James shook his head. “That’s what I thought you said.” He looked Maddy up and down. “That’s crazy, Maddy. When you’re white? You’re not white. You might be free someday. I might be too. But I’m not white and neither are you. Who told you that? Your mama?”
“I am too white,” Maddy said. “I’m seven-eighths white. That’s white by law. Mama did tell me that. She says someday we’re going to be free, me and Beverly and Harriet and Eston, and we’re going to be white folks, free white folks out doing whatever we want in the world.”
They had reached the blacksmith shop door. James stopped with his hand against the door frame. Maddy knew he shouldn’t have said all that. It sounded like bragging. James would be even angrier and Mama would wallop him if she heard. Still Maddy went on, “You better not call my mama a liar.”
But the look on James’s face faded to something like sympathy. “Maddy,” he said, “you ain’t white.”
“I’m a slave,” Maddy said. “Slaves are black. But I’m white too.”
James shook his head. “Beverly and Harriet, maybe. Dress them up, get them out of Charlottesville, and they’d pass. But not you. Forget what the law says. You’re close, I guess. Not close enough.”
Maddy held up his hand. It shone pale in the moonlight. He said, “I’m lighter than you.”
“That doesn’t make you white,” James said. After a pause he added, “I already know I’m not white.” He paused again. “Neither are you.”
Maddy didn’t go coon hunting. He left James at the blacksmith shop and slowly trudged back to the warm room where his family waited. His heart fluttered in his chest. Mama sometimes talked to Harriet and Beverly about how they should act in the white world. When they met another white person, they were to shake hands and look that person in the eye. They were not to look down. Beverly wouldn’t touch his hat or his forehead, and Harriet wouldn’t bob her head, they way they did now. Mama talked about how they’d dress, and where they might live. She reminded them to watch the way white folks ate at the dinner table, with napkins on their laps and all those forks and spoons.
Mama promised Maddy he’d be free when he was grown. He’d always thought he’d be with Harriet and Beverly. He thought they would all be the same.
Mama, Beverly, and Harriet looked up when he came into the room. Eston had climbed into bed.
“Catch a coon already?” asked Beverly.
Mama was studying him. “What is it?” she asked.
“James says I’m not white. Says I don’t look white enough to pass.”
Maddy clenched his fists. He waited for them to tell him that James was wrong. Instead Beverly bit his lip and turned toward the fire. Mama took a deep breath. “I don’t know yet,” she said slowly. “I hope you will, when you’re grown. I just don’t know.”
“But you said white,” Maddy said. “Because of Master Jefferson and seven-out-of-eight. I know you said it. I heard you.”
Mama reached for his hand. “I said it, and it’s true. If you’re seven-eighths white, you’re white by law. But if you look black, people will still call you black. They’ll still treat you like you’re black.”
“If I tell them I’m white—if I explain—”
“That won’t do any good, Maddy. If you have to explain, you’ve got to tell them your mama was a slave. That’ll be all they need to know. You can’t be white if your mama isn’t free.”
“But you said—”
“We’ll have to pretend we were never slaves,” Beverly said. “Harriet and me. When we’re living with white people. We’ll have to pretend our mama was someone else. We’ll have to pretend we’re someone else too. We’ll have to spend our entire lives living one great big lie.”
Maddy had never understood before why Beverly got angry whenever Mama talked about him being free, but now he did, a little. But still. If Beverly was living a lie, Maddy wanted to live that lie too. He licked his lips, which had suddenly gone dry. “Mama. When will you know about me?”
“Not ’til you’re all the way grown. People can change when they get older.”
“But Beverly and Harriet—you already know about them?”
“I’m sorry, Maddy,” Beverly said.
“Nobody’s sorry,” Mama said. “Come here, Maddy. Come sit by the fire.”
“I think I’ll just go to sleep,” he said. He crawled into the bed beside Eston. He snugged up next to Eston’s warm body—Eston’s warm white body—and watched the firelight dance on the walls. His thoughts whirled. He was still wide awake when Mama wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and went to be with Master Jefferson.
