Sally of Monticello: Founding Mother
the story continues...
 
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            I peered over Thomas’s shoulder and reached to hold his other

hand as he wrote under the date, 7th of August, 1815, “My brother
Randolph Jefferson died this morning.”
By chance he had started out to visit his ailing brother, twelve
years his junior. He turned back when he reached Scott’s Ferry,
because there he learned Randolph had died.
Of Thomas’s nine siblings, only one now survived—Anna, a
widow whom we called Aunt Marks and who now lived with us. She
and Randolph were twins.
The brothers were dissimilar in their living styles and
temperaments, and they had never been close.
Brother Randolph would mix among his slaves and fiddle for
them and dance half the night. He was far less sophisticated than
Thomas but similarly naïve. Earlier this year he filed a will that
favored his second wife and prompted a challenge by his five grown
sons. Thomas wasn’t pleased with his brother’s action in that regard.
The fact that Thomas would ride out to visit his brother at all
was significant. It represented an uncharacteristic extension of his shy
self—a mellowing, if you will.
When active in public service he tried to overcome longstanding
inhibitions against the mere act of touching, shaking men’s hands
rather than bowing stiffly as before or crossing his arms. He now also
tried to fix his attention on others’ eyes instead of glancing away
repeatedly. These small sociable shifts have been big changes for him.
At age seventy-two he has this year turned over management of
all his Albemarle County farms to grandson Jefferson Randolph,
who’d returned from the war many considered inconclusive. The
young man and his bride of five months, Jane Hollins Nicholas,
occupied the dome room.
Thomas told me he saw much of his father, Peter, in young
Jefferson, now a very tall and strong fellow of nearly twenty-three.
Edmund Bacon was still overseer, but Thomas was wise to
gradually relinquish direction of business and plantation affairs to a
capable heir. In choosing Jefferson, Thomas passed over Martha’s
husband, whom he continued to distrust and dislike.
After recording his brother’s death in the memorandum book
and detailing transactions of Mr. Bacon’s for oats, lambs, and beef,
Thomas rose from his writing desk and strolled to his nearly empty
book room.
“My hearing may be failing,” he said, “but I can’t help but
discern new echoes in here.” He glanced at shelves that once contained
priceless volumes.
“If the echoes from bare walls bother you,” I offered, “I can
hang curtains or drapes.”
“No, Sally. My statement was more irony than complaint. What
I meant was that books are valuable beyond the information or wisdom
they contain. They dress a room properly. They’re a comfort simply
sitting there, in reach at the slightest whim.”
“Oh, Thomas. I hope you won’t regret what you’ve done. It was
one more great service to the country.” I wanted to add “and a
material gain to you,” but my honest opinion was that he’d let the
library go for too little, not quite twenty-four thousand dollars.
“A few replacement books from Milligan’s up in Georgetown
should arrive end of the week.”
“Don’t look so forlorn. Your library will rebuild. There’s time.”
Time. I wanted to bite my tongue for having used that word.
If Thomas had an enemy, it was time, unforgiving when debts
came due. There was never enough time to gather sufficient profits
from farming and plantation enterprises. The shortage of time in the
continuing race against insolvency was a cause of his headaches and
distress in his bowels.
“I need more time,” I’ve often heard him mutter when receiving
yet another letter of moneys due.
I’d thought the funds he received for his library might settle his
past-due obligations. But his generosity threw things off balance.
Thomas’s payouts to all, even to me for necessities, continued
unabated.
One would think his mastery of mathematics would allow him
control of his finances. But no. He recorded everything to the penny,
yet never reconciled transactions to see clearly which side was
building faster—his resources or his expenses. Alas, it was always the
latter.
I didn’t recall one book of his that would have shown how to
overcome that persisting problem. The only time I suggested he
examine balances, he appeared startled and protested, “It’s all here,”
meaning the raw figures. I disliked raising topics that made him
defensive, and apparently so did the bankers. They should have been
issuing stronger warnings, but his stature as the past President
intimidated them.
Because Thomas had directed his grandson Jefferson’s education
wholly toward science, it was unlikely the young man would close the
financial gap. If by some miracle he ever did, it would take
dedication—which I had no doubt was in him—and it would take time.
As threatening as time may have been, it held a few kindnesses.
Though past his prime and going through gastric ailments, headaches,
and arthritis, Thomas still had his wits about him.
His brother Randolph never reached sixty. His life wasn’t
dissolute, but who can predict outcomes?
And as tragic for the family in untimeliness?: The recent death
of nephew Peter Carr at age forty-five, soon after he’d appeared to turn
a new leaf in general behavior.
Thoughts of Thomas’s mortality often induced shudders in me.
As there’s a thirty-year difference between us, I expected he would
predecease me. I gave little thought in Paris to the fact that I might
spend a great portion of my life alone, or that I’d be without children
to comfort and support me, owing to Thomas’s agreement to free
them.
Thomas returned to his writing desk and reached for paper. He’d
not written Mr. Adams in two months and had received three or four
letters from him. At first I thought he intended to busy himself with
that correspondence, but he said, “My brother’s passing has prompted
new thoughts, Sally—my responsibilities to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your freedom, at such time as it might be my turn to go.”
“Oh, Thomas.” I bit my lip. A tear leapt out.
“Sit.” He patted his lap.
I complied, always ready for such closeness.
“Martha is clear about my intentions, but Virginia statutes
change like the direction of the wind. I’ll write a codicil. What would
be your preference that would allow the law’s gentlest effect on you?”
I threw my arms around him and yielded quietly to tears.
I said, “To die with you.”