This proved to be an embarrassing mistake, for Tom quizzed me on all thirteen newly independent states until it became apparent that I was woefully short of the full set. Moreover, my ignorant boast caused Tom to puff up and announce, “Anyway, I’ve come to tell you that you’ll take your supper with the children. I’ll be dressing for dinner and sitting at the table with the other men—of course.”
He wanted me to feel young and foolish, and I did. But more than that, he made me anxious that Papa and I should be apart even for the length of a supper. Leaving Tom, I found my father dressing for dinner, his manservant adjusting his cravat. When I told Papa what Tom said, he stared into the mirror, muttering, “Patsy, try to get along with Tom. It isn’t easy for him as the colonel’s heir apparent.” He said the last words with a hint of contempt, then added, “The Randolphs like to make much of their pedigree, to which I suppose everyone else must ascribe whatever merit they choose.”
Thus, banished to the lower-level kitchen where the children ate, I intended to sulk. It didn’t quite work out that way when I fell into the company of the Randolph sisters. Judith was my age and Nancy only a little younger, and by the time we’d taken our fill of egg custards and apple tarts and candied cherries, we were fast friends. Their companionship both eased the ache I felt for missing my sisters and worsened it.
Before bed, Mrs. Randolph gathered us round her harpsichord in the richly appointed great hall, and the men drifted in with their brandy. Puffing on a pipe, Colonel Randolph said to Papa, “It’s fortunate your appointment to France came to nothing. You’re better off in retirement. No good comes of public service anymore.” Ignoring the strained smile of his wife, whose expression seemed to warn him away from such talk, Colonel Randolph continued, “I practically funded Washington’s army myself, but I’ve been criticized by so-called patriots for the liberality with which I treated British soldiers.”
Settling into one of the tasseled armchairs, Papa crossed one leg at the knee. “We must endure criticism if we’re to honor the spirit of independence.”
Colonel Randolph’s jowls reddened. “The spirit of independence! Every man who bore arms in this revolution now considers himself on the same footing as his neighbor. I tell you, Jefferson, the spirit of independence has been converted to the abominable idea of equality.”
Papa, who had declared to the world that all men are created equal, was long acquainted with Colonel Randolph’s bluster, and merely drank in silence. And in irritation, Mrs. Randolph chirped, “Shall we have Judith play another song?”
Alas, Colonel Randolph wouldn’t be silenced. “I won’t serve again in the legislature, and you should follow my example, Jefferson.”
Papa grimaced, contemplating the crystal goblet in his hand. “What else is left for me but public service when all my private happiness has been so utterly destroyed?”
Colonel Randolph swallowed and Mrs. Randolph fluttered her fan. In the astonished silence, Papa’s cheeks reddened. He’d been goaded into expressing his darkest thoughts and his embarrassment pained me like a hot stone in my belly. Some part of me had hoped the Randolphs would see my papa’s devastation, that they’d realize he was a man on the edge of something . . . terrible, but their silence was excruciating.
Young Tom had been slumped in his chair, trying to affect an air of manly indifference. But now he perked up, sitting straighter. “I’d like to serve in public office one day, Mr. Jefferson.”
I didn’t know if Tom blundered forth in self-interest or to ease the tension, but his question gave my father a moment to recover. His mother flashed him an adoring smile of appreciation, and the gratitude I felt toward Tom made me forget I’d ever disliked him.
“You’ll need an education,” Papa suggested. “You’ll want to study law—”
“He’ll study how to plant tobacco,” Colonel Randolph barked. “There’s good reason gentlemen are withdrawing from public life, my friend. Retire to Monticello, plant your crops, and enjoy the fruits of your labor. That’s my advice to you.”
Despite the colonel’s provocation, it seemed good advice to me; certainly, it was what Mama had wanted. And, in the days that followed, I hoped Papa would be persuaded by it. But on the day the Randolph sisters coaxed me to play with them and their dollies in the springtime sunshine, Papa saw me laughing and his gaze filled with an even deeper melancholy.
That night he didn’t sleep. He paced the floors of his room, then came into mine. I think he knew I’d be awake. Gently brushing my hair from my face beneath my sleeping cap, he asked, “Could you be happy here, Patsy? With the Randolphs?”
The question was mildly spoken, but his eyes had a mad intensity to them. Both sent my heart into a breath-stealing sprint. Was it a rebuke? Did he think I’d forgotten my mother? Did he consider my laughter a dishonor to her memory? My stomach knotted in guilt, and I bunched the quilt in my fists. “No.”
“The schoolhouse here,” he said softly. “Your grandfather built it. Judith and Nancy are suitable playmates, and Tom might even make a good husband for you one day.”
“No, Papa,” I insisted, my fears rising. “I couldn’t be happy here. Not without you.”