by John Jakes
“I am afraid I might not be able to contain my temper!”
“I think we should go, Papa,” Abraham said.
“The decision is not yours,” Philip answered in a brusque way. But after twenty-four hours of grumbling, he gave in. He justified his turnabout by saying a man should know his enemy.
The two carriages left the Rappahannock and turned westward toward Mr. Jefferson’s country seat in Albemarle County. There, on the eight-hundred-foot monticello—little mountain—near Charlottesville, Philip confronted his intellectual adversary.
He soon had cause to regret agreeing to the excursion.
iv
Never in his life had Abraham inhaled such a heady combination of fragrances—nor seen so many different kinds of trees.
Mr. Jefferson had arranged to receive them in the garden adjoining his orchard. A burly black servant who met the carriage pointed out the varieties: walnut and peach; plum and cherry; olives and almonds and figs. There were even a few of the exotic orange trees from the far Floridas. Deer could be glimpsed grazing here and there in the orchard. Only Peggy acted uninterested. She gave the slave guide a peculiar, nervous look from time to time.
On the carriage ride to the hilltop, Abraham had been startled to see that Monticello seemed to be in a state of disrepair. Now, at close range, his original impression was confirmed. Scaffolding rose everywhere. Slaves pushed barrows of bricks from the kilns on the property. Carpenters’ tools made a racket in the soft morning air. Peggy explained that since the death of his wife and the decline of his political fortunes, the man who had played such a large role in shaping the new country had withdrawn from public life and now occupied himself with his two passions—architecture and agriculture.
Abraham touched Peggy’s arm. Was the man approaching through the orchard Mr. Jefferson? Yes, she said, it was. The man’s clothing instantly drew a disdainful comment from Philip, who was formally dressed. Jefferson, ten years younger than the president, and standing well over six feet, wore a linen shirt sticky with sweat, and workman’s trousers tucked into dusty boots.
Jefferson’s face had a gaunt quality, as if from illness or personal strain. But he greeted Abraham’s stepmother warmly, taking both her hands in his. “My dear Peggy! How wonderful to see you! When I heard you’d come home, I wanted to welcome you in grand style”—chagrined, he indicated his filthy clothes—“and look at me.”
“You’re remodeling the house, Tom—”
“Again,” he said, and pointed. “Tearing down most of the façade. There’ll be a new foyer and balcony, and an octagonal roof I’ve patterned after the Roman temple of Vesta. Unfortunately, a scaffolding collapsed yesterday. One of my nigras—the husband of my cook—nearly lost his life. We’ve been in a turmoil—so all my plans for setting you a good meal inside have gone away.”
In the sunlight, Jefferson’s graying hair still showed faint glints of its original red. He swung toward Philip, who was gazing at the blacks pushing the barrows. Jefferson had often spoken out against the evils of slavery. Yet he continued to keep slaves on his own property, making him vulnerable to the criticism of New Englanders.
If the former secretary of state understood the meaning of Philip’s pointed stare, he was polite enough to overlook it.
“And this is your husband—” Jefferson reached Philip in two long strides, grasped his hand. “My honor, Mr. Kent.”
“Mine, sir,” Philip said.
Peggy introduced Abraham and wide-eyed Gilbert. Then she resorted to the convenient falsehood used by the family. “And my niece who lives with us, Miss Elizabeth Fletcher.”
Jefferson raked a muscular wrist across his sweaty jaw. His eyes lingered on Elizabeth’s face. “Fletcher,” he repeated. “A familiar name in the district where you grew -up, Peggy. The Fletchers of Sermon Hill come to mind—”
Pale, Peggy answered, “There is no connection other than coincidence, Tom. Elizabeth is kin to my mother’s people in Massachusetts.”
“Yes, I suppose we have no monopoly on good English names in Virginia,” Jefferson smiled.
