William sent money—tried to, anyway. But these and all donations Papa refused, out of pride or fear that it’d undermine the lottery.
I burned William’s letter of condolence, filled as it was with tender sentiments and an unwise insistence that I visit him. I don’t trust myself to see him. I’m so unmoored of everything but grief, I don’t trust myself or my virtue. And my virtue must be pristine. For my father’s reputation—and what is imputed to it by mine—is an asset I use shamelessly.
In the outpouring of national grief over my father’s death, I see that Tom is given a public employment. Hopefully an income will restore my husband to his right mind.
More importantly, it will keep him away.
Milton, 6 August 1827
From Thomas Mann Randolph to Septimia Randolph
I have loved your mother, and only her, with all my faculties for thirty-five years next December. I wish to spend some happy years yet, in the decline of life, with her.
I am always reading letters now. My father’s to me. Mine to him. His to everyone else. Letters from his friends. Condolences. Tributes. Poems. And now I’m reading another letter, having nothing to do with my father at all.
A letter from Tom expressing his wishes to reconcile.
I linger over the part where he writes he has loved me and only me. On its surface, a tender sentiment. But I know it’s also an accusation. I loved Tom, but not only Tom. Not ever. And I feel no regret for that. Especially because Tom’s declaration is to guard himself against divorce.
My son-in-law Mr. Coolidge explains, “I’m sorry to inform you that even in Boston the only grounds for divorce are consanguinity, bigamy, impotence, and adultery. None of which apply, I assume.” I flush, shamed to even be discussing it, but he continues, “On the other hand, you may obtain a legal separation for cruelty or desertion.”
Tom has certainly been cruel. And I’d argue that he deserted me—that he always deserted me—in times of need. But it’s equally true that I’ve deserted him. I fled to Boston in the darkest hours of my grief, and now, there must be an accounting for it. “Tom will want to see his children and I can’t keep them from him forever.”
He would take them from me forever, if I tried.
Ellen’s husband replies in his cool, flat Boston accent. “You can keep the children from Mr. Randolph for a few years at least. Then they’ll be too old for him to force to his will. Unless there are grounds for legal separation, there must simply be a separation of miles. Even if Mr. Randolph comes for the children, I can see to it that they’re hidden away at some distance where he can’t get them into his hands.”
There seems something immoral about this scheme. As well as impractical. I married the man and gave him children. The law puts me completely in his power even though he’s destitute.
As if sensing my hesitation, my son-in-law says, gruffly, “You needn’t fear him. From what I hear, Mr. Randolph is holed up miserably in a little house with much liquor and without a second blanket for his bed. Nicholas Trist will keep him from Monticello, and I’ll keep him from here.”
Far from alleviating my fears, this strikes me as profoundly unjust. Tom barred from Monticello, as unwelcome there as he was at Tuckahoe? Monticello is, until we can find a buyer for it, my home. And if it’s mine, it must also be my husband’s. That was always my father’s intention. It was our vow to Tom, implicit and explicit.
“I cannot countenance abandoning Mr. Randolph to poverty,” I finally say.
“Then he’ll take your money,” is my son-in-law’s harsh reply.
In honor of Papa, the states of Louisiana and South Carolina have voted me $20,000 in bank stocks for my upkeep—not enough to save Monticello, but perhaps enough to support those who depend upon me. It’s a generosity I hadn’t solicited but which makes me the target of opponents who think me unworthy, as my father wasn’t a soldier and I wasn’t his widow.
I suppose they believe I’ve done nothing, and meant nothing, to this country.
It’s a sentiment that has made me redouble my efforts to edit my father’s papers. And it’s made me think hard upon my own character. “So long as property is vested in me, and Tom is destitute, I must make some effort for his support.”
“Surely you aren’t thinking of returning to live as his wife,” my son-in-law replies. “He can make no mischief for you or the children in Boston, but I can’t keep that animal away from you in Virginia.”
Ellen winces, carefully turning her head so her husband doesn’t see how calling her father an animal causes her distress. Whether it’s for love or shame, I cannot say.
I suppose I must now be beyond both love and shame. What matters now are my children, my grandchildren, and my slaves.
There’s an option that my son-in-law hasn’t considered.
One I learned from my father.
Negotiation.