America's First Daughter: A Novel (25 page)

“S
AY YOU’LL MARRY ME,
P
ATSY.
” The demand came between panting breaths in the dark of the little schoolhouse at Tuckahoe where Tom and I had stolen away to exchange fevered kisses that made me forget everything.

Only a week had passed since that first, reluctant kiss, and my reluctance hadn’t entirely faded. But his kisses appealed to me for a new reason, a darker reason, a
carnal
reason. They made my body burn. It mattered not that I didn’t desire the reaction. With his mouth on my skin and his hands skimming over my bodice, I almost felt as if I were possessed.

Tom Randolph kissed with the same demonic ferocity that he rode—his mouth urgent on mine, his grasp rough, his taste like sweet destruction, razing every other thought in my mind, making me forget I had a mind at all.

That’s what I wanted more than anything else, so I tried to hush him with another kiss, hoping it would be as annihilating as the last. But he took hold of my coat in his fists as if he might tear it open, and made me look at him in the dim light of the lantern. “I want more than kisses, Patsy. I want you. And I cannot be content until I have you. So say that you’ll marry me.”

The reality of it all came rushing to me then. The fact that I’d quite scandalously lost my head in the arms of a veritable stranger, in a schoolhouse built by my own grandfather. In the distance, I could hear the music of the wedding party in the main house beyond.

I’d accompanied Tom to see his sister Judith of the Tuckahoe Randolphs sweep down the elegant carved walnut staircase of her father’s home and pledge her life to Richard Randolph of Bizarre plantation. The groom and his brothers were all swaggering southern boys who loved pranks and politics and tobacco. They each asked me to dance, which displeased Tom enormously. That I wasn’t tripping over myself for his attention, like the other country girls, seemed to fuel in him something akin to fury. Indeed, between bites of a feast that included oysters, lobsters, tarts, and apple pies, I felt the heat of Tom’s gaze, urging me to go off with him away from the oppressive house into some secluded place.

But I didn’t go until Richard Randolph used the occasion of his wedding to decry the sins of his ancestors, announcing that bringing slaves into the country was a “violation of the inherent, unalienable, and imprescriptible rights of man.”

In those words, I heard the echo of William Short.

That’s when I stole off with Tom. And so it was that on the very last day of the most eventful year of my life, I spent its waning hours locked in a lustful embrace with a man who terrified me more than a little.

Fortunately, I was no longer naive. I wasn’t about to be fooled by reckless words about marriage. Not for a second time. “Tom Randolph, do you think for one moment I’d surrender my virtue for a betrothal?”

Hands still fisted in my coat, he stiffened, as if my words were a mortal affront to his honor. His next words puffed angrily in the cold winter air. “I’m a gentleman of Virginia. I’m not whispering words in the dark to be forgotten in daylight. I’m asking for your hand, Miss Jefferson. You could at least do me the honor of considering my proposal.”

I couldn’t credit that he meant it. We hadn’t discussed books or politics or music. And we hadn’t exchanged a single word about love. “But—but this is very sudden. You think we’re well suited?”

He nodded, resolutely. “We’re of an age. There’s a long-standing bond between your family and mine. And the fortune that’ll be mine . . . it’s not inconsiderable. Your father agrees; he’s told me we’d have his blessing to wed.”

I cannot overstate the impact of learning that my father had already discussed this match with Tom. Did Papa want me gone, now that Sally was to give him a new child? How it pained me to think that she might replace me as his most constant companion, the one most dear to him. . . .

And as this agony of the spirit ripped through me, Tom Randolph knelt, holding his hand over his heart, as if it might burst out of his chest if his desires weren’t satisfied. “I must have you for my wife, Miss Jefferson. I
must
have you. So don’t keep me in the misery of suspense, but give me an answer soon.”

As I stared down into his brutally beautiful face, his proposal still echoing in the cold air, an unwelcome and unbidden thought came to mind. William Short never went down on his knee for me. He
never
made a formal proposal. Not like this.

Confusion swamped my racing heart and spinning head. Papa approved. Our families would approve. Society would approve. But the last time I’d considered such a thing, I’d ended up with a broken heart. So I wasn’t sure how to make the decision.

Indeed, given how little time had passed since we’d returned to Virginia, I could scarcely believe I was being confronted with making it at all.

S
ALLY
H
EMINGS GAVE BIRTH TO A BOY
.

A boy named after my father. A boy who was both my cousin and my brother—and neither. Here on my father’s secluded mountain, where Papa’s wishes reigned supreme, no one would ever acknowledge Sally’s boy as my father’s son unless he did. But the Hemingses were as tightly knit a family as ever lived. They all knew, which meant all the slaves knew. And probably some of our nearest neighbors, too.

But it wasn’t our only scandal.

Papa’s debts were such that he had to sell our mother’s favorite plantation—Elk Hill. He’d been forced to sell land.
Land,
which meant everything to a Virginia planter. Everything to him. And I understood that in his perilous financial situation, the only asset I had to contribute was myself.

