Should they lose you, seven children, all under the age of discretion and down to infancy would be left without guide or guardian but a poor broken-hearted woman, doomed herself to misery the rest of her life. And should her frail frame sink under it, what is to become of them? The laws of dueling are made for lives of no consequence; not for fathers of families. Let me entreat you then, my dear Sir, take no step in this business but on the soberest reflection.
A SHADOW OF DEATH hung over us that summer in Virginia. A neighbor was found dead in his carriage—he’d drunk himself to death. More devastating was the murder of Papa’s law teacher, Judge Wythe, whose jealous nephew poisoned him, his manumitted black housekeeper, and her freeborn mulatto son—to whom Judge Wythe intended to leave his fortune.
The judge lived only long enough to tell physicians, “I am murdered.” The nephew stood trial, but black witnesses weren’t permitted to testify—not even the housekeeper who survived the poisoning. And the villain had been promptly acquitted.
Papa took it hard.
Not only, I think, because he’d lost a friend and justice was thwarted. But also because it was a repudiation of Judge Wythe and Mr. Short’s idealistic dreams of racial coexistence in Virginia. A warning almost tailor-made to discourage my father from bringing Sally and their children out from the shadows.
And then, of course, there was Randolph of Roanoke. Was there ever a more deranged example of Virginia gentry in decay? The spiteful creature had singled out my family to torment. In protest of my father’s programs for public education, canals, bridges, and roads, he broke with the Republicans to create a brand-new political party called the Quids. And when that didn’t achieve his aims, he provoked a quarrel with my husband on the floor of Congress.
Admittedly, Tom had been rash, putting himself forth as a more true patriot, and when his apology was deemed insufficient, adding, “Lead and steel make more proper ingredients in serious quarrels.”
Sensing an opportunity to provoke two very public men to duel, the papers took sides, spilling a barrel of ink on the subject. The National Intelligencer defended Tom while the Richmond Enquirer championed John Randolph. And the dangerous intensity of my husband’s temper sent all the children fleeing whenever he entered a room. They knew to stay out of their father’s way while he paced, fulminating at every new accusation.
I didn’t blame my husband for his anger, truly I didn’t. I felt certain John Randolph had been trying to goad my husband into a duel for a very long time. I only wished Tom wasn’t so easy to goad.
“It’s because of me,” Nancy said, packing up her meager belongings. “If I’m not living here, John might leave my brother alone.”
I think she hoped I’d stop her, reassure her that she was mistaken in leaving us, but she had the right of it. “Where will you go?”
“To Richmond,” Nancy said. “We have other relations there. I’ll go visiting for a time and see about seeking employment as a housekeeper there.”
Tom was appalled by the very idea that any sister of his should seek employment, but given Nancy’s ruined reputation, she had few options. Tom was a Randolph; he saw himself as wealthy landed gentry even if our house at Edgehill had fallen to pieces in our absence. It needed repairs and plaster if it was to prove good against any kind of weather. And with the new baby, Edgehill felt smaller and more cramped than ever.
That’s to say nothing of the drought. The oats were lost. The peaches and cherries, too. We might only have another sickly wheat crop and apples. We weren’t in any position to support his sister, so Tom gave Nancy money—more than we had to give—and let her go off to Richmond.
Before climbing into the carriage, Nancy gave me a quick hug and whispered, “Try not to worry about the duel. The Randolph temper burns hot, but sometimes burns itself out.”
I hoped she was right, but when my husband returned from Richmond, he was in a worse state than before. He considered it his sacred duty to care for his sisters and felt unmanned by his inability to do so. And when I found my husband in the yard sighting his pistols and practicing his paces, I realized his temper wasn’t going to burn out. He was going to kill or be killed, and I could no longer keep my peace. “So you’re going to let him murder you and leave me a widow?”
Tom turned on me. “You think I’ll fail at this like I’ve failed at everything. It’s a wonder you don’t want me dead.”
Given how happy we’d been only months before, this caught me utterly by surprise. “Tom, how could you ever think that I wish such a thing? What would I do without you?”
Tom gave a bitter twist of his beautiful mouth. “Turn to your father like you always do. He can do no wrong in your eyes, whereas I. . . .”
“Well, my father found a way to avoid a senseless duel, didn’t he?”