Richard Cutts thrust Dolley up into the carriage, clanking reticule and all. Closed the door.
“I shall tell Mr. Madison to look for you at Bellevue, shall I?” asked Sophie, from the mansion’s steps.
“Mrs. Hallam, we cannot allow you—” Cutts protested, but Sophie made a gesture like shooing flies.
“Get Mrs. Madison away. I can look after myself.”
Or knowst thou someone in Cockburn’s force, who shalt look after thee? Dolley turned, watching the enigmatic dark figure on the mansion’s steps as the overloaded carriage jolted into motion. French John and Jacob Barker were gently draping General Washington’s portrait across the top of the grocery-cart as Dolley lost sight of them. For a few minutes more, the white walls of the mansion were visible to her over Mr. Jefferson’s screen of young poplar trees.
Fourteen years, thought Dolley, fighting to keep panic from her heart. She fumbled in her reticule for her snuffbox. I saw this house fourteen years ago….
With Lady Washington’s mirror, she realized in shocked dismay, in my hand!
She half turned in the carriage’s crowded seat, seeing herself sweep snuffbox and mirror together into the desk-drawer as Mr. Carroll entered shouting…If I call out to have us turn back, Joe will pretend he can’t hear me.
Such was the din of traces rattling, hooves pounding, other carriages, carts, fleeing riders, and cursing barrow-pushers all clogging Pennsylvania Avenue in a solid wall of dust, his deafness might not be sham. And even if he did hear, the crowd forced them on.
She twisted back around, looking at the roofline of the big sandstone house, visible still. Her hand closed, recalling the small solid shape of the Queen’s mirror, as it had been that evening she’d seen the house like this beyond the trees.
Recalling, too, the grief and fear of that season of uncertainty. It seemed to her, that year, that everything she had witnessed since 1776—everything Jemmy, and General Washington, and Jefferson, and Mr. Adams had worked for—was shattering to pieces around them.
Dust swallowed the big house. In her heart she knew she’d never see it again.
1800
DOLLEY
Edgehill Plantation
Albemarle County, Virginia
Sunday, April 6, 1800
Mrs. Madison?”
At the sound of the voice, Dolley looked around, and to her great surprise recognized Sally Hemings standing beside the garden gate.
“Please forgive my being so bold, ma’am, but might I have a few words with you?” The young woman—Dolley guessed her age at not quite thirty—stood just on the other side of the white wooden palings that separated Patsy Jefferson Randolph’s beloved beds of tulips and azalea from the still-greater beauty of the spring woods. With her turquoise-green eyes, and the morning’s mistiness still clinging to the gray-barked trees around her, she looked rather like a spirit in a tale who cannot cross cold iron, ready to evaporate when the day grew bright.
“Of course, dear.” Dolley cast a quick glance back toward the frame house where Thomas Randolph’s butler was just emerging from the back door, a wicker tray of breakfast leftovers in hand. With Patsy going into her fourth day of a devastating migraine, Dolley hoped somebody would remember to round up eight-year-old Payne and seven-year-old Jeff Randolph for lessons before they disappeared into the woods. Patsy ruled her household with a kid-gloved hand of iron and when she had a headache, everything tended to slither fairly speedily into rack and ruin.
On the other hand, Dolley had never expected to see Sally Hemings set foot on Patsy’s property. Whatever had brought the young slave here, it had to be important.
Dolley folded her shawl more closely around her shoulders and stepped out through the garden gate. For all her years in Philadelphia, she had slipped quickly back into the Virginia habit of thinking: It was almost without awareness that she made sure she and Sally couldn’t be seen from the house.
“Is all well at Monticello?” Even as she said the words she thought, If anything happened to Jefferson, word would come here, or to Jemmy, first….
“Yes, ma’am, quite well.” Sally had a pleasing soft alto whose gentle refinement had impressed Dolley, on the few occasions she’d heard her speak. Since she’d first visited Monticello with Jemmy in 1795, she’d seen the beautiful maidservant any number of times, and had easily believed her own maid, Sukey’s, matter-of-fact gossip: She Mr. Jefferson’s woman, you know. Had believed it even before she’d observed that Patsy Randolph never spoke of or to Sally and looked through her as if she were a pane of glass. This didn’t happen often, because Sally was unobtrusively never in the same room with Patsy if she could help it.
