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He Plays the Violin

- June 12, 1776 –

Thomas Jefferson was a southern gentleman and, as such, he had received a proper southern gentleman's education. From a young age, he had learned to read and write better than most common men could speak and received extensive tutoring in mathematics, economics, sciences and history. But his favorite lessons, without fail, had always been in music.

Jefferson loved his violin. It had been his constant companion since his fourteenth year and, whether he found himself burdened with stress or bursting with joy, it was always there to give voice to his emotions.

Today the sound was light and happy. He had been reunited with his beloved Martha after six long months of separation, and her presence brightened even the dank, sequestered apartment he was confined to as he labored over the much-anticipated (and already reviled) Declaration of Independence.

His music dipped into a deeper, richer tone as his thoughts switched to the document at hand. He needed to find his inspiration again, his passion for the cause. Independence. Freedom. Striking away from the British oppressor. It was that cause that had brought him out here, away from his home and his darling wife, it was the cause that was worth the young lives surrendered on the battlefield. Yes, that was his cause, he could see it clearly once more, and that revelation was reflected in the final swell of his music, fading slowly back into comfortable silence.

"Wow. That was lovely."

Jefferson stopped, lifting his bow from the strings. The young man who had spoken was standing in the open door of his apartment, one hand resting on the doorframe, staring with wide blue eyes and a broad smile. Jefferson lowered his treasured instrument carefully. "Mr. Jones. I thought I closed that door."

"Ah, you did," Alfred Jones rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, stepping into the apartment. "I mean, it was closed when I got up here. I knocked! I swear I did, but I don't think you could hear me, so I just, you know."

He shrugged. Jefferson waved him off. "It's all right. Come on in. What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Adams asked me to come over and check on the Declaration," Alfred piped. He was always such an eager boy, and hardly seemed to notice the exasperated expression that passed over Jefferson's face. "He would've come over himself, but him and Mr. Dickenson have been arguing all morning and it doesn't look like they're going to let up any time soon."

Jefferson shook his head with a sigh. Adams and Dickenson, always Adams and Dickenson. What a pair. No one could talk sense into anything when those two got at it. "I suppose that will last for the rest of the day. Do have a seat, Jones, it was a long walk."

"Gee, thanks," Alfred said, settling into the small arm chair that Jefferson had indicated. The brief moment of relief that flashed over his face betrayed the exhaustion that had been gnawing at his body, but it was replaced quickly enough by his usual smile. "And heh, yeah, that's what Dr. Franklin said too. Those two really don't get along at all, do they?"

Jefferson shrugged in response and returned to his writing desk, setting his violin down safely on the edge of his bed. Unlike the bright and talkative Mr. Jones, who was always ready brightened up the downtime between the congressional proceedings with almost non-stop conversation, Jefferson was not a particular vocal man. He preferred to let his writing speak for him, the carefully chosen written word expressing his longings and desires a hundred times better than any spoken syllable.

Alfred pulled up one leg coquettishly, leaning his head against his knee and blinking up at Jefferson with wide, expectant eyes. "So…What have you got so far? On the Declaration, I mean."

Sighing, Jefferson shifted through the papers on his desk, drawing out the tattered page that held the portion of the manuscript that had, so far, met with his comrades' approval.

"When in the course of human events," he read aloud, not wanting to embarrass the boy if he didn't know how to read, "it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a descent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to separation."

Alfred blinked at him, turning his head to the side in confusion. "Well, it sure sounds pretty, Mr. Jefferson, but I don't really get it."

"I expected as much," Jefferson said with a small shake of his head. "It just means that we're declaring our independence, and we're going to tell them exactly why because it's only polite to do so before we leave."

"Oh. Well, why couldn't you just say that?"

Jefferson smiled. "Because the British parliament has proven that they will never take our complaints seriously unless they are expressed with the utmost elegance. They're rather stuffy that way."

"Yeah, that sounds like England all right," Alfred said, and laughed heartily. It was a pleasant sound, Jefferson decided, even more so than usual laughter. It was a bit like the music his brother, Randolph, loved to play on his 'fiddle' as he chose to call it; bright and fresh and not quite like anything the world had heard before.

"So what's the fiddle for?" Alfred asked suddenly, pointing to Jefferson's prized instrument.

"I don't 'fiddle,' Mr. Jones, it's a violin," Jefferson responded with a slight scold in his tone, not much different from the way the tutors used to school Randolph for his use of the vernacular. "And its current purpose is inspiration. I use it to connect to the proper emotions so that I may better express them in the written word."