I’d have to marry, and I’d have to marry well.

Given that my heart was already shattered to pieces, love need be of no consideration in my decision to marry. Sally’s words from that day in the foyer at the Hotel de Langeac played back to me.
Women have to give hard thought to the men we’ll wind up with. . . .
Her words held a relevance now that I couldn’t have known then, and it made me all the more regretful for the way I’d treated her.

So, yes, let my choice of husband be a wealthy man, but also a kind one. A country neighbor and friend. Someone with whom my family shared a history.

If I was to marry, why
not
Tom Randolph?

I could never hope for a man to see me the way William had, but Tom
wanted
me. And that would have to be enough.

I saw no reason to delay.

William and I had parted in September. It was now January of a new year, and he’d still not written to my father or me. William had waited two years before declaring that he’d wait no more. I doubted the young Mr. Randolph would wait that long. And if we didn’t marry soon, my father wouldn’t be there for the wedding, because William’s predictions had proved to be true—President Washington had, indeed, named my father secretary of state. And Papa’s friends, like Mr. Madison, convinced him that it was an honor he couldn’t refuse.

None of us would return to France. Instead, my father would ride off to the new capital to serve in the president’s cabinet before springtime and would send me and Polly to live at Eppington, where we’d learn housewifery from Aunt Elizabeth.

Or . . . I could marry now and be my own mistress. So, I accepted Tom’s proposal, and the wedding was planned a few weeks hence.

Tom never smiled at my answer. Instead, standing beneath the pillars of my father’s neglected house, he took my hands and crushed them to his chest so I might feel the throbbing pulse beneath my fingers to prove his happiness. “My heart is yours, Patsy. It’s racing for you. Galloping with eagerness to make you mine.”

I might’ve hesitated, in that moment, if my own heartbeat hadn’t answered in kind. “I’d like to know your plans for our future,” I said.

Tom nodded, his gaze serious. “My father is settling on me a plantation near Tuckahoe called Varina, with forty Negroes. Your father is settling on you his best plantation in Bedford and twenty-five Negroes, little and big.”

Slaves
. My father was giving me slaves.

They wouldn’t be mine, of course, not truly. Everything would belong to my husband the moment we wed. Tom would be the slaveholder—not me. And I knew it was considered only right and proper for every genrty bride to be given not only a settlement like this, but also a maid. Usually the girl that had attended her during her youth and courtship. By all the traditions of our country, this was no more than Papa
ought
to have given me, plus Sally Hemings besides. But there was no question that he’d keep her for himself, just as he’d promised.

And I didn’t know how I should feel about any of it.

The idealism of France was an ocean away. I’d chosen Virginia and a way of life that William had said was stained with evil. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know what I was returning to. But faced now with it, I found myself more troubled than I ever thought I might be.

Tom must’ve seen the shadow of my conflicted emotions in my expression, but he mistook its cause. “Colonel Randolph intends for us to live at Varina, near Tuckahoe. But you’ve a right to know that isn’t
my
intention. I hope to buy my father’s holding at Edgehill and settle closer to Monticello. I’d like a small farm that I can manage myself while pursuing an honorable life of public service. I’ve no ambition to gobble up lands that can’t be farmed without an army of slaves. Such a life would weigh on my conscience more heavily than I could bear. Unlike my new brother-in-law, I don’t make wedding toasts to embarrass my hosts about the evils of the institution, but I cannot abide slavery, Miss Jefferson.” He frowned, the ferocity in those dark eyes softening until he seemed shamed. “I should’ve told you this before now. Though I’m violently smitten with you, I should never agree to start a life on a lie. So I consider it entirely pardonable if this revelation changes your mind about marrying me.”

For the first time, I kissed Tom Randolph with something more in my heart than carnal desire. I brought my lips to his with an exquisite tenderness and replied, “With all my heart, Tom, you’ve only made me more certain in my decision.”

O
N A
T
UESDAY IN MID-
F
EBRUARY
, wearing the bronze silk I wore to my first ball, I pledged my life to Tom Randolph under the watchful eyes of my father and all our country friends.

For music, my father hired the talented mixed-race Scott family to play. But my father’s mixed-race mistress and her son could have no place at my wedding. In France, if Sally had been a woman of any social standing, even as notorious courtesan, her presence might be expected. But here we hid her away in the slave cabins to care for her newborn out of sight of the guests.

In truth, I remember very little about my wedding day except for the way my father relinquished my hand to the groom, and I felt in that moment, a nearly unbearable tearing asunder.

More curious, I suppose, is how well I remember the wedding
night
.

Tom descended upon me like a storm, sweeping me up in the violent rapture of our coming together as man and wife. He wanted my love and I think some part of him believed he could squeeze it from me with the power of his hands alone. He was superbly athletic—elastic as steel—and his hands and body crowded out everything but basic animal instinct.

