Jefferson's Sons

Beverly had known the first few days of Master Jefferson’s homecoming would be busy, but he hadn’t expected chaos. Master Jefferson had brought home twice the usual amount of luggage, and all of it had to be unpacked and sorted and put away. Before Uncle John and Beverly were halfway through heaving crates into the great house, another freight wagon stacked with boxes pulled up to the door. A dark-haired white man hopped down from the seat beside the driver. “Please, where is Miss Edith?” he said, with a small bow to Uncle John. “I am Monsieur Julien.”

Uncle John acted as though white men bowed to him all the time. He nodded, slowly and politely, and said, “Sir. Come this way.”

Beverly trailed them to the new kitchen. It was twice the size of the old one, but it was still empty except for the long table Uncle Peter had brought in from the old kitchen, and a few benches and shelves. Miss Edith and Miss Fanny turned toward the door when Uncle John walked in. They saw the white man, and their faces lit up.

“Monsieur!” cried Miss Edith. She went to him and held out her hands. Beverly watched, horror-struck, as the white man kissed Miss Edith, first on one cheek, then on the other. What would Joe Fossett say?

Now the man was kissing Miss Fanny’s cheeks. Beverly gulped. He’d never seen such a thing. The three of them started talking so fast Beverly got lost right after “How was your journey?” Uncle John looked as confused as Beverly felt.

Finally Miss Edith seemed to notice them. “That whole wagon needs to be unpacked,” she said. “I want all the crates brought in here. As soon as you’ve done that, I’ll need you to get Joe, to measure for grates for the stew stoves. John, who’s the best man for mortar? And do we have bricks on hand, or do we need to have them made?”

Miss Edith said something to the white man, so quick and incomprehensible Beverly thought it might be a foreign language, like Mama’s French. She listened to the man’s answer, then turned back to Uncle John. “Two walls, say twelve foot long by three foot high, and some dividing walls—say another twelve foot’s worth, maybe a little more. How many bricks is that?”

Monsieur Julien had trained Miss Edith for eight years in Washington. The man driving the wagon turned out to be his assistant, and the wagon was packed with all the fancy pots and equipment Miss Edith would need now that she was head French chef for Monticello.

Uncle Peter was going to be the brewer. He would make beer and cider, and take care of the wine Master Jefferson imported from France. He said he didn’t mind the change. “That fancy cooking, it’s not for me,” he said. “Never wanted to work in a kitchen like that.”

French cooks didn’t settle for regular fireplace cooking. They used something called a stew stove, which was like a long row of small fireplaces built out in the open, against the wall beneath the windows. The stew stove was why Miss Edith needed bricks.

“How’s this going to work?” Beverly muttered as he mixed mortar for Uncle John. “Kitchen’ll be full of smoke.”

French cooks had spits that both rotated and moved up and down, powered by weights like giant clockworks. They cooked in copper pots, not cast iron. They used so much wine, spices, and other expensive ingredients that Miss Edith tried to make Burwell give her a set of keys to the locked storerooms.

“No, ma’am,” Burwell said. “I’ve got to keep close inventory on that stuff. A couple of hams walk away from the smokehouse, that’s one thing. A keg of French brandy walks away, I’ll have some fast explaining to do.”

Beverly was surprised Miss Edith had learned to write, but Burwell didn’t seem to be. “I know I can trust you,” Burwell said, “but I can’t trust everybody, and I don’t want trouble.”

Beverly didn’t want trouble either. The biggest source of trouble right then, he thought, was Monsieur Julien. Beverly’d never met anyone like him at all.

Monsieur Julien directed the layout of the kitchen, the height of the spits, the number and sizes of the stew stoves. He advised Miss Edith on menus and on stocking the pantries. But he also told stories. He made jokes. He listened to the stories Miss Edith told him. He laughed with her. If she said something sad, he sympathized.

“That’s different.” Mama waved her hand. She didn’t seem to notice that Beverly had said Papa. “That’s a secret, it’s different. And a man and woman thing, that happens all the time.”

“No, no,” Mama said. “I know what you mean. I understand the difference.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose it’s because he’s French. France never allowed slavery. In France, people with dark skin aren’t automatically seen as inferior to people with light skin.”

“Different,” Mama said. “Good. If I went to a shop, I got waited on right away, even if a white person came in on my heels. The other servants in our house there, besides my brother, who was the cook, were white, and we all got along, better than I expected. When I visited Miss Martha and Miss Maria at their school, their friends liked me. Really liked me; I got to know some of them pretty well. I forget now, but I had friends who were white, in France.”

Mama sighed. “You don’t really realize how much color matters in this country, until you go someplace where it matters so much less,” she said. “But France wasn’t perfect either. I was a servant, part of the servant class, and that meant I was looked down on by anybody who thought they ranked higher. Class matters in France, much more than it does here. If you’re born white and poor here, you can work hard and die rich and well-respected. There you can be any color, but if you start out lower class you’ll never be able to rise. You couldn’t end up a gentleman.”

Mama sighed. “Chefs are servants, yes, but they’re well-respected upper servants,” she said. “With her training, Miss Edith could work in a fancy establishment for very good pay.”

“No,” Mama said. “She isn’t paid, she can’t ever leave, and she has to do whatever she’s told. If she doesn’t, she could be out in the fields tomorrow.”

“If she ran away—” Beverly said. He imagined Miss Edith on the deck of a ship sailing for France. Only she’d have to take James and Maria with her—and Joe Fossett—it would be so hard to do, Beverly could see.

