Jefferson''s Sons

  Right on the bottom was the dark spot where you were supposed to put your chin. He’d watched Mr. Jefferson through the open windows one night.

  Quick as a flash, before he could think hard enough to make himself stop, Beverly tucked Master Jefferson’s violin beneath his chin. He pushed on the strings beneath the fingers of his left hand, and curled his right hand around the stick. He told himself not to make a sound. Burwell would hear—Miss Martha would hear—he would be in a heap of trouble, and Mama would be upset. But he couldn’t stop. He raised the stick in the air.

  Right behind him a soft voice said, “You’re not holding the bow right.”

  Beverly jumped. His hand clutched the violin. He knew that voice. Master Jefferson. Beverly’s heart beat faster; his mouth went dry from hope and fear. He wanted to set the violin down, tell Master Jefferson he was sorry, and run home as fast as his legs would go, but he couldn’t move. His feet had frozen to the floor.

  Master Jefferson’s smooth, long-fingered hand came from behind Beverly, and carefully covered Beverly’s hand on the stick—on the bow. Master Jefferson plucked at Beverly’s fingers to loosen their grip, and then curved around them. Master Jefferson held the bow like it was something alive.

  His other hand covered Beverly’s hand on the strings. Softly he drew the bow across the strings. It made a sound.

  Master Jefferson said, “Hold it gently. You’ve got to coax the music out.”

  Beverly turned and looked up at him. The last time he’d been close to Master Jefferson had been at Christmas, months ago. Master Jefferson was tall and thin and loosely put together, his joints floppy like the ones on Harriet’s wooden doll. His gray hair hung untied around his shoulders. He wore old gray breeches and a red waistcoat Beverly’s mama had made last year.

  “Hello, Beverly,” he said.

  “Hello,” Beverly whispered.

  “How old are you now?”

  “Seven,” Beverly said. “Seven years and one day. Yesterday was my birthday. April first, that’s the day I was born.”

  “I remember. Happy birthday.” Master Jefferson smiled. The lines around his eyes crinkled. “It’s good to see you again. I like having children around. In Washington Miss Martha’s been keeping house for me, and her children stay with us there.”

  “They’re here now,” Beverly said.

  “Yes,” said Master Jefferson. “Aren’t I lucky?”

  “But Miss Edith and the new baby had to stay behind.”

  Master Jefferson raised an eyebrow. “Miss Edith?”

  “Miss Edith,” Beverly said, “that went with you to Washington.” Master Jefferson looked puzzled, so Beverly explained. “Miss Edith that’s married to the blacksmith, Joe Fossett. Miss Edith that lives with you. She just had a baby, right before Mama had Maddy, and it was a boy and they named him James.”

  “Oh. You mean Edy? The cook? My apprentice cook?”

  “Yes, sir.” Beverly nodded. “Joe Fossett’s real sorry they didn’t come home with you. He understands, ’cause the baby’s so little, but he wanted to see them. He misses them. We all do.”

  “I see.” Master Jefferson pulled a chair closer and sat down. He turned Beverly around to face him and held him lightly between his knees.

  Beverly smiled. He touched the side of Master Jefferson’s face. “Your eyes are gray,” he said. “Just like my baby brother’s. Maddy has eyes just like yours.”

  “Is that what you’re calling him?” Master Jefferson sounded amused. “Maddy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “His name is James Madison. He was named after the patriot James Madison, a good friend of mine.”

  “Yes, sir. Mama said so. But she calls him Madison so we don’t get him mixed up with Miss Edith’s baby James, and Harriet and I call him Maddy because Madison’s too long to say.”

  “I see. And do you call Harriet Harry?”

  “No, sir,” Beverly said. “She smacks me if I do.”

  Master Jefferson laughed. “You don’t smack her back, I hope.”

  “No, sir,” Beverly said. “Mama said I can’t ’cause she’s littler than me, and a girl. But it’s not fair. She’s little, but she hits hard.”

  “Little sisters are never fair,” Master Jefferson said.

  Beverly thought about this. “Do you have a little sister?” he asked.

  “I do. I had four of them when I was growing up.”