Philip shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable. Abraham had been a bit startled at his stepmother violating protocol by introducing Elizabeth last rather than first. Now he suspected the reason—fear. He recalled that Elizabeth’s father had spent a short time in the Second Continental Congress, as an alternate for his older brother. Jefferson, attending the same Congress—had he known the long-dead Judson Fletcher? If so, it might account for his momentary surprise when Elizabeth was presented.
But any echoes of the past had been stilled by Peggy’s statement and Jefferson’s tactful acceptance of it. He led his guests to benches in the breezy shade. A moment later, a huge-breasted black woman brought a tray of refreshments into the garden. Abraham took a crystal goblet of tea with chips of ice floating in it. Philip gave Gilbert permission to run off and explore the orchard, but warned him to avoid the frantic construction activity near the house.
Jefferson sat down, resting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together beneath his chin. Philip remained standing. Jefferson said, “Your newspaper is well written, Mr. Kent.”
Now it was Philip’s turn to be startled. It took him a moment to reply, with a shrug whose involuntary impoliteness made Peggy frown. “The Bay State Federalist is only a minor part of the activities of Kent and Son, Mr. Jefferson.”
“Yes, but politically, it’s the most important part.”
“I’m surprised the paper has circulated this far south.”
Jefferson’s smile was vaguely pained. “Why, Mr. Kent, I never close my mind to the views of the opposition.”
“A noble sentiment,” Philip mumbled, put off by the other man’s polite and winning manner.
“Not a sentiment—conviction!” The tall Virginian stood up. “The basis of our government is the opinion of the people, Mr. Kent. All the people—”
Philip stiffened. Jefferson returned the pugnacious stare with an equally steady one. He immediately began to undercut Philip’s obvious irritation. “So the very first object of government must be the maintenance of free circulation of ideas. From all quarters. If it were left to me to decide whether we ought to have a government without newspapers, or newspapers without a government, I shouldn’t hesitate a moment to prefer the latter.” He smiled that charming smile again, and drank his tea, leaving Philip nonplussed.
Jefferson turned his attention to Abraham. “What’s your role in Kent and Son, young man? Are you connected with the book side? Or the newspaper?”
“I work in the book printing department. But I don’t have an official position. My”—he decided to test the water—“my presence in Boston is only temporary.”
“How so?”
Ignoring Philip’s hostile stare, Abraham went on. “I served with General Wayne’s Legion in the northwest. I was taken with the spaciousness and abundance of the country. I find the idea of settling where there’s plenty of land—and few people—more appealing than city life.”
He was about to add that the girl Peggy presented as her niece shared that opinion, and would share whatever future it led him to as well. But since neither Philip nor Peggy had raised the subject of marriage, he held back; the introduction of one more irritant wouldn’t help the already strained situation.
“You plan to take up farming, then?” Jefferson asked.
“Quite possibly.”
“Do you know anything about agriculture?”
“No. But I imagine a man can learn that, can’t he?”
“Indeed he can—if he has the back for it.”
Peggy’s soft laugh was forced. A bird trilled in a nearby walnut tree. Philip didn’t bother to hide his unhappiness over the course of the conversation.
Jefferson, however, showed genuine enthusiasm all at once. He snatched up a stick, sat down and started to trace a rectangular shape where the grass had worn away in front of his bench.
“I’m glad to hear your pl
ans, young man. I think they’re praiseworthy.” As he talked, he changed the outline of the rectangle, angling it here, adding a jutting peninsula there. All at once Abraham realized Jefferson was drawing a crude map of the North American continent.
“We must fill the west with settlers as fast as we can. In the west, there’s room for families to multiply. And an increasing population of farmers and craftsmen will strengthen America immeasurably.”
“That is the democratic view,” Philip said in an arch way. “The French view.”
Jefferson didn’t rise to the bait. “Unfortunately, the French have carried liberty to the stage of license—but yes, you’re quite right. They have also shaped my views—as perhaps mine shaped theirs.”
