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Chapter One

Charlottesville, 29 May 1781 From Thomas Jefferson to the Marquis de Lafayette

I sincerely and anxiously wish you may prevent Gen­eral Cornwallis from engaging your army till you are suf­ficiently reinforced and able to engage him on your own terms.

"British! British!” These words flew with blood and spittle from the gasping mouth of our late-night visitor, a rider who awakened our household with the clatter of horse hooves and the pounding of his fist upon the door. “Leave Monti­cello now or find yourself in chains.”

Still shaking off the fog of sleep, my eight-year-old heart could’ve kept time with a hummingbird’s wings as I stared down from the stairway to where my father greeted our late-night guest wearing only a pair of hastily donned calfskin breeches and a quilted Indian gown of blue. “Are you certain the British are so near?” Papa asked.

Standing in the open doorway, bathed in the light of a slave’s lantern, the rider panted for breath. His bloodstained hunting shirt was slashed at the shoulder, leather leggings spattered with mud. And his face . . . oh, his face. It was a grotesque mask of burrs and blood, red and cut open in a dozen places, as if he’d been whipped by every branch in our forest during his frantic ride. “Tarleton and his dragoons are very close, Governor Jef­ferson,” he said, still gasping and wild-eyed. “Neither the militia nor the Marquis de Lafayette and his army will arrive in time to defend us. You must go now or be captured.”

My scalp prickled with fear and I clutched the railing tighter. The men of the household—many of them members of the Vir­ginia legislature who recently sought refuge at Monticello— stumbled into the entryway in various states of undress, some shouting in panic. My little sister Polly whimpered, and I put my arm around her shaking shoulders, both of us still in our bed gowns. I softly shushed her so I could hear the conversation below, but I already understood more than the adults thought I did.

How close are the British soldiers? How many? And what will they do if they find us? These questions raced through my mind as more of the plantation’s servants spilled into the space, as anx­ious as we were, though perhaps in a different way. For I’d heard the men say the British promised the slaves freedom.

Sally, my friend and playmate, and a slave girl just my age, tucked herself into the far corner. Her amber eyes were carefully shielded, hiding whether she felt fear or excitement. My mother, however, wore her alarm like a shroud. Though she’d taken the time to dress in frock and mob cap, her skin was pale, her hazel eyes wide with panic. “The British? How near?” Mama asked, the candlestick shaking in her hand.

Only Papa was serene in the face of the coming danger. Look­ing from the men to Mama, he straightened to his full height— and he was the tallest man I knew, with ginger hair and piercing blue eyes that shone with fierce, quiet power. He held up his hand to silence the room. “Worry not, my friends. The moun­tains and darkness will delay the British,” he said, the certainty of his words calming the panic. He turned to the servants and spoke with a reassuring authority that reminded us all he was master of the plantation. “Martin and Caesar, secure the valuables. Robert, ready a carriage to take my wife and children away after they’ve had some breakfast—”

“There’s no time, sir,” the rider dared to argue. “The British are already in Charlottesville. They’re coming to burn Monticello.”

Burn Monticello? My gaze darted about the brick-walled rooms of our plantation house—cluttered even then, in its first Palladian incarnation, with Papa’s cherished artifacts, marble busts and gilt-framed paintings, red silk draperies and a piano­forte, books and buffalo robes. Would all of it go up in a blaze of fire?

My father and mother exchanged a tense glance. Turning to his visitors, Papa said, “Gentlemen, you must forgive my lack of hospitality and reconvene elsewhere. Make haste. My servants are at your disposal.”

The room erupted in a flurry of motion. The slaves hurried about hiding the valuables. Metal clanked from the direction of the dining room, the sound of the silver forks, spoons, cups, and candlesticks being stuffed into pillowcases. Mama called Polly and me down to her. We rushed to her side, and she swiftly bundled Polly into her arms, snatching me by the hand and rush­ing us out into the damp night. My heart galloped as my bare feet scrabbled on the cold ground and I could feel my mother’s answering pulse pounding as she tugged me with a cold, clammy hand.