And Jefferson, like every other Virginia planter Dolley had ever met, appeared to notice none of these interactions.
Dolley may have been a Quaker, but her Coles cousins down in Hanover County hadn’t been, and she’d learned everything there was to know about concubinage by the time she was ten.
Like most of the concubines Dolley had seen over the past five years—and Sukey could point out every one for six counties around—Sally was very light-skinned, and well dressed even for a maid at Monticello, where the house-servants were clothed as well as many Philadelphia artisans. In Spanish cities like New Orleans or Mobile, according to Aaron Burr, such a woman would have been a free courtesan, kept by her protector with an establishment of her own. It was only in the United States that there existed no place for such a woman.
“I’m not sure whether this is any of my business, ma’am,” Sally went on softly, “or to whom I should speak of it. But it touches Mr. Jefferson; I believe he may need to know.”
Dolley said, “Go on.”
The young woman was silent for a moment, as if arranging her thoughts. Though her green muslin dress was reasonably new and had clearly been made for her, not handed down from someone else, she wore no jewelry beyond a thin gold chain around her neck. Considering the way other women in her position were sometimes decked, this spoke well for either Jefferson’s taste or her own. It impressed Dolley, too, that she was matter-of-fact, as if she knew Dolley knew perfectly well who she was, but was neither bold nor coy about it.
It was a fact, that was all.
“Have you heard Mr. Jefferson speak of a gentleman named Mr. Callendar, ma’am? Mr. James Callendar?”
Dolley felt her lips compress at the name. Only the system that required every person of color to speak of any white man as a “gentleman”—usually on pain of a beating—could have given Callendar that title, as far as Dolley was concerned.
“I’m acquainted with him,” she replied evenly. “He’s the editor of the Richmond Enquirer.” She didn’t add that upon the few occasions she had met James Callendar, she always wanted to go wash afterwards.
Sally’s eyes flickered to her face, then away. She kept her voice neutral, as any slave learned to, when speaking about any white. “Yes, ma’am. And I know he’s a friend of Mr. Jefferson, and that his newspaper supports him. But my niece Betsie, who lives near Richmond—at Eppington, you know—”
Dolley nodded. Tom Jefferson’s younger daughter had married her handsome cousin Jack Eppes three years ago—Dolley had come to Monticello for the wedding. She recalled Jemmy telling her that Jefferson had given the newlyweds a number of slaves, as part of the dowry. Betsie Hemings must have been one of them.
“Betsie’s told me that Mr. Callendar has been asking questions around town, about Mr. Jefferson. Questions about scandal and rumor.” Her troubled glance touched Dolley’s again. “There was a woman, the wife of one of Mr. Jefferson’s friends, that Mr. Jefferson fell in love with when he was young…that kind of thing. Scandal that’s really nobody’s business. Things everybody knows about everybody, that get passed around among the colored and the poor whites, and talked of in the taverns.”
“In that case I believe Mr. Callendar must hear a great deal of it,” said Dolley drily. Across the younger woman’s face, quick wry appreciation of the comment
flitted, instantly sponged away.
“As you say, ma’am. Betsie—my niece—says she hears from the potboys there that Mr. Callendar is always asking where and when, when the talk touches Mr. Jefferson. Then he buys men extra drinks to get them talking more. I don’t know what Mr. Callendar is up to, but I’ve seen the kind of thing he writes. I think Mr. Jefferson ought to know what’s going on.”
Dolley never swore herself, but at times like this she understood why someone would want to. A number of Jemmy’s favorite expressions passed through her mind.
“I know it isn’t my place to speak against a white man, ma’am, nor to pass along gossip,” concluded Sally. “But I know Mr. Madison is working to make Mr. Jefferson the President, writing to the newspapers and meeting with men in the legislature. The kind of rumor Mr. Callendar is asking about isn’t anything that will be helpful, if it goes beyond Virginia.”