1813 into 1814
Chapter Twenty-one
A Landau, Septimia, and a Funny Sort of Sweet Potato
Mama said not to borrow trouble. She said nobody could tell the future. Maddy’s skin was only a little bit darker than Beverly’s, and maybe it would lighten when he got older. His hair was enough like white people’s hair, curly but not kinky. Mama was kind and soothing. She tried to make Maddy forget he was different.
Maddy remembered. It wasn’t the sort of thing you forgot.
“I don’t know, Maddy,” Beverly said. “I’m not sure I want to be white. I’m not sure I can be. It’s really hard to think of myself that way. You, you’ll always know who you are.”
“I’m the only one that’s different,” Maddy said. “The only one. You’ll all go away and I’ll be alone.”
“You’ll be able to stay with Mama,” Beverly said. “We’ll never see her again.”
Eston came up behind Maddy and hugged him hard. “I’ll stay with you,” he said. “We’ll let them go off. I’ll stay with you.”
Maddy didn’t know what to say, so he just kissed the top of Eston’s head.
James was gentle too. “Here’s what we’ll do,” James said, “we’ll both get free, and we’ll travel together. We’ll go out west like Lewis and Clark. We’ll go see the Indians.”
Maddy liked the sound of that. “How much money do you think it will take,” he asked, “for your daddy to get you all free?”
James shrugged. “A bunch, I reckon. That’s okay. We’ve got time.”
Summer returned. Master Jefferson designed a new landau. That was a type of carriage that could seat four people, front and back, and had a top that opened up and folded down. Master Jefferson drew pictures of exactly what he wanted, and Uncle John and Joe Fossett built it. All through the summer and fall, Uncle John shaped the landau’s body out of wood, and Joe Fossett made the metal parts, springs and hinges and iron-bound wheels. Beverly helped Uncle John, and James helped Joe Fossett. Maddy wanted to help someone, but Mama said he was still too young.
Maddy was almost nine years old. He was tired of being too young.
In November Burwell painted the landau with six coats of paint until it was as shiny as a new coin. The first day Burwell started painting, Eston, Maddy, James, James’s sisters, and Burwell’s children all wanted to help. Burwell wouldn’t let them. He said he didn’t need a bunch of paint-covered children putting fingerprints on the new landau, and did they all need something to do? James and Maddy laughed as they ran away.
By the start of December, the landau was ready for its first trip, to Poplar Forest, Master Jefferson’s other big farm. Master Jefferson went there whenever he was tired of visitors, because nobody ever visited him there. Davy Hern harnessed the carriage horses to the landau and drove up to the great house. Maddy watched them get ready to leave.
Miss Ellen and Miss Cornelia, who were accompanying Master Jefferson, came out with carpetbags and workbags. Miss Ellen struggled under a big box of books. Maddy grinned. He bet Miss Ellen would read the entire time she was gone. Burwell handed Davy Hern a cheese, and what looked like a wrapped ham, and Davy tucked them beneath the driver’s seat. Gill and Israel, two of Fanny Hern’s brothers, climbed bareback onto the horses that pulled the landau. They looked excited, but Maddy thought it would be tiring to ride those horses for three full days.
Wormley handed Burwell the reins to Master Jefferson’s saddle horse, which Burwell would ride.
Miss Martha stood on the house steps, watching, while Master Jefferson settled the girls and piled fur lap robes over them. The wind whipped her shawl around her great big belly. She was expecting another baby soon. She didn’t live with her husband, but he visited often. “Papa, you bring them back before Christmas, do you hear me?” she called, into the wind. “I want them home for Christmas!”
Mama came up behind Maddy, and put her arm around him. “Will they be back by Christmas?” he asked.
“They will,” she said.
The landau pulled away. A sort of emptiness settled over the mountain. Miss Martha sighed and went into the house. Mama followed her quietly, and Maddy followed Mama.
“Sally,” Miss Martha said, “should any visitors knock in the next two weeks, you tell them Mr. Jefferson is gone away, and you shut the door. We aren’t feeding them, we aren’t housing them, and we aren’t even showing them the farm.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mama said.
