“And you, who were a guest here and enjoyed its benefits!”
He doesn’t dignify my accusation with an answer.
“He isn’t here, Patsy,” William says, taking my arms.
“How can you say that?” Emotion nearly strangles me. “He’s here, all around, his hand in everything—”
“He’s gone. This isn’t his home anymore. And it’s not your home, either. It’s a set of chains.”
His words reach me in places I have never let anyone reach. In places inside me that I don’t even let myself touch. They recall to me a vivid memory of my childhood and a rider who came up this mountain to warn: Leave Monticello now or find yourself in chains.
And William was there. He was there from the start. And so was I.
I want to strike him, pound my fists upon his chest. And I do raise my fists to strike him, but my agony of spirit leaves me only the strength to lay them on his chest as I howl with anguish. And for the first time since my father’s death, or perhaps even longer than that, I fall to pieces. In truth, I fall forward, into William’s arms, crying tears I dared not shed until the day I finished editing my father’s letters.
And now that I’ve done it, I have not even duty to hold me up.
Lowering me to the stairs before I collapse, William whispers, “Abandon this place. I beg of you.”
My tears burst forth like a broken dam, first a trickle, then a pouring, and I scarcely recognize the sounds that come from me. I weep for the loss of my husband. For my children. For my sister and her babies. For Sally’s children, too. And I finally weep for my mother, whom I was too frightened to cry for when she died.
I cry the unshed tears of a lifetime until I am quaking and limp and so frail I don’t think I can rise ever again.
“Let me take you from here,” William whispers, his forehead pressed to mine. “It will be better for you. I promise you, it will be better for you to get free of it. It’s the only way you can be happy.”
Be happy. That’s what I want for you.
My mother spoke those words to me when she asked me to watch over my father. But somehow I forgot them. That command was swallowed up in the enormity of my dedication to my father. But now Papa is gone and my vow has been discharged . . . all except for that.
Be happy.
Remembering my mother’s words, the ache somehow eases, in the contemplation of leaving Monticello. “Where will I go?”
“Anywhere you please.”
I don’t know where I would go. I don’t know what would please me . . . because I’ve never before asked. This is the first time I can, the first time I’ve ever allowed myself to even consider it. And I can’t help but marvel at embracing my father’s beloved ideal of self-determination for the first time . . . at the age of fifty-six.
And as a woman at that.
For now, all I know is that I wish to leave with William Short. Somehow I find within myself the strength to rise. We walk together from the terrace. At first, my steps are bent and painful. But the farther I walk, the less I feel the pull. Mindful of the cold muck on my feet, I straighten like the Amazon William always said I was.
Like the Amazon I am.
William hooks his little finger into mine, guiding me toward his carriage—but I pass it by. I look back once, then not again. I want to walk from this place.
I want to run.
Epilogue
Washington, 7 February 1830
From Andrew Jackson to Martha Jefferson Randolph
The President of the United States thanks Mrs. Randolph for the cane she had the goodness to present him with feelings of deep sensibility, as a testimonial of her esteem, derived from the venerated hands of her father.
I LIVE NOW IN WASHINGTON CITY with my daughter Ginny and her husband, who has taken a clerkship in the Jackson administration. We live in a rented two-story house with an excellent kitchen, beautiful fireplaces, and a large cheerful room for me where I keep my dressing table, a sewing table, portraits of Papa, and the coverlet under which he slept, which now warms me at night.
We live only two blocks from the President’s House, which has been rebuilt since the war. It’s now inhabited by Andrew Jackson, whose riotous inauguration has scandalized my lady friends. They’ve all warned of the new administration’s vulgarity.
Nevertheless, I’m thunderstruck when I am summoned down the stairs one morning to find the president of the United States in the parlor.
“Madam,” he says, with a courtly bow.
Though I’ve known personally five of the six presidents before him, I’m somewhat awed by the craggy-faced war hero turned populist politician. “Mr. President,” I say, curtseying before I think better of it. “You must be here for my son-in-law.”
“To the contrary, I’ve come to call upon the sole surviving daughter of Thomas Jefferson,” Andrew Jackson says, as if he were in some awe of me. “Would you do me the honor of sitting for a spell, Mrs. Randolph?”