I couldn’t appreciate the full measure of these words. Not then. That day, I gasped so forcefully at William’s impertinence that I hurt my throat. “Mr. Short!”
Papa blanched but gave a single, tight nod that made my heart feel heavy within my chest. I felt as if that acknowledgment cost him something I couldn’t name.
Then he turned Caractacus and kicked him into a trot.
“Papa, I . . .” I didn’t think he could hear me. So I shouted, “Papa!”
But he was gone.
Fear drove away concern for manners, and I worried not about offending William Short. I rounded upon him. “How could you?”
At my censure, he merely bowed his head. “He lost a wife, but you lost a mother, Patsy. This cannot go on.”
So he knew.
He knew that Papa had descended into madness. And if he knew, who else did? The heat of shame flooded my face and tears pricked at my eyes at the thought of Papa’s political enemies or even our neighbors gossiping. They wouldn’t understand. Papa was still the bold hero of the Revolution. Still the great man he’d always been. It was only that Mama’s death had laid him low.
Panicked and angered, I no longer felt the cold, the sting of my ear, or the ache in my back. Papa’s outbursts were to have been a secret, between Caractacus and me. I was horrified that William Short had witnessed it, too. “You mustn’t say a word, Mr. Short. On your honor, you mustn’t say anything to anyone.”
Mr. Short stiffened as a Virginia gentleman must when honor is mentioned. “Patsy, I admire your father more than any other man. I’d do nothing to damage his reputation. But your aunt shouldn’t have left you and your sisters in his care. At the very least, Mr. Jefferson should find it in himself to be firmer in your presence. You’re only a child.”
“I’m not,” I stated.
“You are a child, a child who has lost much.”
I looked away, sure that if I didn’t, I’d find myself sharing things better left unsaid, sharing burdens that were mine alone. I couldn’t tell him that I feared Papa was more than mad—that the violence of his emotions might drag him into my mother’s grave with her. I bit back these words, for my mother had asked me to be my father’s solace. No one else.
At my silence, Mr. Short sighed. “Come. I’ll take you home.”
The word home rang between my ears, taunting me with how comforting the very thought of home had been not so very long ago. Even when the British came and we knew not whether Monticello might be burned to the ground, Mama maintained that feeling of home that families provide, even in the worst of situations. Especially in the worst of situations. But now that role and responsibility fell to me.
I followed Mr. Short to his horse, an old brown gelding with a white star on his forehead. Mr. Short offered me a hand up onto his mount. I paused before accepting it. William Short had always been kind to us, and I hated the idea that I might do something to change that. But the way he spoke to Papa . . . “You mustn’t take such a tone with my father, Mr. Short. You must never do something like that again. We must comfort Papa in his loss.”
I held his gaze so he would regard me seriously. Perhaps he did.
“I didn’t intend to be provoking, my dear. And I’ll try to hold my tongue. But answer me this.” His smile was small and sad. “Who comforts you in your loss?”
“DONE LOST HIS MIND,” one of the servants said in a harsh whisper. The words froze me outside the cellar kitchen door. “Bringing pox into this house . . . he’s gonna kill them babies.”
“Maybe it’s what he wants, so he can follow them to the grave,” another said.
A chorus of agreement from the others sounded out, making my heart fly. Papa had talked about the threat of the pox for days and argued inoculation was the only way to guard against it. But could the slaves’ suspicion be based in truth? Could Papa really want to—
“Hush right now!” Mammy Ursula said, as if she knew I was listening.
Forcing my feet to move, I entered the kitchen, finding the group of women gathered in front of the hearth. In many ways, the kitchen was the domain of the slaves, and even before my mother’s death, it was the cook’s habit to shoo me away when she was busy so that she could gossip with the others. Now, the cook froze by the fire at the sight of me, her wooden spoon clutched in her hand, midair. The other slaves went silent, also stilled.
All of them but Mammy Ursula, the sturdy black laundress and pastry chef whose innate sense of authority was such that the other slaves obeyed her like a queen. With her hair tied tight and regal atop her head in a red-checkered handkerchief, Mammy snapped, “Why are you sneaking about, Miss Patsy?”