Mama had been in poor health since the recent loss of a baby, and she couldn’t hide her trembling from Papa as he hurried us to our carriage. “Hush,” he said, though she’d not spoken. Press­ing his forehead against Mama’s, he murmured softly to her and I wished I could hear what he said. All the commotion—heavy feet trampling our flower beds, horses whinnying and jangling in their bridles, and men stuffing papers into saddlebags— obscured whatever words my parents shared. But anyone watch­ing would know that their whispered words were laced with passionate devotion. Then, Papa kissed Mama and released her into the carriage.

“Papa!” I cried. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

“Don’t fret, Patsy,” he said, reaching into the carriage to stroke my cheek and brush away a tendril of ginger hair, just like his. “I’ll secure my papers then follow on horseback.”

But the rider had warned us to go now. The British would cap­ture Papa if he stayed. I wasn’t supposed to know that the king had branded my father a traitor nor that the British would hang him if they captured him. But more than once I’d overheard the legislators’ fiery speeches ring through Monticello’s halls, so fear crawled into my throat. “Come now, Papa. Or they’ll catch you. They’ll catch you!”

“Never,” he replied with a soft, confident smile. If he was afraid, he didn’t show it. “My escape route is well planned. I’ll take Caractacus. There’s no faster horse in Virginia.”

The thought of him alone with enemies all around, the thought of us fleeing without him, the terror of never seeing him again— all of these horrid imaginings had my heart pounding so fast it was hard to breathe. I clutched at him. “Surely you won’t send us alone.”

Papa grasped a large satchel from the hands of a servant and passed it to my mother. “Be my brave girl. You won’t be alone,” he said, then called over his shoulder to a figure in shadow, and a reedy young man appeared at his side. In the faint light of the rising dawn, William Short, my mother’s kinsman and one of the many men who idolized my father, stepped forward.

William.How strange it is to realize now that he was always with us. From the very start. From that first frantic moment when I learned what it truly meant to be the daughter of a revolution­ary, William was there, at my side. . . .

In his twenty-second year, William Short boasted of being one of the youngest elected officials in Virginia, but he was no militiaman. He seemed a strange choice to guard us. Even so, Mama gave no protest when Mr. Short alighted our carriage with a sprightly hop, and without further ado, commanded our driver to be off.

“Ha!” the driver shouted at the horses and our carriage lurched forward onto the road leading away from Monticello. Leading away from Papa, who stood tall atop his mountain, unwilling to yet surrender.

¯

Our carriage jumped and bumped down the rough road, south­ward. Thrown together inside, we clasped one another tight, my right hand in Mama’s, my left arm hugging Polly. A stunned, scared breathlessness rendered all of us quiet. With her knuckles white around the handle of a satchel of our belongings, Mama lifted her wavering voice to finally ask Mr. Short, “Where will we go?”

“John Coles’s place on the Green Mountain,” he replied, a wary eye on the road. The certainty in Mr. Short’s voice calmed me a little. Mama released a shallow breath, as if the words provided her a bit of ease, as well.

We’d taken supper at Mr. Coles’s Enniscorthy estate before. The memory of thick ham steaks and rye bread ought to have made my stomach rumble, for we’d not had breakfast, but the ache in my belly wasn’t hunger. To my terrified eyes, the tree branches flying past the carriage window reached for us like the gnarled hands of death. And in the faintest glow of morning, unable to tear my gaze from the blurred view, I gasped at every red flower or rock in a ruddy hue. “Is that a redcoat?” I asked Mr. Short. “Are the dragoons ahead of us on the road?”

Squinting to see, Mr. Short replied, “The dragoons wear green. Worry not, Patsy. We departed in time.” He peered over his shoulder at me, the ghost of a smile on his lips, and winked. Or­dinarily, that kind reassurance would’ve lured a returning smile, but I saw the nod he gave to Mama and feared he only told me what I wished to hear.

Another hour passed before we heard the thunder of horse hooves behind us. When we did, Mama gasped and pushed me and Polly down to the carriage floor. While my sister cleaved tight to my chest, I saw the glint of a pistol in Mr. Short’s hand.

“Stay silent, whatever comes,” he said, his voice thin and shaky.

Still, Mr. Short’s arm was steady as he pulled himself up to the window of the carriage, ready to fire upon our enemies. Blood rushing past my ears, I waited for the blast.