“And bring a cup of tea to my room. I’m going to go lie down.”
Master Jefferson came back two days before Christmas. On the third of January, 1814, Miss Martha had another baby girl. A few days later Mama gave Maddy the job of keeping up the fire in Miss Martha’s bedroom, on the second floor. “She’s feeling poorly and the house is cold,” Mama said. “You make sure that one room stays warm.”
When Maddy went into the room, Miss Martha didn’t speak. She lay motionless in the alcove bed, which was a bed built into a little cave in the wall. Master Jefferson loved alcove beds. He put them in every bedroom in Monticello. It was a gray day, so the alcove lay in shadow. A mound of blankets covered the bed. Maddy couldn’t tell whether Miss Martha was awake or asleep.
He set his armful of wood on the hearth as gently as he could. He took the poker and began to make up the fire. A log crackled as it fell apart.
“Who’s that?” Miss Martha asked. Her voice was soft, hoarse, worn-out like the rest of her.
“Ma’am?” Maddy asked.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Are you warm enough? Mama told me to ask.” Miss Martha’s bedroom was a lot colder than Maddy’s family’s room in the dependency row. The wind rattled the windows.
“I’m fine.”
“You need some water or anything? Something to eat?” Much as he disliked Miss Martha, Maddy couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She looked old and tired and awfully alone.
“No. I don’t need anything.”
The baby gave a sudden cry. Maddy jumped. He’d almost forgotten about the baby. She settled into wailing, and Miss Martha sighed. “Hand her to me, will you? She’ll be hungry.”
Maddy looked at the cradle near the bed. He could hardly see the new baby beneath the blankets she was wrapped in and the wool bonnet she was wearing.
“Careful,” Miss Martha said. “Put a hand under her head.”
Maddy put one hand under the baby’s head and one under the wad of blankets. He heaved up, the way he would if he were picking up Eston, or James Fossett’s baby sister Elizabeth Ann, but this baby was so much lighter than both of them that he nearly flung her into the air. He pulled her back, and sort of hugged her for a moment, in case he’d frightened her, and then he handed her to Miss Martha. The baby wailed nonstop. Her face was bright red and bumpy, and her nose and mouth and eyes were all scrunched together. She was the ugliest baby Maddy ever saw.
Miss Martha didn’t say another word, just messed with the front of her gown and put the baby to nurse. The wailing stopped short. One of the baby’s hands came out of the blankets and waved in the air, tiny fingers opening and closing like a chicken claw.
Miss Martha said, “Get me a glass of water.”
Maddy looked, but there wasn’t any water in the pitcher in her room, nor any glass. He took the empty pitcher and went down two sets of stairs to the basement, then over to the side where the well was. He hauled up a bucket of water, filled the pitcher, and set it by the stairs. Then he went across to the kitchen. “Miss Martha needs a drinking glass,” he said. “She maybe ought to have something to eat too. She looks poorly.”
Miss Edith made up a plate of food, and put it and a glass into a basket so he could carry them easily. Maddy took the basket and the pitcher up to Miss Martha’s room. He poured her a glass of water. He took the glass from her when she’d finished drinking, and put the plate where she could reach it. “Miss Edith says, she hopes you’re feeling better,” he said.
“Go find Priscilla,” Miss Martha said. “Septimia needs her clout changed.”
“Septimia?” Maddy said before he could stop himself.
Miss Martha narrowed her eyes. “That’s her name. Septimia.”
Maddy felt sorry for the baby, a scrunched face and a name like Septimia. Sounded like something you could die from. I got a bad case of septimia, Maddy thought, I think I’m going to be sick. He never expected Miss Martha to thank him for anything, but it might have been nice, he thought, if she’d noticed that he had brought her something to eat without being asked.
Maddy went to find Priscilla, Uncle John’s wife, who cared for all Miss Martha’s children. She was up on the third floor with the little boys, Benjamin and Lewis. She came right away when Maddy beckoned. “I was listening,” she said. “I didn’t hear the baby cry.”
