Nadia and Monticello
Jessica Bruce
1818.
Inside my dear Monticello, a colored is sitting no more than a few inches from me. Her dark skin is most alluring. Reflecting in the sunshine of my personal quarters, the chocolate before me is mildly charming. My right crosses over my other leg, as I tilt my head just so, contemplating.
I observe in curious fascination as she stirs, ever directing her attention somewhere else, always moving about in her seat but never delivering to me her own eyes. I suppose it would only be natural. In Virginia, slaves are nearly on every estate so it seems. Perhaps, she thinks she is here to work. Of course that may be reasonable but her purpose has a more define element this ‘forenoon.
“Madam, how are you on this glorious day?” I ask politely.
The woman finally sets her blue eyes upon myself but she is not so eager in expressions. “Well?” I probe with a less becoming tone as before.
“Good.”
“Is that all you will say?” I ask, raising an eyebrow and frowning. The answer was too simplistic for my tastes. I had hoped for a more divine conversation.
“Your hand.” She points in an almost accusing fashion as if I had done a great sort of crime that I surely and clearly did not.
Uncrossing my leg, I switch positions and lean to the right, stroking my chin curiously. “Yes. I should hope I have a hand, Madam.”
I hear her sigh ever loudly. For a woman, if she is as young in appearance, ill-bred mannerisms shall be reproached if this conversation begins to exhaust itself and I further say rudeness shall not be abided.
“Stop calling me Madam – Sir,” she says displeasingly. “I do have a name, call me by it. And of course I know you have a hand. I meant that your left is twitching. Why is your hand shaking anyway?”
“As you wish – Miss Nadia,” I nod. I decide to glance at it, to amuse her, and indeed my poor fingers, they splay apart so but curl into claws against the arm of my chair. I groan as I helplessly watch my left hand wretch. “I suffer from rheumatism,” I say with honesty but I flinch too hearing to me my own sadness in my voice.
“I’m sorry, sir.” She pauses. “Your home is pretty.”
“I do have a name myself,” I smile politely. “The compliment is also reassuring of your civility.”
“Jefferson,” she nods, delivering not the same courtesy of a pleasant expression.
“Mister Jefferson,” I correct her. Then I reposition myself, warding off the discomfort in my limbs by sitting up straight in my chair. “Have you seen not the gardens at Monticello?”
“No.”
I blink, taken aback by this revelation. “Why ever not?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s like asking why I am forced inside your home in the first place, Mister Jefferson. Why should I be forced to look at flowers?”
“You may depart at any point. However an absurd notion of forcibility came to pass will be a mystery in itself but one of my servants shall escort you out if that is so your wish.”
“Why do you talk weird?”
“Your tongue is not akin to my own, I agree,” I frown by the forwardness. Retorting in the precise manner, I ask her, “Miss Nadia, where is your family?”
“My brother is dead,” she deadpans. “Where is your own?”
I answer prompty, without a single thought. “Your question has given me ominous foreboding, Miss Nadia. Tried myself in the school of affliction, by the loss of every form of connection which can rive the human heart I know well what you may be feeling now,” I say honestly. “I pray God supports you under your unfortunate affliction.”
“You sound very upset,” she says softly.
“Time and silence are the only medicines,” I retort and then cough.
“I want to stay by the way but you are a strange man.”
I smile regardless of the melancholy exchange we entered in too but perhaps the strings of the heart are meant to be pulled every so often. It is in which we remember those we can no longer speak or be spoken too.
“Nay. In the art of conversation you excel not but there is a certain …”
“What?” she asks curiously and edges closer by pulling her chair forward. We are now less than three inches a part.
I pause myself. The word, seductive lies on the tip of my tongue but though I am attracted to her, perhaps only to her beauty, I think of the best interest, I should not allow myself to open completely.
I swallow, and smile, putting on a respectable but false expression. “Captivating.”
Miss Nadia rises. She is smiling too, for the first time. My heart, it beats too much for a proper count. She leans inwards and I feel her lips touch my right cheek.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she whispers in my ear.
Then, when I thought I might suffer failure to breathe, “I will let myself out,” Miss Nadia grins. “I enjoyed the visit,” then I despair as I am left alone shortly.
Afterward from Author:
This short story was written by the inspiration of someone else’s rebellious character who never speaks or wishes to be spoken too, much like the death of John Adam’s wife who departed October 28th, 1818.
With the assistance of the Jefferson and Adams’ Letters, I was able to briefly enter into the mind of the famous Jefferson.
Thanks for reading.
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