  “Did they smack you?”

  “I don’t recall.” Master Jefferson poked the top of Beverly’s nose. “But I do know that I never, ever smacked them back. Neither must you. A gentleman never hits ladies. Nor sisters either.”

  Master Jefferson had patches of sunburned skin on his cheeks, and a dark spot on his waistcoat that looked like ink. Beverly touched it.

  “Mama’ll have a job getting that out,” he said.

  Master Jefferson looked at the spot too. “I write so many letters, I’m always covered in ink.” He looked back at Beverly. “So, why are you here? Did your mama give you a message for me?”

  Beverly bit his lip. He wished he could say yes. “No, sir.”

  “Did Burwell, or someone else?”

  “No, sir. I just sort of came by myself.”

  “My bedroom’s private. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yes, sir. It means I’m supposed to stay out.” Beverly took a deep breath. “I just wanted—I wanted to see—” He looked around. How much could he say? His hand came down on the violin.

  “You wanted to see the violin?”

  “Yes, sir,” Beverly said. It wasn’t all of the truth, but it was a piece of the truth. “I love this violin.”

  Master Jefferson looked surprised. “You do?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Beverly. “I like—I sure like to listen to you play.”

  Master Jefferson held up his right hand and slowly flexed his fingers. “I used to play for hours on end,” he said. “A long time ago. I played in string quartets before the war. But I broke my wrist; it doesn’t bend very easily, and it aches after a while. So I don’t play as often or as well. You know about the war, don’t you? The Revolution? How we started a new country?”

  “No, sir,” Beverly said.

  “You must learn about it. It’s important. We broke away from England and . . .” Master Jefferson paused, and smiled again. “You’re young, I forget. My grandchildren don’t understand it yet either.”

  He lifted the violin and set it into place beneath Beverly’s chin. “But seven years old might be old enough for this. Give it a try. Be gentle.”

  Beverly didn’t know which strings to push or how hard to push them, but he moved the bow the way Master Jefferson had. The violin screeched. Beverly stopped. “Did I break it?” he asked, alarmed.

  Master Jefferson laughed. “No. It always sounds like that at first.” He seemed to be thinking about something. After a moment he asked, “Are you a hard worker? Would you work to learn to play the violin?”

  Beverly’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes! Yes, sir!”

  Master Jefferson smiled. He cupped his hand around Beverly’s face, so quickly Beverly barely felt it, then rose and went to a cabinet built into the wall. He came back with a small wooden case. “I have several violins,” he said. “The one you’re holding is my best. Italian. It’s not an instrument for a boy. But this one”—he took the Italian violin away and put the case he was holding into Beverly’s hands—“this is what they call a kit violin. You can strap this onto the back of a horse to travel and bounce it around without hurting it. It doesn’t sound as pretty as the Italian violin, but it’s a good deal harder to break. Mind, you’ll still have to be careful.

  “I’m going to give you this violin,” he continued. “Do you know Jesse Scott, down in Charlottesville?”

  Beverly nodded. Jesse Scott’s wife was Joe Fossett’s sister.

  “He’s a good fiddler, and a good teacher,” Master Jefferson said. “You go down to him with this violin, and tell him I said he’s
to give you lessons. Once a week. And in between you practice. I’ll expect to hear progress by the time I come back here this summer. All right?”

  Beverly clutched the wooden case tight to his chest. He swallowed hard. “Sir?”

  “What’s wrong? You need lessons, in order to learn.”

  “Yes, sir, but—” Beverly bit his lip. “Couldn’t you teach me?”

  Master Jefferson looked away. “No,” he said. “Jesse will suit you better.”

  “Yes, sir.” Beverly knew he shouldn’t have asked.

  Master Jefferson patted his back. “Go on home. Your mama will be wanting you, and I have work to do.”

  Beverly was halfway to the door when Master Jefferson spoke again. “Beverly—”

  Beverly turned.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, sir,” Beverly said. He smiled. “You’re the president. President of the United States. Mama says it’s a very important job.”

  An odd expression flitted across Master Jefferson’s face. For a moment he almost looked sad. Beverly wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. But the look faded. Master Jefferson said, “That’s right. You go on home.”