Instead, the young man blew out a breath. “Mr. Jefferson!”

Relief flooded through me so hard and fast that I bit back a sob. I popped my head up over Mama’s shoulder, never happier to hear Caractacus’s furious whinny. The stallion’s brown coat was slick with sweat and the froth on his lips told us how hard Papa must have ridden him to catch up with us.

“Halt!” Papa cried.

As the carriage slowed and Papa rode up to the window, my mother rose up, shaking with relief. “Pray tell me it’s a false report.”

“I cannot.” Papa sat tall in the saddle like the skilled horseman he was, the leather saddlebags beneath him bulging with papers and the violin he never journeyed without. My eyes scoured over him for any sign he’d come to some harm, but he appeared only a little winded. “British horses have come to Monticello. I rode up Montalto and saw them in my spyglass.”

I gasped. Why had he remained behind so long? When every­one else was fleeing in a mad dash, had my father gone up the adjoining mountain to look for the enemy by himself? Whatever he saw convinced him to run. More than that, to worry that we might still be in danger. “I’ll ride ahead to scout for enemy sol­diers,” Papa said.

Mama shook her head. “But—”

“Don’t stop for anything,” Papa told us. “If you are stopped, say you don’t know me. Say you’re from another state. Say you’re passing through to see a kinsman.”

Tears stung the backs of my eyes. He was asking us to lie—a thing forbidden by God’s laws. To ask it, he must’ve believed Mama would be safer if she were another man’s wife. That I’d be safer if I were someone else’s daughter. Perhaps anyone else’s daughter.

Mama looked away, as if in agony at the thought of denying him. And my mind rebelled at the very thought.

“Patsy,” my father said, reading my mind as he so often did. “You can pretend, can’t you?”

His question was more a command. I nodded even while my heart ached. But Papa was relying on us. Yes. I can pretend. Not only because he asked it of me, but because, for the first time in my life, I understood that a lie could protect those I loved.

My father rode off, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. The carriage lurched forward a moment later. When would we reach safety? I didn’t remember Enniscorthy being so far. Fear and an­ticipation made me wonder if we’d ever get there, but at long last, morning light filtered through the trees and made a welcoming picture of the big two-story plantation house nestled amongst the mountains.

Enniscorthy.

Climbing from the carriage, my body felt battered and bruised. Mama fussed with my hair beneath my nightcap, but Mr. Coles and his family cared little about our disheveled appearance and quickly ushered us into their home. In the room provided to us, Mama instructed me to wash in a bucket of water while she sponged the dirt from the road off Polly. Then she found clothes for us from her satchel.

By the time she had tugged a white frock dress over my head and tied it with a pretty blue sash, Papa had arrived. He gave us all cheerful kisses atop our heads, as if the British hadn’t just chased us from our home. And then we sat down to a meal.

Mama, voice still wavering, thanked the lady of the household again for our food and shelter. With a trembling hand, she fed Polly spoonfuls of porridge, but took for herself only the tiniest bites, washing it down with sips of tea that our host vowed had been honestly smuggled, without tax or duty paid upon it to the British.

Mimicking my mother, I tried to be dainty and nibble at my food, but Papa and Mr. Short gulped down hearty portions of eggs and smoked sausages and bread. The last had been scarce since the start of the war and the prices of food quite high, which made us even more grateful for the hospitality when we were in­vited to stay. But Papa said we weren’t far enough away yet from the reach of the British dragoons.

I dropped my spoon. Weren’t we safe yet, having come all this way? Apparently, Papa believed the British were still chasing us through our own countryside like outlaws. And before I could make sense of what was happening, we were off again, with Papa scouting ahead for enemy soldiers and Mr. Short guarding our carriage with his pistol.

I wished I’d eaten more porridge. Hunger squeezed my belly, thirst clawed at my throat, and sweat dampened my hair as our arduous journey continued under the hot summer sun. Dust kicked up under our carriage wheels, and I was grimy with it. But I dared not complain. Not of grime, not of hunger, not of anything else.

For Papa was unshakeable despite the danger. When he circled back to mark our progress, he rode alongside our carriage, point­ing out the beautiful natural settings. “We’ll remember this as a grand adventure one day,” he said. And though Mama’s lips tightened at the assertion, I drew strength from Papa’s bravery.

