RP for rememberthelady.
It is not precisely Monticello, not as Jefferson remembers it. No, the Monticello in Jefferson's memory is ever imperfect, ever in process of improvement and renovation. He could never fully settle on the precise way he wanted it to go, so it was never truly finished
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She thinks, finally, to turn, and is greeted not only with the sight of a magnificent house rising behind her, but also that of a figure so familiar to her heart as to make it swell for a moment, in affection as much as recognition.
"Mr. Jefferson," she calls, and there is no mistaking the delight in the turn of her lips.
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"Mrs. Adams," he greets, with a courteous bow.
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"Truly, yours is a face I thought never to see again, and a hand I was certain might never clasp mine once more. I confess that I do not understand how this has come to pass, but it will elicit no argument on my part."
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He is silent, for a moment, contemplating her words. "I know not what being, or force, shapes this place," he says, "beyond that of my own mind. I - am given to the feeling that there is something beyond, but I may not go. Not yet."
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Abigail purses her lips briefly, considering their situation. "Are there others here? Whether known to you or not, it does not matter. It is my fervent hope you have not existed here alone, before this place brought my path once more to an intersection with your own."
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During the last years of his life, Monticello was near-flooded with visitor after visitor, each wishing to take home their piece of revolutionary history. His own space, and his own intact mind and body, were precious to him.
After that, however, he began to cease being alone, and was simply lonely.
"I have been here a long time, I think," says Jefferson. "Not so many days, but the days have more hours in them, the hours more minutes."
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She knows her friend well enough--even on the other side of time and death, such as they are now--to know that there are things that appeal to his sensibilities and his needs perfectly at first, but, when the draw has long since faded, he may continue to cling to at least the appearance of enjoyment, without admitting his waning interest. It is, perhaps, a matter of pride, or a show of strength, or at the very least, an effort to hold sorrow at bay.
Abigail knows all these things, and she says nothing. She merely brings her free hand across her body, to rest it on his forearm just below where her arm rests in the crook of Jefferson's elbow.
"I have had that sense as well," she notes. "That the days seem different to what we were once accustomed. That time moves with a slower step, lingering rather than rushing
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"Your presence would never be an intrusion, Mrs. Adams," disclaims Jefferson. "I would accept your company at any time."
At mention of the stretch of time, his expression lightens. "Indeed," he says, "I may work this entire plantation, on my own, in peace, and still produce a crop in time for the turn of the seasons. I do not believe that was possible in the world of the living."
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She nods thoughtfully, and when she speaks again, there is perhaps a hint of gentle, amused teasing about her words. "Such a thing was not possible, no. Not even for one as devoted to the pursuit as you." Her features settle into a faint frown. "I had not occasion to attempt it, and yet I remained convinced that I could sit with a book, and finish it before a day had turned to the next. I know not from whence that conviction comes. Perhaps the same place that bids me believe I am but a new arrival to this curious place."
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"The slave quarters were here," he says. "In my Monticello."
Strange, that the idealized Monticello of his imagination does not feel his, but an illusion both sprung from within and forced from without. Better, yes, but better in ways that bring uncomfortable examination of his own life.
"I have hurt you and your husband both very deep," he says, in his even, almost distracted tone. "I hope you may accept my sorrow for the damage done to such a lasting friendship."
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There is a long silence as they walk, as Abigail lets his words settle over them both. Her lips turn, finally, in that same faint smile, and she pats his arm gently. "The damage was not so permanent. Here we are, yes? It seems to me, as well, that what damage there may have been was in a life we no longer inhabit, you and I. Let us not carry over what needs not be carried. Let us only carry over what lasts. Let us remain friends."
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He looks to her, his visage clouded but his eyes clear. "What becomes of Mr. Adams?" he questions. "I admit I have missed his habitual arguments."
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Her face falls a bit; Abigail turns her attention to the path before them, her eye s averted from Jefferson's. "I have no news of Mr. Adams," she tells him. "It appears I arrived in this place unaccompanied."
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"He will come, as you have," he says, with quiet certainty. "I would suppose that he had already ascended to a paradise of his own, but I can think of none complete lacking you by his side."
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"That was how I was quite certain this was not paradise in which I found myself, my friend. He himself was not here to accompany me."
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He has begun to suspect that this place, crafted of his own mind, such a peaceful paradise at first, is truly the most subtle version of hell. And he, himself, may deserve it, but Abigail most certainly does not.
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