Again their eyes met, and this time they held. Dolley knew exactly the first rumor James Callendar would have heard upon his arrival in Richmond eighteen months ago: the same one Sukey had first whispered into her ear. She Mr. Jefferson’s woman….
Sukey had spoken without innuendo or judgment, merely as a piece of information that her mistress would need in adapting to the household. She’d used the same tone to remark that Aunt Carr had a room up on the attic floor, and that there’d been another sister, Miss Elizabeth, who’d been not right in her head and had died in a snowstorm many years ago. In Virginia—in the whole of the South—concubinage and its more casual variations were simply part of the landscape, like mosquitoes in summer, although among slave-owners it was considered extremely bad form to talk about it.
For a man looking to discredit a political opponent, particularly in the North, it was a smutty treasure-house of innuendo.
And the logical defense against it would be to send the woman away.
Dolley said quietly, “Thank you, Sally. It will most likely come to nothing, for Mr. Callendar is after all one of Mr. Jefferson’s most loyal supporters. But thou’rt quite right to be concerned for his reputation, and thou art quite right in letting him know what thou hast heard. I’ll write to him this evening, since I don’t believe he’ll be back until the end of May.” She’d heard from Sukey that Sally Hemings could write, but whether it would be safe for a slave to write to her master—particularly in the vicious political climate of the approaching election—was another matter. She added, “I will keep to myself that thou wert the one who told me.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I do appreciate that. I hope Mrs. Randolph is better? Shep said that she was bad enough that you’d been sent for, to help with the household.” Shep was one of the slaves who worked in Jefferson’s nail-factory on Monticello. “I hope she’s feeling more herself?”
“She was a little better this morning,” said Dolley. “I thank thee for asking. Migraines usually pass off quite suddenly, don’t they? ’Tis hoped she’ll feel better today.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sally curtseyed. “I am sorry to have disturbed you, ma’am, and if I may I’ll leave you to get back to your family.”
“Of course. My thanks again.”
For a time Dolley stood watching as the other woman retreated along one of the narrow foot-traces that threaded through the woods behind the Edgehill home-place, her green muslin dress flickering in and out of the thin-leafed pale trees.
In the carriage on the way back to Montpelier later that day, Dolley turned them over in her mind: Sally, and Tom Jefferson; James Callendar, and the election that would take place at the end of the year.
The election that would—it was hoped—peacefully alter the growing strength of the central government into something the States were willing to live with, before the dominance of the one and the independence of the others led again to violence.
Only Jefferson, Jemmy said, had the stature, and the popularity, to draw the votes of both the North and an increasingly angry South. Having avidly read every newspaper she could get her hands on for three years, Dolley had to agree with her husband. The thought of a vicious little scandalmonger like Callendar turning against Jefferson at this stage made her shiver, as if a rat had run across her flesh.
It was in Philadelphia in 1796, Jemmy’s last year in Congress, that Dolley had first encountered James Callendar.
That was the year General Washington—to Martha’s unspeakable relief—had announced that he would not seek a third term as President. That he would at last go home to Mount Vernon to stay.
It was the year that the new nation had held its first true election, between candidates who held radically different opinions about how the nation should be governed and with whom it should ally itself.
It was the year when every newspaper in the country—pro-Jefferson or pro-Adams—had felt called upon to vomit every reason, real or fancied, political or personal, hysterical or merely scurrilous, for voters to elect their perceived Savior and reject the man whom they felt to be the Antichrist.
And the most vivid and copious producer of this verbal sewage was James Thompson Callendar.
Four years previously—the year of Payne’s birth, when Dolley had been no more than a good Quaker bride—newspapers had backed Jefferson or Alexander Hamilton in another round of mud-slinging, with Jefferson referred to as an “intriguing incendiary,” a “concealed voluptuary,” and “the promoter of national disunion, national insignificance, public disorder, and discredit.” Dolley had read with interest Jemmy’s clearheaded defense of Jefferson, and that written by the third of the loyal Virginia triumvirate, quiet, tactful, perpetually rumpled Jim Monroe, who was now Governor of the State. Rather less creditably, Jefferson’s clerk in the State Department, Phillip Freneau, in his newly founded paper the National Gazette, had attacked both John Adams and Hamilton, the one as an “unprincipled libeler” and the other as “not only a monarchist, but for a monarchy bottomed on corruption.”