  Beverly walked quietly out of the great house, but as soon as his feet hit dirt he ran. He tore into the cabin and didn’t care if he woke the baby, not one bit.

  “Mama, Mama!” he shouted. “Papa gave me a violin!”

  Chapter Two

  Papa

  Mama wheeled about, angry. She said, “Don’t you call him Papa.”

  “But—” Beverly danced up and down, waving the violin. “I’m going to take lessons, from Jesse Scott, and he gave me the violin, Papa, he really did, and when he comes back in the summer—”

  “Don’t you ever call him Papa,” Mama said. “Do you hear me?” She shook her finger at him. Mama never messed around.

  “Yes, Mama,” said Beverly. “But—”

  “But nothing,” Mama said.

  Beverly looked at the floor. “But you said he’s my father. You said so.” Mama had, a week ago. Beverly’d had that buzzing feeling in his stomach ever since. He had wondered if it could possibly be true. Now he had a violin to prove it.

  Mama said, “What you know in your head and what you can say out loud are not always the same. You know that—”

  “You’re not stupid,” chimed Harriet. Beverly glared at her. Mama had told Harriet about their father too. Beverly wished she hadn’t.

  “I don’t ever want to hear you call him Papa,” Mama said. “Not to me, not to Harriet, not to anybody. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Now, show me this violin.” She took Beverly on her lap and helped him open the case.

  Beverly snuggled against her. “He gave it to me,” he said. “To keep.”

  Mama kissed him. “It’s a fine thing, to learn to play the violin.”

  “He wants me to,” Beverly said. “He said.”

  When Mama told Beverly that Master Jefferson was his father, she called it a secret everybody knew.

  “Everybody in the world?” he asked.

  “No,” Mama said. “Everybody at Monticello. The folks in Charlottesville whisper about it. Some people spread talk farther away, but we don’t need to worry about them.”

  Beverly nodded because he thought Mama expected him to, but he didn’t understand.

  Mama said Master Jefferson was president of the entire country, which was so big, a single person could never see it all, not if that person traveled all his days. She said Master Jefferson was a very important man. Beverly already knew that. He was proud to learn he had an important man for his father. He didn’t understand why it had to be a secret.

  “Because I say so,” Mama said. She sighed, and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You’re maybe too young to know. I shouldn’t have told you, maybe. But if you’re old enough to ask, I figure you’re old enough to hear the truth.”

  He wouldn’t have thought to ask about his father if not for Joe Fossett. A few days before Master Jefferson came home, Davy Hern, the wagon man, arrived with a load of goods from Washington. Davy always brought Master Jefferson’s heavy luggage ahead. As he made the last turn onto Mulberry Row, Davy let out a big halloo, and folks came running from everywhere to hear his news. Beverly dashed out his cabin door. He saw Joe Fossett come out of the blacksmith shop and take three big steps toward the wagon, and then Beverly saw the light go out of Joe Fossett’s face. It was like somebody snuffing a candle.

  “She didn’t come?” Joe Fossett said. He ran up to the wagon and grabbed Davy’s arm. “Where’s Edith? Why didn’t she come home? Is she all right? What about the baby?”

  “They’re all right,” Davy said. “They’re fine. Baby’s healthy. Nursing fine. Edith thought four days of travel might be too much for them, though, in this wet weather. She said to tell you she’s sorry, and she and James’ll see you in July.”

  Joe shook Davy’s hand, and went back to the shop before old Mr. Stewart could kick up a fuss. Beverly helped unload the wagon. He thought about that look on Joe Fossett’s face, that joy snuffed cold.

  He waited until nighttime, when Harriet was asleep and Mama was stroking his back. Then he told Mama all about it. “Why was Joe Fossett sad?”

  “He misses Miss Edith,” Mama said. “He wants to see his baby boy. He expected they’d come home.” After a pause she said, “It’s hard for families and mamas and daddies to be apart.”

  Beverly thought of his family—Harriet snoring beside him, and Maddy making little baby noises from the cradle. Mama sat on the chair beside the bed, but later, when she got tired, she’d crawl in with him and Harriet. It was such a nice night, the fire crackling low. Beverly didn’t think they needed a daddy.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I haven’t got one.”