But Mama grew paler each time he took us off the main roads, leading us into thick woods where we crossed streams and ram­shackle bridges that didn’t seem as if they could possibly bear our weight. If our wheels broke through the planks, we were in danger of going down into the water with our carriage, horses and all.

We were afraid to cross, but our terror of what lay behind us was even greater.

Finally, when we reached the dark green rush of Rockfish River, Mama said she could go no farther. Since the death of her infant a few weeks before, she’d been sick in body and heart. Now she appeared ready to swoon. Worried for her, I damp­ened a kerchief using water from our carved wooden canteen then gently dabbed at her cheeks and forehead. “All will be well, Mama. Just like Papa said.”

With a weary smile, she tucked strands of ginger behind my ear. “I know, child.”

Finally, we came upon a small cabin in the woods. I peered out of the carriage window as Papa knocked at the door and explained our situation. The owner scowled. “No room for you here, Gov’ner.” The man said the last word contemptuously, spit­ting tobacco juice into the carpet of fallen leaves and pine needles surrounding his shack. “If the king wants you strung up, he’ll have you strung up, and I won’t risk harboring fugitives.”

I gasped, certain Papa would dress down the crude frontiers­man for speaking to him this way, but instead, Papa calmly said, “I beg of you only take in my wife and daughters. I won’t stay. It’s near nightfall and—”

The man abruptly slammed the wooden door in my father’s face.

“Tories,” Mr. Short muttered like a curse.

Papa said nothing though his jaw was clenched as he mounted Caractacus again. Where could we go now, trapped on this side of the river without shelter? With sunset nearing and a river too treacherous to cross, we’d be forced to sleep the night in these woods where bears prowled and British soldiers might ambush us.

Papa insisted we keep riding, and at length, we came upon a tavern, Joplin’s Ordinary. There Papa bought food and supplies, and asked for help fording the river. Mr. Joplin himself offered to guide us to shelter beyond the river, but Papa hesitated, as if the words of the angry frontiersman were still ringing in his ears. “There’s no need to risk yourself further, Mr. Joplin.”

But Mr. Joplin insisted. “You’re of too much consequence to the country to risk your capture, Mr. Jefferson.”

As these words echoed in the forest, Papa might’ve lifted his head with pride. Instead, his eyes fell to the reins in his hands, as if burdened by them. And the words sank into me with an unac­countable weight.

When I think back, perhaps I should remember with bitter­ness the man who turned us away and who didn’t care if the king strung up my papa. But I prefer to remember the way our other neighbors helped us—the dangers they faced for our sake— because it fills me with pride in my countrymen. And because it reminds me that I’m justified in honoring them and their cause even through deeds that might otherwise deserve censure.

It was a Virginia militiaman who took us in that night after Mr. Joplin guided us across the river. Gravely, the militiaman told Papa that he worried important state papers and prisoners had fallen into the hands of the British. I tried to listen, but with my mother’s warmth and softness beside me on the straw-stuffed mattress, the voices faded to a low hum. And with the faint scent of my mother’s lavender water as I buried my nose against her shoulder, I lost the battle against sleep.

The next morning, awakened by the crow of a rooster, I tried to remember where I was. The important thing, I supposed, was that there’d been another dawn, and Papa hadn’t yet been caught by the British. We were on the road again before the glow of sunrise, making our way farther into the countryside. And good thing, too, because we would later learn that Tarleton’s dragoons were pursuing us, knifing open feather beds, breaking mirrors, and setting fire to homes along the way, hoping to make someone give Papa up.

When we stopped at Mr. Rose’s house, slaves hurried out of their cabins to fetch water for our horses. Inside, the smell of warm bread nearly dizzied me and tempted me to forget the danger. We’re safe. The thought brought more comfort than the food. For who would find us here, hidden in the mountains? Papa must’ve felt it was safe here, too, because as he cleared his plate he asked if his wife and children might lodge with the Rose family until he returned.

My stomach fell, and I lifted my gaze from the bread I’d been stuffing into my mouth. Mama froze beside me and gripped the edge of the table. Frowning, Mr. Rose said, “You can’t be think­ing of going back, Mr. Jefferson.”

