we were hiding from the British, swamped me. The contrast was so sharp, I shivered, the dampness of my hair, bodice, and skirts pressing a chill into my skin, as I came to understand that we’d never laugh or sing like that again.
Papa tugged at the reins, directing Caractacus down a diagonal cut between the trees. The horse snorted and blew at the steep decline, but obeyed with a steady hoof. All at once, Papa let out a shuddering breath, the sound that was always the prelude to the wild grief to follow.
Please, no. Not again, I thought, a knot in my belly.
But this moment always came. Every single ride. Nothing I ever did stopped it, or made it end any faster. Papa’s chest and arms trembled behind and around me, and his breathing hitched in starts and stops. Then the sob burst out of him and his forehead fell heavily on my shoulder.
Unending moans poured out of him. Their violence pounded against my heart, causing an ache there. He squeezed me until I struggled to breathe. He cried so hard and so much, the desolation of his grief made its way through my rain-soaked frocks to the chilled skin beneath. His words were a mournful jumble, but the hoarse pleading, interspersed with agonized wails, made his lamentation understandable to any living soul.
Even Caractacus, whose ears rotated to the rear. That one small movement was my only proof that someone shared Papa’s grief with me, carried the burden of it, too. It made no matter that a horse couldn’t speak words of comfort. His very presence, and that turn of his ears, made it possible for me to shoulder my father’s outburst.
Suddenly, Papa wrenched his head away and sat back in the saddle. I swayed from the unexpected movement and the sharing of his rage as it washed off of him and through me, hot and acidic. Papa snapped the reins and shouted, “Ha!”