Jefferson's Sons

Master Jefferson was sick most of the following winter. He improved a little in time for Miss Ellen’s wedding at the end of May. Miss Ellen was marrying a wealthy businessman from Boston. She would be moving there to live.

“I feel like I’m deserting a sinking ship,” she said to Miss Martha, the week before the wedding. “I feel like a coward, running away.” She and Miss Martha were at the breakfast table. Peter was sitting on the floor in the corner, waiting to clear.

“I’m thankful your situation at least will be secure,” Miss Martha said. “It’s one consolation in the face of our impending misfortune.”

Miss Martha nodded. “He always thinks so. But I don’t despair. If we have to, we can sell some of the extra Negroes.”

Peter frowned. He must have misheard. Negroes meant black people. Surely Miss Martha hadn’t said that. Extra people? Who did she think was extra? She could sell some extra furniture—they had plenty of that. Or extra livestock, there were baby calves and lambs. Or some of the books or china or wine—lots of extras there.

Maybe she hadn’t said Negroes. Maybe she had said clothes. The word clothes sounded like Negroes. Some of the extra clothes. Miss Martha and her family had more clothes than they needed, that was sure.

Peter sat back on his heels. Surely Miss Martha had said clothes. And why would she need to sell anything? Master Jefferson was still alive.

“I don’t know,” Maddy said, when Peter asked him about it. His worried expression made Peter feel worse. “They must be in more trouble than we know. I thought they’d be able to manage, while he lived.” He shook his head. “Pay more attention next time, okay? And tell me whatever you hear. Like my mama says, keep your mouth shut, your eyes and ears open.” Maddy went back to work. After a while he spoke again. “I never thought Miss Ellen would marry.”

“When I was a little boy. Look here, Peter, you need to get serious with this primer. You hear me? I want you to get serious about learning to read.”

In August, Maddy and Eston traveled to Poplar Forest one last time, to replace the roof on the house there the way they’d done at Monticello. Master Jefferson stayed home. He was too weak to make the trip.

The flood of visitors continued unceasing, even as Master Jefferson declined. Miss Martha tried to always answer the door herself, so that she could turn strangers away, but if Master Jefferson heard the door he would totter out to the hall and invite everyone to spend the night. He couldn’t preside at lengthy dinners anymore. He was always tired, but he needed laudanum to get to sleep.

The Marquis de Lafayette visited again before he returned to France. Peter begged Burwell to let him help serve in the dining room. He loved the sight of the long table loaded with the best food his mama could make, and with china and crystal glasses that glittered in the light. The diners toasted Lafayette, and Jefferson, and freedom; they cheered and raised their glasses high. But Master Jefferson lay in bed, too sick to attend. He and Mr. Lafayette wept again when they said good-bye.

“What do you mean, no piano?” Miss Virginia’s angry voice filled the hall. “Mother! You promised this time!”

Miss Virginia and Miss Martha were sitting in Miss Martha’s little parlor. Peter was waiting in the hall, to see if Master Jefferson wanted Eagle. On his good days he sometimes still rode.

Miss Virginia had been whining about a piano for months. Peter was sick to death of hearing about it. He supposed Miss Martha was too.

“Jeff tells me he spent the money elsewhere,” Miss Martha said. “I thought he’d set it aside for the piano, but he says he didn’t, and it’s gone.” After a pause, she added, “He says we can’t afford a new piano.”

“How ridiculous!” Miss Virginia huffed. “I refuse to believe it. He simply doesn’t care about my needs. I know our situation is bad, but I must have a decent instrument if I’m to have any hope of keeping up my skills. Think of all the time I’ve invested in learning to play. The old piano is hopeless. It’s inadequate.”

“I agree,” Miss Martha said. “But Jeff seems to feel that any indulgence, however small, is too much for us now. I’ll tell him again how important it is.”

In the hall, the door to Master Jefferson’s bedroom creaked open. Peter jumped up. “Eagle?” he whispered to Miss Sally.

