Here in My Heart [jeffmads] || DISCONTINUED

"My Dearest"

My Dearest, Thomas,

I hope this letter finds you before you leave France. I look forward to seeing you in New York City soon.

Thomas frowned.

'New York City, why would I need to visit there?' he thought. And why had Madison written he was looking forward to seeing him again? His mind jumped back to his conversation with Lafayette.

'Don't', he told himself sternly, and continued to read the rest of the letter, discussing the new union's government and other similar topics. He found his eyes skipping down to the sign-off.

With the most affectionate attachment, I remain your obedient friend & servant,

James Madison Jr.

Thomas sat on his bed, slowly rocking side to side as the boat trundled over rolling waves. He re-read the letters sent by James, searching and scanning for answers in every line, trying to sort out his emotions. His thoughts were churning like the waves outside, too fast for him to understand them. There was something unusual about the letter, something he couldn't quite place. He read the letter again, eyes widening.

"Since when did he refer to me by Thomas in his letters?" He wondered aloud. The silence of his cabin greeted him unhelpfully.

The longer he stared at the greeting, his gaze seemed to find things that hadn't quite been there before. The ink spelling his name was much neater than the rest of the letter, as if it had been delicately caressed by the quill spelling it out—

—and a comma after dearest.

Thomas brought the paper closer to his face, afraid that he had misread the letter. He blinked. It was still there.

"What did he mean by 'My dearest, Thomas?" He fretted, glad to know that no one would be able to see the light pink dusting appearing on his cheeks in the privacy of his room.

Whatever James did mean, deep down Thomas secretly hoped it meant what he thought it meant. In a rush of energy, Thomas unbuckled his travel case and pulled out a wad of papers. He began to compare this letter to other ones sent by James in the past, spreading the masses of scrolls across the floor like a spider's web. A lantern cast flickering shadows over the mildly lit cabin as Thomas walked back and forth between the letters, picking his way through the spots of bare floor and leaning down every once in a while to inspect the sloping cursive closely.

None of them said "My dearest, Thomas".

This was new.

He rummaged through his bags under his cot, and found a leather bundle containing a stack of papers bonded thickly with string. The pages were worn and yellowed, softened by constant use. Some were charred around the edges, a curious incident Thomas remembered fondly. He flipped it open to the first empty page in the middle of the book, took a seat at his tiny work desk, and dipped his quill in a pot of ink:

September 31, 1789
I looked through the letters sent to me by Mr. Madison. In his most recent letter sent to me on the day of my departure, he wrote "My Dearest, Thomas" , and for the strangest reason I was suddenly overcome with an unsettling giddiness throughout. It changed the meaning, this comma. Did he intend it? Oh James, one stroke and you've consumed my waking days! Could I really be his dearest? Perhaps it was just a mistake and I am exciting myself for no reason. Yes, it must be. I'm simply reading far too into it. Why am I worrying about such a topic at all? He is my friend, and nothing more. Lafayette must be incorrect. I am not in love with James Madison Jr. I am not.

Suddenly, the boat made a violent lurching turn, which madeThomas's ink pot tip over and pool in a large midnight pool on his page.

"No, no, no, no!"

Thomas rushed to mop up the ink with his handkerchief, but the damage had already been done. The only legible portion of the entry was the date.

The ship swayed dangerously to the left once more, to the point when Jefferson was nearly falling out of his seat. The sparse contents on his desk rolled off the wood and crashed into the floor. He leapt out of his seat, using the wall for support, but lost balance after only seconds, and was thrown onto the ground. Below him, he could hear the ship's hull groaning from strain, and above him was the muffled sound of the crew shouting orders and curses.

Thomas quickly snatched his journal from the ground, slicing his hand on a hot shard of glass from the now-shattered lantern. He hissed and flinched backwards. After using his free hand to secure the book back into its hidden place in his bag, he stumbled down the hallway, eyes watering as he was tossed around like a bug flying on a haphazard gust of wind. Yelling could be heard like faint whispers over the thunderous crashing of waves against the ship's sides. It was coming from the upper deck. Sprinting up the stairs, one hand fastened firmly round the handrail, Jefferson threw open the door to find a worrying sight.

Angry storm clouds brewed directly above them, stretching out in all directions like the heavens had been consumed with a sinister, unearthly power. The darkened clouds blotted out the sun, setting the world in a filter of dismal grey. Louder than the furious crashing waves, was the deafening roar of a fierce windstorm. Murderous gales picked up drops of rain, transforming them into sharp pins that pelted at Jefferson's face like a swarm of bullets. Sailors ran in every direction on the main deck, shouting and screaming as if they could fight off the storm simply by yelling at it. At that moment the boat collided with a particularly solid wave, which knocked Thomas off his feet and into a giant puddle against the wall. He scrambled to regain his footing, then, vaguely recalling a chapter on ship mechanics he'd read a while back, he ran across the deck to help tighten the sails.

"Mr. Jefferson!" A tough-looking sailor yelled over the typhoon. "Passengers are to remain below deck!"

Thomas drew himself to his full height, a difficult thing to do without losing his balance.

"Does that seem to bother me?" He barked with a voice of utmost authority, as if he were the ship's captain himself, "We're in a storm for God's sake! Now help me pull the sails!"

"Yes, Mr. Jefferson" the sailor shouted.

Gradually, the rain became heavier. He discarded his magenta overcoat, which had been reduced to a sodden pile of cloth. His muscles ached with exhaustion, willing him to collapse on the ground and sleep right there and then, even with the hurricane swirling around him. His wet curls clung to his neck and chin, creating grooves for the water pelting down on him to run down when another bucket of seawater was dumped on him once again.

"Hold on!" Multiple crewmen screamed and the boat lurched to the side.

The same roughened sailor appeared by his side and took the rope out of his hands.

"Sir! You must go below deck, now! You have done your part, and your dedication is admirable, but you cannot risk your life for it. Please, go below deck!"

Thomas reluctantly agreed, his fatigue speaking for him. Someone grabbed onto his sleeve and guided back into a dry room. He could not tell who they were, for his eyes were already half-closed. When he reached his cabin, he did not even bother changing out of his bone-soaked clothes, not caring if it meant spending a week locked up in his room due to a cold.

Thomas climbed into bed, asleep before his head could even hit the pillow.