Monticello by Sally Cabot Gunning

Author:Sally Cabot Gunning
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-05-12T00:00:00+00:00

SPRING ERUPTED JOYLESSLY. Martha’s father returned to Washington. Martha fell ill—violent cramps, spasms in her limbs, trouble breathing, symptoms she attributed to her diet, but Tom, frantic to find his ever-sturdy wife laid low, argued her self-diagnosis.

“’Tis hysterics only.”

“’Tis milk and radishes taken together at Sunday’s meal.”

“One must never succumb to one’s nerves.”

“Nerves! Pains so severe they make me tremble and you can say nerves!”

“You must rise up and move about. Distract your mind from its torment by engaging in other occupations.”

Oh, that Tom Randolph could say this to her! And what other occupations did he have in mind—tending to his ills? But Martha had little strength for arguing. She gave it up just as she gave up everything else, handing her children and Maria’s child into the care of Priscilla, retreating to her bed and staying in it. Molly changed her linens and helped her wash and eat, Priscilla carted the infants up and down the stairs to be nursed, Betsy delivered bowls of broth. Tom hovered outside the door, but Martha feigned sleep whenever he entered. When he finally managed to catch her awake, she did hear first his concern for her.

“’Tis good you rest,” he said. “You’ve worn yourself down with the nursing of your sister.” But soon he decided that Martha was rested enough to hear his woes: Virginia still did not breathe properly; Jeff was growing argumentative; his father-in-law had not responded to his latest request for a loan.

Martha’s father wrote her:

Consider my dear Martha to what degree, how many persons have the happiness of their lives depending on you, and consider it as a duty to take every care of yourself that you would think of for the dearest of those about you.

That letter affected Martha more than any words of her husband’s or any gabble of her children. Her father, who grieved equally for Maria, didn’t need such worry over his last remaining child. Martha wrote her father:

I shall take every care only that I may dedicate what remains of my life to easing yours.

Much to Tom’s joy, Martha rose from her bed and returned to her duties, but she couldn’t discriminate one day from another, one month from another, beyond the most glaring details: Summer and Monticello’s riot of blooms. Fall and the mountain’s golden light. Winter, nine months after Martha had listened to “Au Clair de la Lune” outside her father’s door, and James Madison Hemings was born.

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