Drawing a vertical slash from the bottom of the rectangle two-thirds of the way to the top, he tapped it with the stick, saying to Abraham, “Our boundaries extend only this far—the Mississippi. But beyond”—he moved the stick left, toward the irregular coastline—“the land mass is immense. All of this territory is currently the property of Spain. In fact, a Franciscan named Serra has established missions all up and down this shore—”
He jabbed several times at the western perimeter, then moved the stick back to the right.
“But it’s my conviction that the Spanish lands physically connected to, these United States must one day belong to the United States. Somehow, somehow—!”
“And what about British land, sir?” Philip demanded. “What about Canada? Would you covet that too?”
“I might.”
Jefferson cast the stick aside, standing again, splendidly tall and commanding. “At the very least, we must know for certain what natural riches lie between the Mississippi and the ocean. I’ve tried for almost a decade to generate funds for a transcontinental exploration—all the way to the Pacific. A few years ago, I almost succeeded. The Philosophical Society agreed to send Michaux, a French botanist. The president himself gave the largest single contribution—twenty-five dollars. Which shows you the popularity of exploration. Or should I say the insularity of those of us who live east of the mountains?”
“I’m not surprised you had trouble raising the money,” Philip told him. “Such exploration is absolutely pointless.”
“Indeed? Spain doesn’t think it’s pointless. She’s been at it for several centuries.”
“America’s prosperity rests on the continuing development of eastern commerce.”
“Partly, only partly,” Jefferson argued. “A contemporary man must have manufactured articles—including a shirt on his back. But he also needs food in his belly. The northeast is poor farmland, and the south is going to cotton. The west, by contrast, is unbelievably fertile. We simply can’t ignore that kind of natural wealth—”
As he spoke, his gaze lingered on the hazy blue hills in the west. Then he smiled again. “But let’s not quarrel over honest differences of opinion, Mr. Kent. The fact is, many Americans feel just as you do. That’s why I wasn’t able to implement my transcontinental plan in ’93.”
Philip said, “I also recall Michaux proved to be a spy intent on causing friction between America and Spain.”
Jefferson looked rueful. “That’s correct. When the less than pure-hearted botanist was recalled by President Washington, we had something of a scene about it. Just one of many,” he added, with a trace of sadness. “Still, if I’m ever in a position to encourage a similar venture, I will. I believe our country’s true future lies not in the east but the west.”
For the first time, Elizabeth broke from the expected feminine role of polite listener. “That’s exactly what Abraham has been saying, Mr. Jefferson!”
“Then I’d encourage you to follow your instincts, young man. They’re correct.”
“I am discouraging him!” Philip exclaimed, limping off to emphasize his pique. “I think the idea is utterly foolish.”
“I don’t know that either of us will have much of a hand in the decision, Mr. Kent.” Jefferson nodded to Abraham. “Youth must be given its day—and its freedom to choose. Ah, but I think we’ve quite covered the subject—let me give you a tour of the grounds. And then, if you don’t mind the dust and noise, I’ll show you a little of the house, too.”
He lifted one hand toward Philip, palm up; it was both an invitation and a gesture of conciliation. Although Philip still looked flushed and upset, he didn’t prolong the argument. He fell in step beside his wife as Jefferson led the way.
Abraham and Elizabeth dropped a few steps behind, allowing their hands to touch. She whispered softly, “Mr. Jefferson said exactly what I hoped to hear, Abraham.”
“And I.”
“Those dreadful, stuffy people in Philadelphia—so rich and smug—I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to spend my life in drawing rooms—or on a plantation veranda, for that matter—murmuring lies with a smile on my face.”
“Speaking of lies, I had the eerie feeling Mr. Jefferson recognized you.”
“I suppose he would have known my father, and I’m told I resemble him.”
“I feel a little sorry for Papa. I expect he’s kicking himself for his decision to come here.”
“He only did it as a courtesy to Mama,” Elizabeth sniffed, scornful. “Your father was positively rude. There’s no other word for it.”
“Rude because he fears Jefferson’s right,” Abraham said. His eyes were drawn to the blurred hills of the Blue Ridge in the west. But his mind went back to Supply Pleasant’s mocking comments about the little series of exhibitions arranged for his benefit. How true the editor’s jibe had turned out to be!
