Or, to be more precise, since the day he told me he would not wait for me . . .
Because our journey had been slowed with visits to friends and family along the way, I’d let myself believe that I’d return to Monticello to find a letter from William—a tearful letter reassuring me that all was not ended. Maybe even one that pleaded with me to return to him on the fastest ship I could find.
But there were no letters from William Short waiting at Monticello. Not for me. Not even for my father. William couldn’t spare a scrap of paper or a blot of ink for either of us. And all hopes were dashed that the breach between us might ever be mended. I wasn’t as practiced at reading William’s silences as my father’s, but the finality of it came crashing down around me, smashing my heart to pieces.
He wasn’t going to forgive me.
He wasn’t going to wait for me.
He was done with me forever.
I’d made that choice—an irrevocable choice. How would I ever make peace with it?
Chapter Sixteen
Monticello, 2 April 1790
From Thomas Jefferson to Madam De Corny
My daughter, on her arrival in Virginia, received the addresses of a young Mr. Randolph, the son of a bosom friend of mine. Though his talents, dispositions, connections and fortune would’ve made him my own first choice, according to the usage of my country, I scrupulously suppressed my wishes, so that my daughter might indulge her own sentiments freely.
THAT IS NOT, OF COURSE, THE WAY I REMEMBER IT.
“I’ve invited Tom Randolph to join us at Christmas,” Papa announced as we took tea in our dilapidated parlor. One glance provided proof that our house was in no condition to receive visitors, but I protested because I wanted to be alone with my secret agonies. More importantly, I couldn’t bear visitors seeing Sally afforded deference by all the slaves at Monticello.
Of course, I said none of this to Papa, who continued, “I intend to take your cousin Tom under my wing. He excelled in his studies at Edinburgh. With guidance he could be one of the great men of the next generation. Besides, Patsy, I should think you’d welcome his company. He’s no blockhead, and as the heir presumptive to Tuckahoe, Tom’s the most eligible bachelor amongst the Virginia gentry.”
I couldn’t find a reply. Why should I care about the eligibility of the gangly and exceedingly maddening boy who taunted me in my youth? But I knew exactly why Papa thought I should care. After the drama in Paris, William Short had made no proposal of marriage. Whereas I was heartbroken at William’s silence, my father was furious at William’s apparent break with us and failure to update him on the revolution, considering that he’d entrusted to his young protégé our American mission in France.
Papa felt betrayed, I think. Perhaps in Tom Randolph, he was seeking a new adoptive son. . . .
“I’ve invited the Carr brothers, too,” Papa said, to put my mind at ease. “Trust me, Patsy, the season will be much merrier in the company of your cousins.”
I couldn’t begin to see how. But for all of Papa’s insistence that he suppressed his feelings, when Tom came riding up our drive on Christmas morn, Papa quite nearly pushed me out the door to greet him.
And I’ll say this for Tom. Even from the distance of all these years, staring at the smudged and yellowed letter in my hand, I can still remember the way my breath caught at the sight of him on that horse.
Tom Randolph rode like a demon, his broad shoulders and strong arms exerting expert control over the animal beneath him. He was all athletic grace when he swung down from his saddle in a swirl of black cloak and his boots landed with a splash in the mud. He stood a good deal taller than even my father, so he had to bend his head to acknowledge me. His dark, savage eyes took in my gown and he drawled, “Well, I do declare, Miss Jefferson. You’ve turned into a Frenchwoman.”
Given his unsmiling expression, I couldn’t tell if he meant it as a compliment or an insult, and truthfully, I didn’t care. With jet-black hair and skin of an olive hue, he’d grown to be, without a doubt, the most handsome man I’d met on any continent. He was beautiful to behold in the way of artwork and more striking in plain riding clothes than a nobleman in satin and lace. I could acknowledge that about him as objective fact, because while his exotic allure roused something in my blood, it stirred nothing in a heart that still longed for William Short.