With that, he kissed my mother’s furiously blushing cheek. And, cleaving to one another, our little family, we could almost believe the British would never find us here.
Then one evening we heard the dreaded clatter of a horse’s hooves up the path. From the window, I peered out to see it was a horse-drawn wagon. To my relief, William Short rode in the buggy seat—still wearing his now much-dirtied cravat—bearing corn, brandy, and chickens. And that wasn’t all. Mr. Short had breathless news. “Tarleton has turned back to join up with Cornwallis, who is being harried by Lafayette. They’re retreating, Mr. Jefferson. Thanks to Lafayette, the British are retreating!”
I squinted into the firelight, trying to make sense of Mr. Short’s exhilarated glee. Retreating? Then . . . the British wouldn’t capture and hang my papa! And whatever British soldiers had done to that nine-year-old girl, they wouldn’t do to me. Tears of relief pricked at my eyes while Papa breathed out a long exhale. “What of the legislature?”
“We were able to convene a session.” Mr. Short stared into his cup of brandy, as if he were reluctant to tell the rest. “A motion passed accusing you of having failed to defend Virginia. I argued on your behalf, Mr. Jefferson, but I was no match for the machinations of Patrick Henry. There’ll be an investigation into your conduct.”
My shoulders tensed in indignation. How could anyone question my father’s defense of Virginia? No one had been braver! I remembered how he stood so tall, refusing to leave Monticello until everyone else had gone. How he went back to scout for soldiers . . .
Father groaned, as if this news caused him more agony than his injured wrist. “So, my honor is gone.”
“Only imperiled,” Mr. Short swiftly replied. “A thing that can be remedied if you accept an appointment to France. The Marquis de Lafayette sends word that your countrymen wish for you to represent us in Paris.”
Renewed hope danced in Papa’s eyes. “That would be a singular honor.”
Paris? I could scarcely conceive of such a place! Would he take us with him?
But Mama’s eyes went flat and hard. And when Mr. Short stepped out, tears slipped from beneath her long lashes. “No more, Thomas. I beg you.”
He reached for her. “My dearest—”
“Hear me,” she pleaded. “For this cause, I’ve endured long absences, followed you to cities far and wide, and sewn linen shirts for soldiers until my fingers bled. I’ve buried three children and been dragged from my sickbed and sent fleeing in the dead of night. Decline this offer. Retire to the tranquility of private life. Retire, I beg of you.”
Papa put his hands in her hair, but shook his head. “I’m a gentleman of Virginia. To turn down this offer would give me more mortification than almost any other occurrence in my life. I’ve said that I’d serve my country even if it took me to hell—”
“Which it has,” Mama replied, tartly.
And I dared not move or make a sound.
“Martha,” he said, a plea for understanding in his voice. “I must defend my honor. That anyone should think me a coward or traitor inflicts a wound on my spirit which will only be cured by the all-healing grave.”
The mention of the grave sent my mother’s chin jerking up. She touched the locket at her throat, the one that held the hair of her dead babies. “At what cost, your honor?”
Papa flinched, as if he’d taken a blow. Then the fight went out of him. Staring at her fingers on that locket, he seemed to shrink, his shoulders rounding in defeat, and he sucked in a deep breath that sounded like surrender.
And I knew that my mother would have her way.
Brushing her wet cheeks with his thumbs, he murmured, “Leave off your tears, Martha. You have my promise. We’ll go home to Monticello. We’ll add children to our hearth. I’ll retire to my farm, my books, and my family, from which nothing will evermore separate me.”
It was a promise. And sometimes I wonder how differently everything might have been if he’d been able to keep it. What a different life we’d have lived. What a different woman I might’ve become.
What a different nation might have been built . . .
Chapter Two
Monticello, 20 May 1782
From Thomas Jefferson to James Monroe
Mrs. Jefferson has added another daughter to our family. She has been ever since dangerously ill.
I HOLD THIS LETTER IN SHAKING HANDS, the candle casting a golden glow over a bland description of an event that changed us forever. And though I am tempted to burn it because of the sheer pain it gives rise to, I am instead pulled into the memory of the promises that started it all.