Perhaps he fears that in my grief, I’ll become as unhinged as his father. Whereas what I fear is his father. I am uniquely vulnerable to Tom as I never was before in our marriage. I am his wife, and he has dominion over me, without having to answer to Thomas Jefferson. His conduct at the funeral is proof enough of his intentions. He will come for me now, either to claim me or tear the children away.
The law would say I must submit to him. The scriptures command it. But I do not wait to lower my head meekly and do what is expected of me. Not after all I’ve seen and lived through. No. I do not stay to see the slave auction and wait for the whirlwind of Tom’s wrath to come down on my head.
Instead, I pack up the children swiftly, and take them to Boston.
There are no slaves in Boston.
“There’s more housewifery to do because the servants are unreliable,” Ellen complains, showing me about her luxurious new home on Beacon Hill. “They’re lazy because they know they can leave any time for better wages or any reason at all. Why, I’ve gone through three cooks in the past six months. But I cannot wish to ever return to a slave state.”
“You should never.” I catch myself by surprise with my vehemence. “Land and Negroes in Virginia are to nine persons out of ten certain ruin and a vexation of the spirit that wearies one of life itself.”
And I am weary of life. I’ve really suffered so much that I cannot comprehend the possibility of better days. Consumed by despair, every morning is a struggle to get out of bed. I do it for the people yet depending on me, while I depend upon Ellen.
She does everything in her power to cheer me. She shows me the city, which has grown enormously since I was here with my father as a little girl. Everywhere I look now is perfect luxury and wealth. The stately homes, though all squeezed together, are unimaginably well furnished. In Ellen’s house, I wash my feet each morning in a plain basin that cost at least thirty dollars, and the water’s deep enough I might take a swim. The dining table glitters with cut glass and silver. And surrounded by such wealth, I’m consumed with guilt for the discomfort in which I left the rest of my family at Monticello.
We celebrate Christmas with trips to the theater and visits. Ellen arranges a party in an oval drawing room with paintings, silk damask curtains, and carved mahogany chairs. We dine on oysters and lobsters and other bounties of the sea. There’s ice cream and every variety of cake in silver baskets. And people keep asking how it is that my father, remembered for his responsible management of the nation’s finances, could have died in penury and embarrassment.
And I always reply, “His public virtue was the cause, if you should call that an embarrassment. I never shall be ashamed of an honorable poverty. It’s the price we’ve paid for a long and useful life devoted to the service of this country.”
Ellen owlishly watches my every move, so I smile for her sake. Until my father’s debts are extinguished, I have no income but the monies earned by my servants, who have all hired themselves out in Virginia. Their wages won’t be enough. Until a sale of my father’s papers can be arranged, I’m now, like Nancy Randolph once was, utterly at the mercy of my relations and their goodwill. So I don’t dare object when Ellen’s husband enrolls Septimia and George in school. The children behave well enough there; it’s only when they return home that they give themselves over to the Randolph, bickering like children who have no reason to know how precarious our circumstances are.
My older children know.
When it becomes clear that the lottery will be canceled, Cornelia writes bitterly, “It’s over, then. After sixty years of devoted services, his children are left in beggary by the country to whom he had bequeathed them.”
Ellen impresses upon me that I have no choice but to stay in Boston. “Live with us. You and the children together. My husband rented a place for you in Cambridge so as not to crowd this house. We’ll send for Mary and Cornelia and see them married off well.”
It’s a generous offer, but it makes me uneasy to be a burden to Ellen’s husband, who is already worrying about overcrowding the house. Ellen mistakes my hesitation, holding tight to my hand: “I know it pains you to leave Virginia, but I fear there are no ties which should bind any descendants of Thomas Jefferson to the state any longer.”
She’s echoing the sentiments of my sister’s son Francis. Polly’s precious boy wrote with bitterness over our plight, arguing that the liberality and generosity and patriotism of the Old Dominion has vanished under the influence of Yankee notions and practices.
But I don’t blame the Yankees.
The lottery, grudgingly approved, was the only thing Virginia offered my father in his waning days. But the northern states raised money. Donations came from New York, Baltimore, and Philadelphia . . . where William still lives.