“I picked her up quick,” Maddy said. “Aunt ’Cilla, what’s the matter with that baby?”
Priscilla looked worried. “Nothing I know of. Why?”
“Her face is all mashed. Something’s wrong with her face.”
She laughed. “Babies all look like that when they’re first born. She’ll be pretty in a few weeks, you’ll see.”
“And why’s she got such a stupid name?”
Priscilla waved him away. “Can’t help you there. Bring some wood up for the nursery, will you? We can’t get the house warm today.”
Maddy puzzled over that name. I’ve got a patch of septimia on my skin. Finally he asked Miss Ellen. He had been looking for an excuse to speak to her.
Miss Ellen made a face. “It means ‘seventh,’ ” she explained. “Because she’s Mama’s seventh girl.”
Maddy counted quick in his head, but by his reckoning the baby made six, after Misses Anne, Ellen, Cornelia, Virginia, and Mary, plus the four boys, Jeff, James, Ben, and Lewis, which if you added them together made ten.
“There were two of us named Ellen,” Miss Ellen explained. “I’m the second. The first one died.”
Maddy nodded. “We had two Harriets.”
“I’m not calling her Septimia,” Miss Ellen said. “I’m going to call her Tim.”
Maddy nodded again. After a pause he said, “My reading’s coming right along.”
Miss Ellen didn’t look at him. “That’s good.”
“Lots of fine words in the back of that primer,” he said. “Glorification, academician, supposition. ’Course, we don’t know what all of them mean, but they’re fine words. Beverly likes them.”
“That’s good,” Miss Ellen said again.
“If we had another book—something you all were finished with, maybe—”
Miss Ellen shook her head, the tiniest bit.
“If someone was to drop a book in the kitchen,” Maddy persisted, “maybe someone who comes to help supervise the work, if a book just sort of fell out of that person’s hands, I reckon it would get to me. Any old book.”
Miss Ellen still didn’t look at Maddy, but the edge of her mouth lifted slightly. Maddy took that to be a smile.
“And not any Greek books,” he said. “Only plain old English, none of that fancy educated stuff, no sir.”
This time he was sure he saw her smile.
The next evening, when Maddy went to the kitchen for dinner, Miss Edith gave him the eye. “Go fetch me that bushel of sweet potatoes,” she said. When Maddy brought it over, Miss Edith put her hand down into it. “Why, look he
re! This is a funny sort of sweet potato. Where do you suppose it grew?” She pulled a book from the basket and handed it to Maddy. “Better not be more of these funny potatoes,” she warned him. “We don’t need trouble, no, we don’t. Not in my kitchen.”
It was a book of stories, written by a man named Aesop. They were all about foxes, and crows, and greedy boys and trickery. Maddy loved them. Harriet loved them even more. She read them until she knew them by heart, and then she told them to all the children up and down Mulberry Row.
Spring 1814
Chapter Twenty-two
Money Musk
For years people around the mountain heard rumors that Master Jefferson was running out of money, but no one ever knew whether or not they were true. Now suddenly the rumors intensified.
Times were hard all over, after the war. The price of Virginia farmland had dropped to almost nothing, though Beverly said that didn’t matter because Master Jefferson would never sell any of his land. Miss Martha’s grown son, Jeff, who ran the farms, looked tight and worried all the time, and Joe Fossett heard one of the white overseers complain that he hadn’t been paid. But the very next week a wagon drove up the mountain loaded with wooden casks full of French wine. The grapes had been grown in France, made into wine, put into oak casks, and shipped first in a ship across the ocean and then in a wagon to Monticello, and all that cost a bundle, you’d better believe. Burwell shook his head and said the wine wouldn’t last three months, the way the visitors drank like they were parched and dying.
Master Jefferson wrote letters in the mornings with his mockingbird on his shoulder. He whistled while he rode his horse around the farm. At night, in the crowded dining room, he laughed and talked and poured wine with a generous hand. Miss Martha seemed anxious, but Master Jefferson never did. Nobody knew what to think.
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