Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother the story continues...

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Burwell restrained me a few days ago, or I might have been putin the Albemarle County jail. Or worse.I was glad, however, not to have violence on my conscience,especially in light of today’s tragic event, which followed quickly onthe heels of another family loss.Aunt Marks—Anna Scott Jefferson Marks—a sweet old fixturehere the past seventeen years, died today, Tuesday, the 8th of July,1828. She was the last of Thomas’s siblings. She was seventy-two andchildless.And here on the 20th day of June, Martha’s husband, Mr.Randolph, died at age sixty in the north pavilion. That’s where he’deither chosen to live or she’d exiled him, I couldn’t be certain which.Two years back when Thomas died, Mr. Randolph hadapparently considered himself liberated from the gravitational force ofthe great man, so he—a former Governor of Virginia—ran off to workalong the Florida border as a cartographer.For all his life Martha’s husband was intemperate in hisbehavior, whether toward his son Jefferson, toward employees andslaves, or in the management of his plantations. Though he followedThomas’s political philosophy, he found it exasperating to be secondto Thomas in Martha’s affections.Nevertheless, Mr. Randolph—to show dominion over her,perhaps, or from a romantic ardor I couldn’t imagine comfortably—managed to impregnate that rangy broodmare twelve times.I credited her as a devoted mother, an intelligent and reasonablypatient mother. And a good sister to poor Maria. In many ways also agood daughter, but entirely too cloying in that role.However, I despised the woman for lying about my children’spaternity, for stealing from me and trying to destroy my reputation, forbehaving maliciously toward me ever since our time in Paris.Her displays of bereavement over loss of her husband werelikely more affectation than genuine remorse, considering the tensionsbetween the couple we’ve all witnessed in this house.Martha has followed Thomas’s instructions and declared me freein a manner avoiding the rigmarole of legal manumission—as customwent for elderly slaves, “giving me my time” and handing mescribbled confirmation. But oh, how she poisoned that moment, as I’llexplain presently.With arrangements for dear Aunt Marks’s burial almost settled, Ireturned to the Mulberry Row cabin to finish packing.I wished I’d found the jar from Paris containing a folded paperof my firstborn Thomas’s whereabouts. But it was gone forever, andThomas’s tracing was unsuccessful. I was divided in my emotions.The Callender revelations while Thomas was President had promptedour decision to send Little Thomas where he would be contented,useful, and free from public gawking. But he was my son regardless,and I treasured memories of him and mumbled soft wishes for hishappiness.To avoid a pointless and possibly dangerous search for the oldestsibling they’d never seen, I’ve told Madison and Eston that the baby Icarried in my womb from France died shortly after I gave birth.Beverly might remember Little Thomas—not Harriet. But whitesociety has undoubtedly swallowed those two dears so completely thatwe must avoid contact so as not to disturb their transformation.My two youngest sons have rented a small place between hereand Charlottesville. They’ve asked me to join them and tend house,and that’s what I’ve decided to do.Though they’d been more formally freed than I because ofThomas’s will, there would have been ambiguity about their remaininglegitimately in Virginia. But Thomas had also arranged legaldispensation for that. They now worked throughout the area ascarpenters and picked up extra money as musicians.Except for tending Thomas’s grave—weeding, raking, washingmold off the obelisk base, clearing away bird droppings—there was noreason for me to stay on the mountain. I planned to return, however,and continue that labor of love as necessary.Wormley Hughes helped me and still tended the gardens.Otherwise all house slaves were preparing for the auctions. The lotteryeffort had been an utter failure.Burwell followed Martha’s whims faithfully as to what shall beboxed for her to take away and what shall be left for the sale. IsraelGillett assisted as best he could by keeping the house tidy. He wasvery sentimental and has told me he’ll change his surname toJefferson. Poor Davy Bowles must say goodbye to the animals in hischarge. He was taking that hard.The slaves could never resign themselves to the prospect offamilies dividing as the result of sale. They also feared that the nextplace they served would have a harsh Master and overseer, unlikeMonticello and other plantations of Thomas’s.I’ve tucked things into my modest wardrobe now folded into twocarrying bags—tokens Thomas purchased for me in Paris, New York,or Philadelphia. And the bell Martha Wayles gave me when I was alittle girl.And I still wore my locket. Lord, what a happy time, the day hebought me the locket. I thought my heart would escape my girlishbosom.Now, as I packed, wails and shouts rose from nearby cabins,sounds of impending doom. I ached for my people. The happy tears ofmy recollections mixed with sobs for their uncertain futures.Oh, Thomas. I miss you so.My brother John was among the few freed in Thomas’s will, andhe would find easy employment as a cabinetmaker. Burwell had atrade as a painter and a glazier and would also leave. And theblacksmith and ironworker, Joe Fossett, a nephew of mine, wassimilarly favored.It was Burwell’s timely use of his strong hand a few days agothat allowed me to leave this place in peace. I had just finishedspeaking with Martha in the parlor and received my precious paper offreedom from her unlovely hand.She couldn’t resist telling me I’d grown old and slow these lastfew years. I tried to ignore that. She was a few months older, so shewasn’t so bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked herself.I had turned to leave when I heard her add, “Between your beinga used-up Nigra and your infamy, Sally Hemings, you couldn’t bringfifty dollars at auction.”All her stories about my sleeping with Thomas’s nephews andothers returned in sharp focus.I wheeled about, bared my teeth, drew my right arm back, andswung to slap her with all my strength.But Burwell, behind me, grabbed my arm and stopped the swingthat I was sure would have knocked her to the floor. “No, Aunt Sally,”he said. “No.”Martha and I stared at each other, both breathing deeply withnostrils flaring.I drew satisfaction from the look of fear in her grey eyes.She brought that under control and, raising her chin as thoughtriumphant, turned and walked away, heels clip-clopping on theparquet floor till I heard a door slam.Burwell whispered, “It’s enough that Miss Martha lost Edgehilland now this place.”“No,” I said. “It’s not enough. That woman’s been stealing fromme for years. Cheapening something more precious than gold.”“You and the Master?”“And never anyone else for either of us. It was love, Burwell. Aman like him? He could have enjoyed the affections of any woman inthe world. But he chose me.”