wore no wig. His suit of clothing was of the plainest linsey-woolsey, which he likely wore to put him in a good light with Pa. He knew better than to show up in any clothing of English cloth or making.
Mama smiled. "Mr. Thacker, that's some wilderness land you wish to buy."
"Well, yes, ma'am. For my sons. I buy it for my sons."
"It was my father's land. My father was a prosperous planter, you know."
"Ah yes, indeed." It was obvious that all Mr. Thacker wanted to know was that Mama would soon sign the deed. Behind him stood Pa, but as usual, Mama never acknowledged Pa's presence. He was dead.
I prayed she wouldn't make mention of that now.
"But he had a penchant for running into debt. My husband bought this property from him, lest the sheriff take possession of it."
"I understand," said Mr. Thacker.
"And now you shall own it. I wish you well with it, Mr. Thacker."
I guided Mama's hand, for it shook. Painstakingly, she wrote out her name. Sarah Shelton Henry.
"If my husband were here he would cry out like a crow that could not fly in a field of corn," she said.
"My wife's recent illness has left her somewhat weakened," I heard Pa whispering to Mr. Thacker.
The paper was signed. Mama sat back in her chair like Queen Charlotte, as if she had just delivered a proclamation. "I shall have another cup of tea now," she directed.
The look in her eyes was one of triumph. And I knew why. Because Pa was "dead" and she had stepped in and taken his place in matters legal.
Mr. Thacker and Patsy left the room. Outside, the snow continued to fall thickly. I shivered, but not from the cold. I shivered because, in my bones, I knew that somehow, in the act of guiding Mama's pen, of propping her up and making her appear normal, I had betrayed her. And become, if only for a few minutes, part of the madness in our house.
***
P A'S FATHER DIED in January. In March, Pa made another one of his successful speeches, and Spencer Roane, who was a friend of John's, came to tell us about it. His father was a burgess from Essex County.
"What a speech your pa made at the last session!" Roane told us. "My father is in a rapture because of it."
We were in our barn. Young Roane loved horses as much as John did. I thought him handsome, and I think he took kind notice of me, too. But I was only ten and still considered a child.
"People are saying that your pa is a man set apart," Roane said. "Edmund Randolph says his imagination paints the soul."
I was at the age when just being near a handsome man made me mindful of all my shortcomings, when I dreamed, for hours after, of how he'd looked and what he'd said.
Roane came to supper. My sister Patsy made him repeat everything being said about Pa. Then she took advantage of the enthusiasm of the moment and asked Pa if she and MyJohn could wed. Pa said yes.
Patsy was nothing if not conniving. She had a fancy wedding that September.
"Do you think it's in keeping with the tone of the times?" MyJohn asked her. "With all the colonies indignant over three pence per pound on the tea?"
Patsy thought so, yes. "It might be the last time we are all together in celebration," she said.
Well, it was in keeping with the tone set by our new governor, Lord Dunmore, anyway. He rode around in a coach given to him by George the Third, just like Mama said he would. They say he is a very good-natured, jolly fellow, who likes his bottle and is known for his midnight sorties.
When my brother John was in Williamsburg for the steeplechase in the summer, he himself saw the governor and his drunken companions clipping the tails of the chief justice's carriage horses. I think the man is more mad than Mama. But, of course, he is a man and in a position of power. Thus he is called a jolly good fellow.
So Patsy had her wedding in the front parlor. Guests feasted out under the trees.
She wore Mama's wedding dress. Blue striped satin, and pale blue calamanco shoes. I didn't even know Mama had kept these things. And I felt a
Mama smiled. "Mr. Thacker, that's some wilderness land you wish to buy."
"Well, yes, ma'am. For my sons. I buy it for my sons."
"It was my father's land. My father was a prosperous planter, you know."
"Ah yes, indeed." It was obvious that all Mr. Thacker wanted to know was that Mama would soon sign the deed. Behind him stood Pa, but as usual, Mama never acknowledged Pa's presence. He was dead.
I prayed she wouldn't make mention of that now.
"But he had a penchant for running into debt. My husband bought this property from him, lest the sheriff take possession of it."
"I understand," said Mr. Thacker.
"And now you shall own it. I wish you well with it, Mr. Thacker."
I guided Mama's hand, for it shook. Painstakingly, she wrote out her name. Sarah Shelton Henry.
"If my husband were here he would cry out like a crow that could not fly in a field of corn," she said.
"My wife's recent illness has left her somewhat weakened," I heard Pa whispering to Mr. Thacker.
The paper was signed. Mama sat back in her chair like Queen Charlotte, as if she had just delivered a proclamation. "I shall have another cup of tea now," she directed.
The look in her eyes was one of triumph. And I knew why. Because Pa was "dead" and she had stepped in and taken his place in matters legal.
Mr. Thacker and Patsy left the room. Outside, the snow continued to fall thickly. I shivered, but not from the cold. I shivered because, in my bones, I knew that somehow, in the act of guiding Mama's pen, of propping her up and making her appear normal, I had betrayed her. And become, if only for a few minutes, part of the madness in our house.
***
P A'S FATHER DIED in January. In March, Pa made another one of his successful speeches, and Spencer Roane, who was a friend of John's, came to tell us about it. His father was a burgess from Essex County.
"What a speech your pa made at the last session!" Roane told us. "My father is in a rapture because of it."
We were in our barn. Young Roane loved horses as much as John did. I thought him handsome, and I think he took kind notice of me, too. But I was only ten and still considered a child.
"People are saying that your pa is a man set apart," Roane said. "Edmund Randolph says his imagination paints the soul."
I was at the age when just being near a handsome man made me mindful of all my shortcomings, when I dreamed, for hours after, of how he'd looked and what he'd said.
Roane came to supper. My sister Patsy made him repeat everything being said about Pa. Then she took advantage of the enthusiasm of the moment and asked Pa if she and MyJohn could wed. Pa said yes.
Patsy was nothing if not conniving. She had a fancy wedding that September.
"Do you think it's in keeping with the tone of the times?" MyJohn asked her. "With all the colonies indignant over three pence per pound on the tea?"
Patsy thought so, yes. "It might be the last time we are all together in celebration," she said.
Well, it was in keeping with the tone set by our new governor, Lord Dunmore, anyway. He rode around in a coach given to him by George the Third, just like Mama said he would. They say he is a very good-natured, jolly fellow, who likes his bottle and is known for his midnight sorties.
When my brother John was in Williamsburg for the steeplechase in the summer, he himself saw the governor and his drunken companions clipping the tails of the chief justice's carriage horses. I think the man is more mad than Mama. But, of course, he is a man and in a position of power. Thus he is called a jolly good fellow.
So Patsy had her wedding in the front parlor. Guests feasted out under the trees.
She wore Mama's wedding dress. Blue striped satin, and pale blue calamanco shoes. I didn't even know Mama had kept these things. And I felt a
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