“Lafayette will come to drive the British from Virginia. Until then, we must know where the enemy is,” Papa replied, calmly.

But Mr. Rose wasn’t reassured by my father’s faith in the young French nobleman who was now commanding part of Washing­ton’s army. In fact, Mr. Rose pounded the table, making me jump. “If the Virginia militia would only turn out!”

Papa never approved of loud shows of temper, and stared into his cider. “But they haven’t. Even the threat of court-martial hasn’t worked. I have no military experience, but even I know this: the whole of the British army may be descending upon us and we cannot guess if we’ll prevail . . . or if we must sue for peace . . . without knowing our enemy’s strength or whereabouts.”

“To go back is folly, Thomas,” my mother said. We all turned to her in surprise that she’d inserted herself into the men’s con­versation, contradicted my father, and called him by his given name in mixed company. But the color on her cheeks told me that she was in high temper. “They’re hunting you, Thomas. They’re hunting you.”

Papa rested his freckled hand atop hers. “My dearest, the Brit­ish are rounding up every legislator and patriot in the state. I am but one more.”

“No, sir,” Mr. Short broke in. “That’s not true.”

It seemed to me at the time that if there were anyone less likely than my mother to challenge Papa, it would’ve been my mother’s unassuming kinsman, Mr. Short. But, the truth is, William has always argued for what he believed was right. Even when it cost him. Even when it frightened him. Maybe even especially then. And that day, when we were all fugitives together, Mr. Short in­sisted, “The British want you because you’re the author of our independence.”

I knew this about my father, of course. About how soldiers were, as we spoke, fighting and bleeding for the ideas my father so ably expressed in the Declaration of Independence. But the pursuit of the British, the willingness of our neighbors to risk themselves, and Mr. Short’s vehemence gave me a new under­standing of my father’s importance. Short leaned forward, in­tently. “Mr. Jefferson, if the British take you, they’ll take Virginia. And if they take Virginia, it will be the end of our revolution.”

Hope that this argument would change Father’s mind about going back made my heart thunder against my breast. Alas, Mr. Short’s words seemed to have the opposite effect intended. Papa squared his shoulders, a determined glint in his eye. “I’m the governor. Or at least, I was until a few days ago. There are others better suited to this emergency, but there can be no revolution without patriots willing to risk themselves.”

The bread dropped from my hand to my plate, the remains of it like sawdust in my mouth. Papa’s mind was made up. He’d summoned his courage. He’d go back, no matter the risk. . . .

My father’s enemies now claim that when his mettle was tested in wartime, he faltered. Their censure forced him to speak of it ever after as an unfortunate passage in his conduct. But I was there. I witnessed those days as some of his most courageous moments. And though it was plain to me that my mother wasn’t moved by his high-minded sentiments, I was. I was as proud of him as I was terrified for him.

And I knew I’d never want to be anyone else’s daughter.

¯

While we awaited news that the British had been pushed back or that Papa had been captured, Mama was short-tempered with us and declared we must make ourselves useful at the Rose household. Polly and I were sent off to help the slaves fetch water, churn butter, and sweep the floors. Mama herself was always on her feet, helping to cook breakfast and ease the burden on our kindly hosts. But after a week of this, when she was tending to the laundering of our dirtied clothes, she swayed and fell.

Mr. Short rushed to her side and gently lifted her. Together, we settled her into a rocking chair, where she struggled to recover herself. Given how recently Mama had lost her baby, she was apt to be sad and fragile. And the next day, she was still in that chair, needlework forgotten in her lap, when a rider approached the house.

At the sound of the horse hooves, Mr. Rose readied his musket and Mr. Short crouched by the window, pistol in hand. I froze, clutching a broom, wondering if I could wield it against a Red­coat if one should come through the door.

But then we heard Papa call to us.

Dropping my broom, I ran out to meet him. Though he’d been gone only a week, he looked thin and mangy. His skin was sun­burnt and he’d traded his gentleman’s clothing for the garb of a frontiersman. Clad in brown leather breeches, a hunting shirt open at the neck, and a black hat that shadowed his eyes, he dis­mounted Caractacus and grabbed me into his arms, carrying me all the way inside. I clung to him, burying my face in his neck as he entered the house.