Ah, but Jefferson had given Philip a comeuppance. Under the spell of the Virginian’s words, with Elizabeth at his side in the sweet-smelling lane between rows of trees, Abraham abruptly voiced a decision. “I wavered a little in Philadelphia. But now I’m convinced we should do what we talked about doing in the first place.”
“I am too, my darling.”
He turned, noting that his father and stepmother were a good distance away in the orchard’s dappled shade.
Mr. Jefferson was pointing out something up in the branches of a cherry tree. But Philip was staring back over his shoulder at the young lovers who stood close together beneath leaves that seethed softly in the warm wind.
Abraham began, “I have only one reservation—”
Her blue eyes flared. “You’re afraid to inform your father of your decision, is that what you mean?”
He was, a little. But it wasn’t what troubled him. “You haven’t been in the best of health on this trip. A life somewhere other than a comfortable city might be too difficult for you.”
“Abraham—”
“No, hear me out. If I were responsible for putting you into unhappy circumstances, I’d carry it on my conscience all my days.”
“I am strong and completely healthy!” Elizabeth said, with such fervency that Abraham was alarmed. She protested too much. It was another indication of her almost fanatic desire to escape the confinement of the Kent house.
She seized his hand. “I’ll go with you anywhere you want to go. And I’ll thrive, I promise you. I’ll thrive!”
What she said failed to put all his fears to rest. But her expression was so intense, he didn’t dare voice further doubt.
So, with part of the burden temporarily lifted by her declaration, he closed his fingers around hers. Together they hurried to catch up to the older people.
v
That night, in the sitting room of the suite they had taken at the best lodging house in Charlottesville, Abraham and Elizabeth announced their determination to stick by their original plan.
Again Philip burst into a rage; again he hammered them with the same arguments. Hadn’t they seen the desirability of being welcome among the rich and powerful—?
Losing his temper, Abraham admitted that such a life had its charms—for those who valued them. “Perhaps there’s a reason you value them more than I, Papa.”
“Explain that
remark!”
“There’s still a touch of the aristocrat in your blood. Your father was an English lord, after all—”
Livid, Philip whirled on Peggy. “This is your fault!”
“Just a moment, sir!” she exclaimed.
“Don’t deny it! You permitted him to be exposed to Jefferson’s democratic rot!”
“You agreed to come, Philip! No one coerced you!”
“Don’t blow Mr. Jefferson’s part in this all out of proportion,” Abraham put in. “He did no more than articulate what I’ve been thinking for a long time.”
“He did more than that,” Elizabeth said. “He told the truth!” To Philip: “Which you, in your narrowness, can’t stand to hear!”
Philip glared. “You damned, ungrateful—”
“Stop it, sir!” Peggy cried, jumping up. She was angrier than Abraham had ever seen her.
Philip limped to Gilbert, who sat on a cane-backed chair, huge-eyed and frightened. He slipped his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “At least I’ve one son who won’t turn his back on me.”
“Oh, God, sir—that’s vicious!” Elizabeth practically screamed. “The closer you come to being defeated, the more your cruel, vindictive nature reveals itself!”
Philip’s hand whipped upward, as if he meant to strike her. She ran to Abraham. Slowly, and with obvious effort, Philip lowered his hand to his side.
“Cruel?” Philip repeated in a strangled voice. “Vindictive? I thank you for your compassionate judgment. For your gratitude”—his glance at his older son was scathing—“I thank you both. Gilbert, come with me.”
“Where, Papa?”
“Downstairs. I’ll buy you a sweet from the landlord before you’re tucked in.”
Stunned and hurt, Abraham watched his father limp out with the boy. Peggy began to cry softly.
Elizabeth moved closer to Abraham, pressing her breast against him. She slipped her arms around his waist, squeezed hard, making a strange little sound in her throat. A suppressed laugh? he thought, horrified. No, surely not—
She buried her head against his chest. He couldn’t see her eyes, ugly with triumph.