Confused by the reaction, the ambassador explained, “It’s a magic cape.”
But his words didn’t carry, accented as they were. And as the room went silent, men reached for their ceremonial swords in anticipation of violence. I swallowed, wondering which of the men would break the mounting tension in the room. And when I realized that none of them would, I knew that there was no choice but to take it upon myself. Clapping my hands, as if delighted in the way of a child, I cried, “Oh, a magic cape!”
My father—the man of science who had decried a reign of witches—looked entirely appalled. But upon seeing me smile and clap, all the other ladies quickly followed suit. Papa could scarcely keep the displeasure from his presidential expression, but he would simply have to endure it. It was a New Year’s Eve party, a night for frivolity, and if offense could be avoided by laughter and merriment, why not?
Besides. I was the hostess here, so I pretended at great fascination when the ambassador murmured an incantation over Dolley, declaring, “I promise you, Mrs. Madison, you’ll soon give your husband a son!”
Everyone applauded the spectacle. Dolley was very amused. When everyone else had gone home for the night, she grabbed at my elbow, grinning. “Why, I’ve never seen Mr. Madison go so white before. As exciting as it might’ve been to see men duel over my honor, I suppose I must thank you for averting an international incident. But, I must know one thing. . . .”
Still holding Tom’s arm, I asked, “What’s that?”
Dolley grinned mischievously. “Is that your secret? A magic cape? Given your brood of children, I suppose you must have a closet full of them!”
“There are no capes involved,” Tom said, quite seriously.
Dolley and I found this so terribly funny that we exploded with laughter.
Which prompted him to accuse, “You’ve been drinking, both of you!”
For whatever reason, that seemed terribly funny, too. I hadn’t laughed since my sister’s death, and it felt disloyal to do so. But Dolley was irrepressible. “I’m afraid I don’t put much stock in the ambassador’s incantation.”
“Well, you ought to give it a try anyway,” I said, scandalizing my husband utterly. “With or without the capes.”
Days later, I gave birth to the very first baby ever born in the president’s mansion. A boy, at last. And Tom had no objection to the name that would give Dolley the most pleasure: James Madison Randolph.
“A son,” my husband kept saying, as if astonished that it’d finally come to pass. At long last, Jeff had a little brother. And we were happy.
For a brief, enchanted winter in the spacious rooms of the President’s House, we forgot our troubles in Virginia. I hosted nearly sixty-three dinners at my father’s side, including one before the day I gave birth and one after. But when I couldn’t be there to soothe partisan tempers, my daughter Ann was there in my place—more beautiful and less sarcastic than me in every way. And I made certain she was aware that every dinner and every lady’s tea was a mission to beat back the calumny heaped upon Papa’s head by his enemies.
“Have you seen this?” my father’s new secretary asked, timidly offering me a clipping from some newspaper. “I apologize for bringing something so indelicate to your attention but—”
“You did quite right to show me,” I said, burning to read the filthy poem.
The patriot, fresh from Freedom’s councils come,
Now plea’d retires to lash his slaves at home;
Or woo, perhaps, some black Aspasia’s charms,
And dreams of freedom in his bondmaid’s arms.
There was a cartoon, too, called “A Philosophic Cock.” A drawing of my father as a French rooster and Sally as his hen. All part of a campaign to tarnish his image as a devoted father, doting grandfather, and father of this nation.
I went straight to Papa with it in a flash of temper, stunned to hear him laugh. “How can you laugh at this, Papa?”
“What else is there to be done? It’s demeaning. It’s petty. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the business of the country. And they’re spilling their ink on it while Republicans trounce them in every election. Unless you think I should call them out onto a field of honor, there’s nothing to do but laugh.”
Soothed, I gave a soft smile. “We’re done with pistols now, aren’t we?”
He stood, still tall and straight, grasping my hand. “Yes, we’re done with pistols now.”
But in that, we couldn’t have been more mistaken.
Chapter Thirty-one
Washington, 23 June 1806
From Thomas Jefferson to Thomas Mann Randolph Jr.