Alfred looked incredulous. "Inspiration?"

"Yes. Music is a window to the soul, after all."

"I thought that's what they said about people's eyes," said Alfred, and yawned.

Jefferson raised a slim eyebrow at that. "You sound tired."

"Do I?" Alfred asked, and yawned again before he could help it. "Oh. Guess I do. Sorry 'bout that, Mr. Jefferson. It's just that I was up most of the night with Mr. McNair, cleaning. Then we had to get up really early to get everything set up for Congress, so I decided it was easier to just not go to sleep."

"That's not healthy for a boy your age."

"I'm fine," muttered Alfred, leaning into the cushions of the chair. "And I'm not a boy."

Jefferson hummed noncommittally at that. It was clear enough that the poor boy was on his last legs – he was beginning to suspect that the sleepless night had been preceded by at least one other day of minimal rest. With that in mind, he picked up his violin once more and began to play a lullaby.

Soon enough, the low, sweet tones began to do their job, lulling the teen into a doze. His blue eyes flickered close and he curled into the comfort of the chair, resting his head against the cushions. Slowly, whatever defenses he had built up to protect himself slipped away, vanishing as quickly as his consciousness.

Jefferson was surprised at the sudden wave of emotion that had overcome him. He'd wanted to help this boy, as friend to friend, in any small way that he could, but had not expected something like this. It was as though he was watching over his own child, a being so infinitely important and precious that his peace of mind was worth sacrificing for. He kept playing long after he had intended, looping the song around three full times with the determination that Alfred Jones be allowed to rest.

Alfred smiled sleepily and offered on last, tired comment before he slipped all the way. "Digging for inspiration again, Mr. Jefferson?"

"Indeed."

Jefferson set his violin to the side, remaining seated and silent for a moment to watch the boy sleep. Quietly, he moved to the chest at the foot of his bed and drew out a light quilt, which he laid over the sleeping form. Then he returned to the desk, dipped his quill in the ink and began to write once more.

( - )

"Thomas?"

"I'm here, Martha."

Jefferson's young wife hurried to the top of the stairs with a spring in her step, bearing the packages of her shopping in her arms. Virginia or Pennsylvania, she was determined to enjoy her time with her husband to the fullest. The last year of separation had been hard on them, as she was sure it had to be for all the Congressional wives. But now they were together again, and they would make the most of it, starting with a nice mid-day meal.

When she arrived at their apartment, however, she was surprised to find that her husband was not alone.

A young man, barely more than a boy, was asleep in the armchair in the far corner of the room. A spare quilt had been tucked around his curled form. Thomas sat at his writing desk half a room away, his ink bottle almost spent, still scratching away at a new stack of papers that Martha was quite certain had not been there before.

Martha glanced between her husband and the visitor cautiously before she moved to set their groceries on the table. "Thomas, who is that?"

"His name is Alfred Jones," Thomas explained, his voice quiet so as not to disturb the slumbering teen. "He's a custodial assistant at the Hall, sent on errand. As you can see, they've been rather overworking him, so I thought he could use the rest. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," said Martha with a bit of amusement in her voice. She had always known that Thomas had a soft spot, but it was rare to see it displayed so openly. She crept across the room with silent steps, lifting one of the pages off the top of her husband's stack. "'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness…' Oh, Thomas, that's lovely."

"Isn't it though?" Thomas said with a small, unreadable smile. "It's the funniest thing, but I've found myself rather inspired today."

"That's so wonderful to hear," Martha said, and leaned down to steal a quick kiss. "You just keep on working, then, and I'll get some lunch ready. For three, of course."

"Yes…Yes, of course. Thank you, dear."

Martha beamed, squeezing her husband's shoulder as she straightened. As quietly as a church mouse, she tip-toed across the room to their sleeping visitor. For just a moment, she was taken aback by just how handsome he was, with his golden hair and flawless skin and his face so peaceful in the bliss of sleep. She smiled, tucked him in and prayed to Providence that her children would be equally blessed and beautiful.

"Such a lovely boy," she sighed, brushing the golden bangs back just long enough to plant a small, motherly kiss on his forehead. "Sleep well, Mr. Jones. Sleep well."

Notes: Both Thomas Jefferson and his younger brother Randolph were taught to read music and play the violin as part of the education. However, while Thomas preferred the classics, Randolph preferred 'the vernacular idiom.' Some stories say that he would go down among the family slaves, play the fiddle and dance for half the night.