Thomas Jefferson – Where Angels Fear To Tread
By Lorenzo Mann
Copyright 2019
PREFACE: This fiction story follows the timeline and events that began in my story Alexander Hamilton and the Smuggler's Plot. This is also a work of historical fiction set in colonial America during the late 1700's. The author has taken creative license with the characters, settings and situations in the story and has created this work for entertainment purposed only.
Chapter 1 – An Unhappy Accounting
Thomas Jefferson was in a foul mood. The master of Monticello solemnly paced the halls of his mansion and fumed at his current predicament. The house servants knew from bitter experience that when their master was in these dark moods, they should provide him plenty of space and focus on their duties which allowed that. Jefferson's restless moodiness was due to the visit of an old business acquaintance, Mr. Drake Marley an accountant from Richmond. Old Marley was considered by many as the best accountant in Virginia and he was at Monticello to audit the plantations accounts.
Mr. Jefferson was agitated at the prospect of bad financial news from Marley. He stared out of a window and snorted derisively thinking of the coming conversation with Marley. The old man was a curmudgeon. A fastidious bean counter, completely unable to see beyond his thick round spectacles or to understand Jefferson's unique situation. As a gentleman planter, he was burdened with certain social expectations and these were often expensive. The Virginia aristocracy were accustomed to lavish dinner parties with the best of food and wine. Ever mindful of his social duties, Jefferson held regular dinners for Virginia's leading citizens and served the finest food and drink. Closely related to the entertainment expense were the nearly continuous remodeling projects on the mansion itself. A select group of the plantation slaves labored at this, but there were costs involved. Jefferson's scientific research and library were other unavoidable causes of red ink in the plantation books. Being a leading social and intellectual leader in Virginia forced Jefferson to embrace these added responsibilities. But Marley would understand none of this.
Jefferson paced by his closed office door and paused to listen but heard nothing from inside. He paced down the corridor and paused at another window. Old Marley would be behind the desk; shoulders slumped forward, wire spectacles perched on his nose, with that droopy, aged, face hovering inches above an open ledger book. Jefferson grimaced at the thought of having to justify his spending to Marley. The man's accounting expertise was beyond reproach, but beyond that skill, he lacked imagination, creativity, or inventive genius. These marks of character were the life blood that energized Jefferson's life at Monticello and were key to his success as a scholar and gentleman. In Marley's narrow view, Jefferson's genius must be restrained by the measure of money in the plantation's accounts.
Suddenly from behind the office door a bell rang, and Jefferson turned from the window. Instantly, a house servant, Old Ely, appeared in the corridor. He tapped twice before opening the door. Ely remained in the hall and leaned his face through the barely opened door, "Yes, sir?"
"Bring me some tea," Marley's dry, muffled, voice instructed.
"Right away, sir," Old Ely softly replied and gently closed the door. He shot a quick glance in Jefferson's direction and shuffled slowly away toward the kitchen.
Jefferson scowled, he would have liked some tea. That insolent old, fool, Ely had not bothered to ask if his master needed refreshment. Jefferson would remember this insult, perhaps Ely needed some time back in the fields. A few days of back breaking labor would serve as a good reminder of who was master of the Big House.
After two days of intolerable waiting for Marley to finish his work, Jefferson found himself seated before his own desk. He fought down a rising tide of anxiety. The normally immaculate desk was now covered in several stacks of financial ledgers. Any remaining desk spaces was buried beneath carelessly strewn papers covered in columns of numbers with notes scribbled along the edges. Jefferson shuddered inwardly, this was Marley's doing as he dissected the financial structure of Monticello and by extension, Jefferson himself.
Jefferson did is best to maintain an expression of amused indifference as he peered across the mess at Marley, behind the desk. He expected an unpleasant conversation was about to begin, so he tried a pleasant opening remark, "Well. Mr. Marley, am I correct in believing Monticello is in sound fiscal health?" Jefferson suspected Old Marley was such a social imbecile, that he would not recognize Jefferson's agitated state.
Marley stared blankly over his spectacles, his mouth hung slightly open.
Jefferson considered himself the master of every occasion, but suddenly realized he was becoming tense in the lingering silence. His false smile was about to begin quivering.
"You would be in error, sir." Marley breathed out slightly above a whisper.
Jefferson's brow furled in confusion, "You can't possibly mean to imply that there are problems with the accounts. You are pulling my leg, Marley."
Marley's expression remained blank, "I do not mean to imply. I speak in earnest, sir. We must have a frank discussion concerning your financial mismanagement of the plantation."
Mismanagement! Jefferson was triggered and hotly leapt to his feet. "I object to that word, sir! Now, see here, Marley, I know something of these accounts." he declared sternly.
"I find that extremely doubtful, sir." Marley said without emotion.
Jefferson was ready to grab Marley by the throat but restrained himself. The old man was well known and any assault on his person would reflect poorly on Jefferson.
The tension was broken when Marley rang the desk bell, and after two knocks, Old Ann's face appeared at the door, "Yes, sir?"
"Bring us tea," Marely said.
"Yes, sir," Ann replied and gently closed the door.
Marley set the bell on the desk and slowly looked back to Jefferson, "What happened to Ely?"
Jefferson face remained stern, "Ely has found other work," he said flatly.
Marley considered this and finally said, "Sit down Mr. Jefferson."
Jefferson began to speak and stopped himself. He was defeated and at the mercy of his drab, dusty, man. He raised a defiant arm to speak but stopped again and slowly slumped down into the chair. Thomas Jefferson was the image of a broken man.
Three hours later, he felt much worse. But at least Marley's tongue lashing was finished, and the old accountant had departed. Now, Jefferson was left to ponder his position. The evening sun was fading in the window as he sat at his desk, his head cradled in both hands. Marley had painted a grim picture of financial "mismanagement." Jefferson would love to horsewhip Marley for daring to speak to him in that manner, but it would not change anything.
Stop your foolish spending the old man had said or face disaster. No more French literature, paintings, wine, or food. Jefferson could not imagine such an existence. It was true that spending had surpassed income for the past several years. And the recent loss of a valuable cargo from the French ship LaPoofe had hurt the numbers. But even Jefferson had been shocked by Marley's final assessment. At his rate, he would be bankrupt in less than a year.
TO BE CONTINUED in Chapter 2: A Friend In Need