From the rocking chair, Mama attempted a smile, but her lower lip wobbled. “Have Lafayette’s forces fought back the Brit­ish? Have we lost Virginia?” And when Papa’s mouth thinned into a grim line, she asked, “Is it burned? Is Monticello gone?”

“Only some wine is missing,” Papa told us, and relief had me heaving a long breath. But when Papa spoke next, there was ice in his words. “Would that I could say the same of Elk Hill.” Elk Hill was one of Papa’s other plantations where he grew corn and tobacco and raised livestock. “Elk Hill is left in absolute waste. The British burned the barns and fences, slit the throats of the youngest horses, and took everything. They carried off our crops, our livestock, and our people. At least thirty slaves are gone.”

Mama gasped and I knew she worried most for her Hemings slaves. “What of those at Monticello?”

Setting me back down, Papa crossed to the rocker and squeezed Mama’s hand. “Some were carried off, but most remain.”

“Carried off?” Mr. Short asked with a strange intensity in his boyish gaze. “Or did they flee at the promise of freedom?”

Papa’s jaw clenched, as if Mr. Short’s question carried with it some note of impertinence. “If Cornwallis took them to give them their freedom, he’d have done right. But I fear he’s only consigned them to death from smallpox in his camp.”

Mr. Short put his pistol away and bowed his head. “Is the war lost then?”

My gaze flashed to Papa, dread squeezing my stomach.

Papa answered with scarcely disguised bitterness. “The war, I don’t know, but my honor is certainly lost. They’ll remember me as the governor of Virginia who let plumes of smoke rise over the James River for nearly thirty miles. And there’s a nine-year-old girl the British soldiers—” Papa’s eyes landed upon me, and be­cause I was nearly nine years old myself, I was desperately curi­ous to know what he’d been about to say. But he didn’t finish. “I fear history will never relate the horrors committed by the British army.”

“What of the remaining legislators?” Mr. Short asked after a moment. “Surely I’m not the only one who escaped.”

“A few were captured. Most are gathering in the Old Trinity Church in Staunton. All things considered, our cause fared well.” Despite his words, the etched lines on Papa’s face made it clear the losses pained him. “Thanks to Captain Jouett’s ride. Had he not warned us . . .”

Mr. Short nodded. “I must join the legislature. I’ll carry your messages to them, sir.”

I couldn’t imagine Mr. Short riding through the woods by him­self, even with a pistol in his belt. Papa was the son of a surveyor and knew the land, but Mr. Short was a bookish young man, so gentrified that even in exile, he still wore a lace cravat tight against his throat, as if expecting to pose for a portrait.

The same thought must’ve occurred to Papa. “It’s too danger­ous, William.”

“Not as dangerous for me as for you,” Mr. Short insisted. “Loan me a horse and I’ll be out and back again within days.”

“We won’t be here,” Papa replied, grim but resolved. “I’m taking my family into hiding.”

And though Mama was still unwell and Polly kicked her little feet in a tantrum, we left that very day. We fled into the Blue Ridge Mountains, to Papa’s wilderness property, the one in the shade of poplar trees. In those days, there wasn’t a house there, only rude huts for the slaves and a two-room cabin for the over­seer. No one came to greet us, for they’d no cause to know we might arrive. Nothing was ready for our comfort. Not even a fire. I thought of the sunny rooms at Monticello and our big warm feather beds, and worried that we might now spend all our days here, in a soot-stained cabin made of rough-hewn logs and a roof that leaked.

What’s to become of us now? How long can we hide?

My father was a scientist, a scholar, and a Virginia gentle­man, but in the days that followed, he set about repairing fences, thatching roofs, and hunting small game for our supper like a frontiersman. He was wry when presenting my mother with a rabbit for the stew she was trying to boil in our only pot. “Ah, Martha, the circumstances to which I’ve reduced you . . .”

Yet, Mama was strangely content. “On the eve of our wedding, I rode out with you in the worst winter storm to live in a small chamber of an unfinished house. We called it a Honeymoon Cot­tage, don’t you remember? You were no great man of Virginia then, my dearest. But we were happy.”