Beverly remembered that when Joe Fossett ran away, Mama had smiled to think of him and Miss Edith fleeing to freedom. Beverly hadn’t understood it then, but now he did, at least a little.

Beverly longed to see Master Jefferson, but a surprisingly steady stream of visitors kept Master Jefferson fully occupied. Beverly knew not to expect a smile or a word from him when white strangers filled the dining room and parlor and slept in all the rooms upstairs. No matter, Beverly thought. It would calm down soon.

Meanwhile, one day, when he was helping with the stew stove, Miss Edith and Miss Fanny left the kitchen, and Beverly found himself alone with Monsieur Julien.

Monsieur Julien was mincing roast chicken for a dish for the great house. He smiled at Beverly and handed him a drumstick.

“Thank you,” Beverly said, surprised. It wasn’t often he ate chicken, let alone a whole leg of it. He took a bite. Before he lost his nerve he said, through his mouthful, “My mama’s been to France.”

“I spoke with your mother yesterday,” Monsieur Julien said. “In French. She still speaks French well despite all the years.”

Beverly said, “She and Miss Martha use it when they don’t want us to understand them.” He studied Monsieur Julien, wondering how much he could trust him. “If my mama went back to France—” Beverly stopped. He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to say.

Monsieur Julien chopped thoughtfully. “The revolution seems to be over,” he said after a while. “I think it would be safe now. Why? Do you want to go? Is that what you’re thinking? I asked your mother whether she had considered it.”

“She said she believes you children will have better lives in this country,” Monsieur Julien said. “I can’t say I disagree. This is an astonishing place. A person can become anything.”

Monsieur Julien inclined his head. “Certainly,” he said. “To have any social standing here, you must appear white. Fortunately, for you and your sister, I think it will not be hard. The baby, perhaps. And the other little boy—his skin may lighten over time.”

Beverly blinked. He wondered how Monsieur Julien knew about Eston and Maddy. He wondered what he meant by saying that Maddy’s skin might lighten. But Miss Edith swept into the room. Beverly hurried back to his bricks, palming the chicken leg so Miss Edith wouldn’t see it. She didn’t. “Ça va?” she asked Monsieur Julien.

It must be French, thought Beverly. He felt a wave of sadness, for Mama and Miss Edith, for what they might have had if they were free.

He waited and waited for the fuss to die down. The kitchen was finished. Monsieur Julien went away. Mama moved them into their new room, just one door down from the room beside the kitchen that belonged to Miss Edith and Joe. The workmen who had built the dependencies began to tear the old cabins down.

But at the great house the stream of visitors continued unabated. It was temporary, Beverly felt sure. People wanted to welcome Master Jefferson home. As soon as they had done that, they’d go away, and leave the mountaintop in peace.

Miss Martha’s absence felt like sunshine, something Beverly could soak in and enjoy. Without the excuse of Christmas or of being hostess for the president, she’d returned to her husband Mr. Randolph’s farm, three miles away. Beverly loved knowing he could walk into the great house anytime without seeing her tight-mouthed glare, or hearing her snap, “You! Boy!”

He and John resumed their finishing work in the great house. Beverly listened for Master Jefferson’s voice in the hall, for his step and laugh. Every morning one of the stable boys brought Master Jefferson’s horse to the back porch. Master Jefferson would smile at Beverly as he crossed through the parlor on his way out to ride. Beverly tried to always be ready to return that smile.

The horse was waiting, the boy holding it, one day not even a month after Master Jefferson’s return. From the front of the house came horses’ hoof beats, the rattle of a wagon, and a bustle of noise. Angry steps thumped up the porch stairs, followed by shouts and a pattering of lighter footsteps. Someone knocked once against the doorframe, hard. Burwell hurried into the hall, but before he could reach the door it swept open, and in came Miss Martha, her face flushed, her breath coming in spurts.

“I can’t stand it!” she cried. “I won’t be treated like—and besides, I know my duty! I know where I’m needed!”

Burwell stared, then carefully made his face look bland. Master Jefferson came out to the hall. He wore the bemused look that usually meant he’d been concentrating on something he was writing. He smiled vaguely at Miss Martha.

The front door had swung shut, but it opened again, and Mister Jeff, the eldest grandson, came through it. He looked at Master Jefferson and bowed uncertainly, his cheeks flushed like his mother’s. Behind him trooped his brothers and sisters, baby Ben in Beverly’s aunt Priscilla’s arms.

Beverly gaped. Surely she didn’t mean it? Surely she had to stay with her husband? Behind him, Uncle John made a soft warning noise, and nudged him.

Beverly shut his mouth. He dropped his eyes to the hammer in his hands. He bent forward, as though concentrating on his work. But he kept his ears open, as wide open as ever he could.

“You need me, Father!” Miss Martha said. “I can’t bear to think of you rattling in this enormous house alone! We will be your comfort. I’ll manage everything. You can leave the household to me.” She took a deep breath. “Mr. Randolph may fend for himself!”

They’d managed just fine without her, Beverly thought. Dinner got served, the house cleaned, everything ran fine without her. Please say no, he begged Master Jefferson in his head. Please tell her she can visit, but she can’t stay.

Beverly didn’t dare look up. His emotions would show too plainly on his face. If Miss Martha noticed, she would resent him forever, more than she already did.

“My dear,” Master Jefferson said, and from the first soft syllable Beverly’s hopes fell to ashes, “this is always your home. You and the children are most welcome. You may stay here forever if you prefer.”