From Thomas Jefferson to Thomas Mann Randolph Jr.
Your resolution to apply to the study of the law is wise. On my return to Virginia in the fall, I hope some practicable method may be devised for your settling in Albemarle. Nothing could contribute so much to my happiness. You might get into the assembly for that county. Meanwhile, a motion has been made in the Senate to remove the federal government to Philadelphia and the French revolution still goes on well.
MY FATHER WISHED to keep me close to Monticello—and I desired the same—but in marrying Tom, I understood my destiny to be entwined with Tuckahoe. Tuckahoe was the family seat. The jewel of the Randolph fortune. And since Tom was the oldest son, tradition held that he’d inherit the place.
It would always have a hold on him.
But the place that had a hold on my little sister was Eppington. Polly didn’t wait for the carriage Colonel Randolph finally lent us to come to a stop before flinging the door open and leaping out into the arms of Aunt Elizabeth—the only mother my little sister remembered. And watching my aunt’s calico housedress billow up as she spun my sister made me forgive her for keeping Polly from us all those years.
But I confess, it made me a little jealous, too. At least until Aunt Elizabeth grabbed at my hands and I caught a scent of lavender water that she and my mother both used for perfume. “Patsy, you’ve grown so regal, you make us look like peasants. Your mother would burst to see you now.”
Uncle Frank did his best to make my new husband feel welcome, too, pouring him a glass of his best liquor and asking him about his studies at Edinburgh. And I breathed a sigh of relief to be away from the tension at Tuckahoe. Little by little, my reticent husband relaxed into the company of my family until Uncle Frank said, “Mr. Randolph, you must congratulate your father for me on his betrothal.”
Tom stared, frozen in surprise, his glass at half tilt. He managed to choke out three words. “My father’s betrothal?”
Oblivious to Tom’s distress, Uncle Frank lifted his own glass for a celebratory toast. “I’ve yet to set eyes on Gabriella Harvie, but I’m told she’s a young lady of great beauty.”
It was Aunt Elizabeth who recognized Tom’s expression as horrified shock and she tried to silence her husband with a sharp “Mr. Eppes.”
But my uncle blundered on in confusion. “Didn’t you just ride out from Tuckahoe? Surely your father shared the happy news of his forthcoming remarriage. Everyone else in the countryside has heard by now.”
Tom curled slightly inward, as if he’d been run through with a sword and didn’t want anyone to see how badly he was bleeding. I reached for him, my own mind reeling, but he pulled from my grasp, excused himself, and begged leave to take Uncle Frank’s bottle with him.
Tom strode off to the stables and I followed, half-afraid he’d hop on a horse and ride off. Realizing I was following, he picked up his pace, but so did I.
“My mother is only a year in her grave,” Tom said, taking two swallows straight from the bottle. “And my father has set his mind to marry a girl younger than his own daughters.”
There was nothing unusual about that; older men of means took young wives. No, Gabriella Harvie’s youth wasn’t the trouble; it was that her father was a landed gentleman of Virginia who would expect his daughter and any children she bore to reap the rewards of this marriage at the expense of my husband and his siblings.
Tom took another swallow, his dark eyes burning. “My mother gave him three sons and seven daughters, but now he wants to start a new family.”
I stepped closer. “Doesn’t mean he’ll neglect the one he’s got.”
“Yes he will,” Tom hissed. “He’ll start fresh and forget us, since we’ve ever been such a disappointment to him. He’s done this to hurt me, I promise you that.”
I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt Tom. And, frankly, it seemed impossible that any son would ever please that old man. “Colonel Randolph is a widower. Is it possible he’s just lonely?” I suggested, trying to be more generous.
It was the wrong thing to say. Tom shrugged away from me and threw himself down on a hay bale. “Patsy, you’ve only had a taste of how malicious my father can be. You haven’t the faintest notion of how miserable he’s made me and you wouldn’t care if you knew. So go to bed and leave me be.”
Something in his eyes frightened me, and left me no room to argue. So I went into the house, fretting the whole while. I did care that my husband was miserable. Of course I cared. But I didn’t know how to help him.