That’s when I first knew my mother had heard enough of revo­lution and the sacrifice of patriots. Indeed, it seemed to be her singular mission to draw Papa into the delights of simple do­mestic life. Though the overseer’s cabin was no proper home for a gentleman’s family, Mama set up housekeeping. She had me down on my knees with her, scrubbing at the floorboards with a stiff brush. We hung quilts and beat dust out of them. And when Papa had to leave to make his forays into the woods, Mama and I saw to it that there was a candle burning in the one window of the cottage to guide him back to us.

A few weeks later, harvest time for the wheat arrived, and Mama sent me with Papa to oversee the slaves toiling in our fields with sharp sickles. The women cut the stalks, beads of sweat running down their bare brown arms. Meanwhile, the shirtless dark-skinned men gathered the cut wheat into bundles, hauling the golden sheaves into the sun to dry.

I loved nothing more than riding atop majestic Caractacus with Papa, and though we were far away from our mountain­top home, it almost made me feel everything was just the way it should be.

But I knew it wasn’t.

“Will the British find us, Papa?” I asked, peering up at him over my shoulder.

His strong arms tightened around me. “This farmstead came to me through your Grandfather Wayles. The British won’t think to look here. . . .” he said, trailing off when he heard Mama sing­ing from across the field where she scrubbed linens in a bucket.

Her voice carried sweetly, unaccompanied, until Papa joined in her song. At hearing his tenor, she smiled, and I felt his breath catch, as if she’d never smiled at him before. He loved her, maybe more than ever. And with her eyes on us, Papa used his heels to command his stallion to a proud canter. “Let’s show your mother what Caractacus can do.”

He urged the stallion into a gallop. The fence was no obstacle for the stallion, who flew up, up, and over with an ease that delighted me. I was still laughing with the thrill of it when we landed on the other side.

Then we heard a rattle. . . .

A coiled snake near its hooves made the stallion snort in fear, rearing up wildly. I held fast to the horse’s black mane and my father used his body to keep me from falling. But in protecting me, Papa lost his balance, toppling from the horse. He threw his arm out to break his fall but came down hard upon his hand and howled in pain.

Caractacus trampled a circle and I tried desperately to calm him by digging my knees into his sides. Meanwhile, the overseer of the farm came running to help, several slaves at his back.

“Rattlesnake,” Papa gritted out as the serpent slithered away.

The overseer grabbed the horse’s reins and called to the closest slave. “Kill it, boy.”

The sweat-soaked slave shook his head in fear and refusal as the serpent escaped into the woods.

Outraged, the overseer lifted his lash.

“Stay your whip!” Papa barked, cradling his injured hand against his chest as he slowly rose. “Everyone back to work.”

As the slaves dispersed, I could scarcely feel my fingers, so tightly were they wound in the horse’s mane. My heart still pounded with fear and thrill. The overseer, by contrast, was over­come with anger. Cheeks and jowls red, he said, “It does no good to be gentle with them, Mr. Jefferson. A firm hand is all the Negro understands.”

Papa’s voice pulled tight with pain and . . . something else. “What I understand is this: we’re two white men, one gentle­woman, and two little girls on a secluded farmstead, hiding from an army promising freedom to the Negro.”

My father’s gaze darted to the men in our fields with sharp instruments in their hands, and a strange and sickly feeling stole over me.Is my papa afraid of them? Afraid of his own slaves? It was the first time I ever wondered such a thing.

Papa’s wrist was bent at an ungainly angle. The overseer rode out to fetch a trustworthy doctor while Mama fretted that there might not be one so far from Charlottesville. It was nearly night when the doctor arrived to do his grisly business of resetting Papa’s bones. After, Mama wrapped my father’s wrist and gave him the last of our brandy for the pain. Upon orders from the physician, Papa was forbidden to ride or go out from our cabin for two weeks. Unless, of course, the British chased us from here.

I remember that in those weeks, Mama and Papa were tender with one another every moment of every day. Our meals were simple. Our days were long. I was forever keeping Polly from mischief. At night, in spite of his painful injury, Papa led us in cheerful song while Polly and I bundled together atop a little nest of quilts.

Kissing us good night, my father gave a sly smile. “Do you girls know how it was that I wooed and won your mother?”