I was the daughter of a rational but passionate philosopher. I’d spent my life contemplating the debate between head and heart. But never before had I contemplated the demands of a ravenous body and the ecstatic escape to be found in surrendering to its appetite.

Tom’s lovemaking gave me a pleasure devoid of sentimentality, wrapping a thick gauze of self-delusion over still-bleeding wounds. His tireless passion was an opiate so potent that I became intoxicated on the power I had to arouse. He knew, I think, that though he’d married me, he hadn’t mastered me.

So he had to
try
again and again.

Thus, I awakened the next day, exhausted, dewy eyed, and a bit in awe that the impossibly handsome heir to Tuckahoe was, indeed, my husband.

Papa was delighted to see me smile. Polly was less so. While Papa took a measurement of the wall in the entryway to plan where he would display his natural artifacts, Polly said, “Well now that Patsy’s wedding is over, it’s so very dull here at Monticello.”

“Perhaps your new brother will take you riding,” Papa suggested, still pondering the space, as if he meant to tear it all out and start again.

My husband, eager to please my father or to win my sister’s affection, awkwardly promised he’d race Polly down the mountain and that if she lost, he’d give her a dunking in the pond. I could see that levity didn’t come easily to Tom, but I appreciated his effort. So did Polly, who dashed away to get a head start in their race. Then Tom followed.

Left alone with my father, I said, “When
I
complained of boredom at her age you gave me chores and lectured me on the dangers of
ennui
!”

“You think I coddle her,” Papa said, his tone light and amused before his expression became grave. “And I do. Because I realize now that I was far too exacting with you, Patsy.” He reached for my hand, squeezing it, his throat bobbing with emotion. “After your mother died—what did I know about bringing up children? You taught me more than I taught you, and I thought we’d have more time. If I’d realized how soon I was to lose my precious little girl, I’d have cherished every moment.”

“Papa,” I said, quite exasperated, an odd pressure behind my eyes. “You haven’t lost your precious little girl; she’s merely grown up.”

“If only that were true,” he said, pulling me close. “Having had yourself and dear Polly live with me so long, I’ll feel heavily the separation from you. But it consoles me to know that you’re happier now.” He patted my hand, clearing his throat to give sage advice. “Your new marriage will call for an abundance of little sacrifices. But they’ll be greatly overpaid by the affections they’ll secure you. The happiness of your life depends now on pleasing a single person. To this, I know all other objects must be secondary, even your love for me.”

Hearing sadness in his voice, I rushed to reassure him. “Oh, Papa. I’ll make it my study to please my husband and consider all other objects as secondary
except
my love for you.”

He smiled, sheepishly, as if it shouldn’t please him so much to hear it. “Neither you nor your husband can ever have a more faithful friend than me. Continue to love me as you’ve done, and render my life a blessing by the prospect that I may see you happy.” He kissed my cheek and smoothed it with his fingers. “Be assured of my constant and unchangeable love. Especially now that I must put such a burden on your shoulders. Polly, and Sally, and the little one—I’ll sleep easier knowing you’re looking after them for me while I’m away.”

“Sally?” I asked, more than a little confused.

My father’s smile tightened. “I can’t leave her to fend for herself. Better for Sally and the baby to stay under your watchful eye until I return. There’s no one but you that I trust with such a precious charge.”

Though he’d kept Sally from the house during my wedding, I’d seen them exchange looks, both tender and intimate. I’d seen, too, the gleam of pride in his eyes for Sally’s newborn boy—the son Papa had always wanted—and I’d feared that he’d take Sally to the capital, where such an arrangement might make him infamous. But now I understood that whether I lived here, or at my husband’s new plantation, I was still the guardian of Papa’s secrets.

Marriage did not—and would not—end my duty to protect my father.

Just like that, my resentments evaporated. “Oh, Papa,” I said, embracing his neck.

He patted my back. “My dear Patsy . . . But no, I suppose we must call you by your given name now. Martha, or, more properly, Mrs. Randolph.”

Hearing that name made me marvel anew that I was some man’s wife. But a little part of me grieved to think Patsy Jefferson was no more. A thing brought home to me most painfully that afternoon, when a letter finally arrived from William Short.

I found it left open at my father’s seat, a sure invitation to read it. And I pored over every line of William’s decidedly hurried scrawl, searching for my name. Instead, I found nothing but old news from France about how Lafayette bravely risked his life to save people from the angry mob. A part of me still longed to go back. To witness the struggle in the cause of liberty. But I’d made my choice.

And William Short had made his.

He closed the letter with a simple:
Present my compliments to the young ladies.
So I was just a young lady, now. The same to him as Polly. A daughter of his mentor. Which meant William could be no more than my father’s friend. Perhaps it was just as well.

For Patsy Jefferson had loved William Short.

Martha Jefferson Randolph would make herself feel nothing for him at all.