Miss Sally shook her head. Peter nodded. He went to the stables, and turned Eagle out to grass for the day.

In the kitchen Peter told Miss Sally and his mama about Miss Virginia and her piano. Miss Sally shook her head. “That girl is worse than a two-ton mosquito,” she said.

Miss Sally told Peter’s mama that Master Jefferson couldn’t pass water. His water was getting blocked up in him, and that caused terrible pain. The Charlottesville doctor was bringing them tubes made from rubber gum, which could bend without breaking, to stick inside Master Jefferson and let his water out.

Peter’s mama shook her head sympathetically. She seemed about to say something when Peter’s little sister Isabella came in. “Miss Martha said to tell you twenty-six for dinner today.”

At first the gum tubes helped. Then Master Jefferson got an infection from them. It was terrible to get infections up inside of you.

Night and day, either Miss Sally or Burwell stayed at Master Jefferson’s side. They sponged his forehead to bring his fever down, and fed him broth Peter’s mama made. He survived.

Christmas came. With Master Jefferson sick in bed, no one felt like celebrating. Peter thought of what his daddy had said: As long as Master Jefferson lived, all of them would be just fine. As long as Master Jefferson lived. Please don’t die, he begged Master Jefferson in his head. Please don’t die.

Miss Virginia borrowed money for a piano from a friend of Master Jefferson’s. Her brother Jeff argued hard against it, but she shouted him down. She wrote to Miss Ellen in Boston to find a good piano and have it shipped to them.

“I told her we didn’t want to spend more than two hundred and fifty dollars,” Miss Virginia told Miss Martha.

Peter perked his ears. Two hundred and fifty! He never dreamed pianos cost so much. No wonder Mister Jeff didn’t want to buy one.

He still wished he knew for certain what Miss Martha had said that day—selling Negroes? Old clothes? He told himself over and over that Negroes didn’t make sense. If Miss Martha sold the workers, there would be no one to grow crops on the farms. Then there’d be even less money.

Worry lived on the mountaintop. The cold winter winds blew it back and forth, around the edges of the doorways and down the chimney draughts. Mister Jeff’s face stayed creased and his fists clenched tight. Master Jefferson, up again and walking gingerly about the house, never smiled. When folks knocked on the door now, they were more likely to want money that was owed them than to meet the president.

Burwell said there was a heap of debts, from little ones to wine merchants and tailors to big ones like the one left over from Mr. Nicholas. Nobody knew their total, except maybe Master Jefferson. “And I doubt he does,” Burwell said. “He doesn’t want to know.”

One winter night Peter went up to the great house with a cup of hot spiced wine his mama made for Master Jefferson. He scratched on the door of Master Jefferson’s room and handed the cup to Miss Sally. “He’s sleeping,” Miss Sally whispered. “Tell Miss Edith thank you. I’ll give it to him when he wakes.”

Instead of taking the stairs to the basement, Peter stepped through the parlor onto the back portico. The new brick steps were still unfinished along one side. Master Jefferson had forgotten them. Peter looked across the broad lawn, peaceful under the moonlit sky, and there, standing beside the north pavilion, was Master Jefferson.

He stood hatless, his back to Peter, his coat open and one hand on his hip. Peter knew Master Jefferson had no business being out on a cold night. He’d get sick and die for sure. “Master Jefferson!” Peter called. “Hey—Master Jefferson!”

Master Jefferson didn’t turn around. He’d grown pretty deaf in the past months. Peter ran forward, still calling. He had nearly reached him when the man finally turned—but it wasn’t Master Jefferson. It was Eston.

Eston was tall, over six foot, the tallest man on the mountain besides Master Jefferson. He was thin, and he moved in the same loose way Master Jefferson did. Peter had never realized before how exactly they resembled each other. “You look just like him,” Peter said.

“Come on,” said Eston. He put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. They walked across the lawn, back toward the kitchen. “He’s my father,” Eston said. “Master Jefferson.”

Eston smiled. His smile looked like Master Jefferson’s too. “I thought it was a secret,” he said.