  “Haven’t got what?” Mama asked.

  “A daddy,” he said.

  Mama laughed. “Of course you do. Everybody’s got a daddy.”

  “Do not,” said Beverly.

  “Every living thing,” Mama continued. “Every cow in the field. Every chicken’s got a daddy. So do you.”

  “Well, who is it, then? He doesn’t live around here. Is he dead?”

  Mama’s hand stopped stroking Beverly’s back. “He lives here sometimes. He’s not dead.” After a pause she added, “Your daddy’s Master Jefferson.”

  Beverly sat straight up. “Mama! Are you sure?”

  She laughed again. “Yes. I’m sure. Hush, you’ll wake Maddy.”

  “Who’s his daddy? Who’s Harriet’s?”

  “Master Jefferson. All my children have the same daddy.” Mama pushed him back down. “But you listen, Beverly. It’s a secret. You mustn’t talk about it, except to me. Not to anybody. If you have questions, you ask me and I’ll answer you, but I don’t want you talking about it outside this room. Promise.”

  “Why?” asked Beverly.

  “’Cause I said so,” said Mama.

  “He got more children around here?” Beverly asked.

  “No,” Mama said. “Just you three. And the ones I had that died. And Miss Martha, of course. And Miss Maria, and the other babies his wife had, but they all died a long time ago.”

  “Can I tell Joe Fossett?” Beverly asked.

  “No, sir. You may not.”

  “Uncle Peter? Uncle John?”

  “No.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Nobody, Beverly. You promise me.”

  “What about Miss Martha?”

  Mama pushed her lips together. “I’m not joking, Beverly. I told you this, and I’m telling you not to speak about it. Especially not to Miss Martha. You’ve got no business talking to Miss Martha anyhow.”

  Beverly considered. He had never thought much about his father before. Some people had daddies around, and some didn’t, that was all. He’d never thought his daddy could be Master Jefferson. “Doesn’t nobody know?”

  “Doesn’t anybody,” Mama corrected.
“Yes. Lots of people know, but we can’t talk about it.”

  “Mama,” Beverly said, “that doesn’t make sense.”

  “It will when you’re older,” Mama said.

  Beverly thought hard. He’d heard people say how sad it was that Master Jefferson had only old Miss Martha left, out of all his children. Now here was Beverly, and Harriet, and Maddy. That wasn’t sad at all. “Mama? Why don’t we tell people? Maybe some people would be glad to know. Miss Martha—”

  Mama sighed. “Miss Martha and Miss Maria were the children of Master Jefferson’s wife. I’m . . .” She paused.

  “Won’t he marry you?” asked Beverly.

  “He can’t,” Mama said, after a second silence.

  “Why not?”

  Mama sighed again. “A black person can’t marry a white person. A slave can’t marry at all.”

  This was news to Beverly. “Are you a slave, Mama?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I?”

  “We’ll talk about that later,” Mama said.

  “Are Harriet and Maddy—”

  “Later,” Mama said. “You’ve had enough talk for the one night.”

  Beverly tried to hold silent, but finally he had to say, “Then Joe Fossett, he’s not a slave.”

  “How do you figure?” asked Mama.

  “’Cause he’s married,” Beverly said. “He’s married to Miss Edith.”

  “Yes and no,” Mama said. “Joe and Miss Edith pledged to each other. They’re married, but not by law. They’re married in their hearts. Joe and Miss Edith—they’re both slaves. We’ll talk about it later, all right?”

  “Are you married to Master Jefferson in your heart, Mama? Like Joe and Edith?”

  “Oh, Beverly,” Mama said.

  “Are you?”

  “Of course I am,” Mama said. “Now go to sleep.”

  In the morning Beverly thought of another question. “Does he love me, Mama?” he asked. “Does he love me like Joe Fossett loves baby James?”

  Mama smiled at him. “Of course he loves you,” she said. “He named you. William Beverly, after a friend of his father’s. And you’ll see. Someday you’ll have a fine life, because of him.”