Trail of Bones by Mark London Williams

Author:Mark London Williams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Andrea Brown Literary Agency, Inc.

Chapter Twelve

Thea: Monticello

May 1804

We follow Jefferson outside, going back up Mulberry Row.

Sadness…

Eyes watch us. There are a few nods, but fewer smiles.

Jefferson occasionally nods back at a slave or two, but doesn’t stop to make conversation.

…sore…. tired…

I don’t know who’s talking…

No, I do know. No one is talking. The lingo-spot is not only translating words now, but feelings. But which feelings? Maybe…the strongest ones?

If this ability should grow, I may well go mad.

And as mother might have observed, going mad will not help me think clearly about my situation.

The slave cabins are opposite the extensive, and apparently experimental, gardens that Jefferson keeps. Orange light from a setting sun plays over the flowers, trees, and vines there. Looking at them, smelling them, I could almost imagine myself back in the gardens in Alexandria.

Almost.

We’re back at the front entrance to the house quickly enough. “Come with me, girl,” Sally says, and takes me upstairs.

I noticed she didn’t look too closely at the slaves on Mulberry Row, either. She doesn’t quite belong there, but she doesn’t quite belong here, in Jefferson’s house, as a full family member.

Like me, she is caught between worlds.

Two of Jefferson’s granddaughters run by, giggling as they see me. Jefferson’s grown daughter, Patsy, is here with her family — I don’t think I’ve counted all the young ones yet. There are around six or so. I don’t know how they can move so fast in such garments, though, with all the bows and sashes around their waists.

Even the men, those who aren’t slaves, seem to wear numerous layers of clothing.

But to be a child is to move fast, no matter what your clothing, so off the children go, perhaps to look at some of the antlers on the wall. This is a busy house, which also reminds me of Alexandria and the library. Something was always happening there. Guests were forever arriving. Back when I was a child.

And if I’m not quite a child now, but not yet grown into the sort of woman Mother was… then what am I? Who am I?

Honoré stomps by on his way to the kitchen, holding a basket full of peas he’s brought in from outside. “And I still have to make ice cream for tout les petits Jeffersons!” he yells to no one in particular.

“We’ll go up here and wait in the cabinet room.”

I follow Sally up the stairs, into what must be Jefferson’s study.

Like Mother’s, it is strewn with papers and scientific implements of every sort. There is a kind of paddle hanging on the wall. There is a plate of oranges on his desk. The scented fruit reminds me of home. I wonder if he has any lemons.

There’s an apparatus on his desk that seems designed for making scrolls. There are sheets of parchment in it, but I’m not sure how it works. Most peculiar of all, though, are several large bones set out on tables, trails of dirt and debris around them.

I believe these may be some of the bones Jefferson brought back from the trip where we found Eli.

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