By 1796, Maximilien Robespierre had perished on his own guillotine and the revolutionary National Assembly in France had been crushed by the five-man Directorate. In the United States, with the Presidency at stake, the war of political libel began in earnest.
It is all-important to our country that Washington’s successor shall be a safe man. But it is far less important who…may be named…than that it shall not be Jefferson.
He was an atheist, a puppet of France, inept, indecisive, a foe of Washington and of the Union. Jeers were written of his flight from the British forces during the Revolution that had first occupied Richmond, then almost trapped him at Monticello.
Not to be outdone, the pro-Jefferson Philadelphia Aurora crowned Adams “His Rotundity,” and declared him unfit to lead the country, the “champion of kings, ranks, and titles.” It warned that he was scheming to transform the Presidency into a hereditary monarchy in order to pass it along to his son. Jefferson, concluded the paper proudly, had only daughters.
Dolley, who by that time had met nearly everyone concerned, could only imagine what Abigail Adams would have said to that piece of reasoning.
She remembered Callendar from Philadelphia that winter, a dark-haired Scotsman with a head that seemed too large for his body and an indefinable air of physical crookedness about him. He’d been standing near the fireplace during one of the receptions at the house she and Jemmy had rented from Jim Monroe on Spruce Street, railing about the injustices of tyrants who sought to chain not only the body, but the mind, and the minds of children down to the tenth generation, in a harsh wild voice like that of an Old Testament prophet.
“Jefferson’s wisdom is the hope of our nation,” he had pronounced, and coming close, Dolley had been struck by the rankness of his body, and the thick odor of Jemmy’s best port on his breath. “The sweetness of Xenophon and the force of Polybius, information without parade, eloquence without effort. How can any hear Thomas Jefferson and remain unmoved?”
And he was right, Dolley reflected, watching Payne trot importantly alongside the carriage on his p
ony, his gold hair catching the patchy brilliance of the April sun. But there was some people’s praise that reflected as badly on their object as outright insults, and James Callendar was one of those people.
“Watch me, Mama!” Payne kicked his mount into a canter, effortlessly cleared a fallen tree-trunk near the road, and flourished his hat to his mother’s applause.
“I’ve jumped him over fences, too,” the boy said, trotting back to the carriage. “Jeff and I, we took out Annie’s horse back at Edgehill, and there wasn’t any trouble. I’m big enough to have a horse of my own, not a pony. Annie’s only a few months older than me, and she has a horse. You have to tell Papa I’m big enough.”
Dolley pretended to frown in concentration. “I’m to tell thy papa thou’rt big enough to be a horse-thief? Well, all right…”
He crowed with laughter, and swiped the air with his riding-whip. “You know what I mean!” And cantered ahead to jump the little creek, singing as he rode.
Fair as Dolley’s sister Lucy, and with the promise of Lucy’s good looks and their father’s height, Payne had slipped easily into the role of a planter’s son. Maybe too easily, Dolley thought. John Todd had believed devoutly in education, not simply because his own father was a schoolmaster but because he saw learning as the gateway to an honorable career. And Jemmy, of course, was one of the most erudite men in Virginia.
But from the moment Payne had realized that his stepfather was a wealthy planter, with ten thousand acres and over a hundred slaves at his beck and call, he seemed to have understood that the issue of his future livelihood was already taken care of. And as the years had passed and Dolley had realized, first with disbelief and then with an agony of regret, that Jemmy’s seed could find no root in her womb, it had become harder and harder for her to discipline Payne, or to endure his sullen wretchedness on those few occasions when his will was thwarted. During one of those miserable battles of will when he was five—Dolley recalled it was over his first pony—he had sobbed, You wish I’d died so you could marry Papa! Papa being Jemmy. The words, and the way he’d turned from her, had gone like a knife-blade into her heart.
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