Mama looked up from tucking the blankets around us with a sly smile of her own. “Mr. Jefferson, you’re not going to keep our daughters awake with an immodest boast, are you?”

“Indeed, I am. You see, girls, I wooed your mother by making music with her in the parlor—me with my violin and tenor, she with her harpsichord and soprano. And when two other wait­ing suitors heard the beauty of our song, they left, vanquished, without another word, knowing they had heard the sound of true love.”

With that, he kissed my mother’s furiously blushing cheek. And, cleaving to one another, our little family, we could almost believe the British would never find us here.

Then one evening we heard the dreaded clatter of a horse’s hooves up the path. From the window, I peered out to see it was a horse-drawn wagon. To my relief, William Short rode in the buggy seat—still wearing his now much-dirtied cravat—bearing corn, brandy, and chickens. And that wasn’t all. Mr. Short had breathless news. “Tarleton has turned back to join up with Corn­wallis, who is being harried by Lafayette. They’re retreating, Mr. Jefferson. Thanks to Lafayette, the British are retreating!”

I squinted into the firelight, trying to make sense of Mr. Short’s exhilarated glee. Retreating? Then . . . the British wouldn’t cap­ture and hang my papa! And whatever British soldiers had done to that nine-year-old girl, they wouldn’t do to me. Tears of relief pricked at my eyes while Papa breathed out a long exhale. “What of the legislature?”

“We were able to convene a session.” Mr. Short stared into his cup of brandy, as if he were reluctant to tell the rest. “A motion passed accusing you of having failed to defend Virginia. I argued on your behalf, Mr. Jefferson, but I was no match for the machi­nations of Patrick Henry. There’ll be an investigation into your conduct.”

My shoulders tensed in indignation. How could anyone ques­tion my father’s defense of Virginia? No one had been braver! I remembered how he stood so tall, refusing to leave Monticello until everyone else had gone. How he went back to scout for soldiers . . .

Father groaned, as if this news caused him more agony than his injured wrist. “So, my honor is gone.”

“Only imperiled,” Mr. Short swiftly replied. “A thing that can be remedied if you accept an appointment to France. The Mar­quis de Lafayette sends word that your countrymen wish for you to represent us in Paris.”

Renewed hope danced in Papa’s eyes. “That would be a singu­lar honor.”

Paris?I could scarcely conceive of such a place! Would he take us with him?

But Mama’s eyes went flat and hard. And when Mr. Short stepped out, tears slipped from beneath her long lashes. “No more, Thomas. I beg you.”

He reached for her. “My dearest—”

“Hear me,” she pleaded. “For this cause, I’ve endured long ab­sences, followed you to cities far and wide, and sewn linen shirts for soldiers until my fingers bled. I’ve buried three children and been dragged from my sickbed and sent fleeing in the dead of night. Decline this offer. Retire to the tranquility of private life. Retire, I beg of you.”

Papa put his hands in her hair, but shook his head. “I’m a gentleman of Virginia. To turn down this offer would give me more mortification than almost any other occurrence in my life. I’ve said that I’d serve my country even if it took me to hell—”

“Which it has,” Mama replied, tartly.

And I dared not move or make a sound.

“Martha,” he said, a plea for understanding in his voice. “I must defend my honor. That anyone should think me a coward or traitor inflicts a wound on my spirit which will only be cured by the all-healing grave.”

The mention of the grave sent my mother’s chin jerking up. She touched the locket at her throat, the one that held the hair of her dead babies. “At what cost, your honor?”

Papa flinched, as if he’d taken a blow. Then the fight went out of him. Staring at her fingers on that locket, he seemed to shrink, his shoulders rounding in defeat, and he sucked in a deep breath that sounded like surrender.

And I knew that my mother would have her way.

Brushing her wet cheeks with his thumbs, he murmured, “Leave off your tears, Martha. You have my promise. We’ll go home to Monticello. We’ll add children to our hearth. I’ll retire to my farm, my books, and my family, from which nothing will evermore separate me.”

It was a promise. And sometimes I wonder how differently everything might have been if he’d been able to keep it. What a different life we’d have lived. What a different woman I might’ve become.

What a different nation might have been built . . . 

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