America's First Daughter: A Novel (20 page)

I contemplated what that might mean for Mr. Short—and for me. “Will this ruin his future?”

“He may believe so, but it may be his salvation. It would do him good to return to America at the soonest opportunity. Men too long in France acquire a fondness for luxury and a contempt for the simplicity of our own country.”

His words left me utterly appalled. “You cannot doubt Mr. Short’s patriotism!”

“Of course not.” Papa drew his gaze back to me. “I’m merely observing that, in my experience, young men in France get caught up in destructive affairs of the heart. They learn to consider fidelity to the marriage bed as an ungentlemanly practice.”

Mon Dieu
. Did Papa think Mr. Short a lecher? I burned at the indelicate warning. Indeed, I was too mortified to speak! Did he not recognize the hypocrisy of chiding other men for destructive affairs?

My gaze dropped to fists clenched upon the dining table, and Papa patted my balled-up hand. “If Short doesn’t secure the position he desires, we mustn’t let him take it too hard, Patsy. An American too long in Europe loses his knowledge, his morals, his health, his habits, and his happiness. I’d entertained only suspicions of this before, but what I see since coming here proves it.”

Having never heard my father speak even indirectly in criticism of Mr. Short before, a hollow pain took up residence in the center of my chest. “You think so ill of him?”

“To the contrary. William has my warmest and most fatherly affection. And I want nothing but the best for
all
my children.”

O
UR EVENINGS WERE FILLED WITH VISITORS
and Papa himself drafting in frantic, coded scribblings for Lafayette a charter of rights that should serve as the new constitution for France. It seemed too fraught a time for carving hearts and initials into trees, especially since I felt keenly the need to question Mr. Short.

Alas, my father kept him too busy. On the day the Third Estate officially declared themselves the
National Assembly,
and the clergy voted by small majority to join them, we heard cries of
“Vive le Roi! Vive le Assembl
ée Nationale!
”

That was the same day Marie came to call, bringing with her a little black miniature poodle with fluffy balls of fur upon its head and paws and tail. Every Parisian of standing kept at least one dog for a pet, it seemed. Seated in a circle beneath the rising golden sun painted overhead, we tried our hand at embroidering with tambour needles, working to embellish one of my new dresses with pearlescent beads. Truthfully, only Sally had any talent for it, and my mind was on Mr. Short.

“He’s asked for my love,” I finally confessed.

Polly beamed with excitement. “Have you given it?”

My shoulders fell. “How can I? He’s always at Versailles.”

Marie set down her needle. “Then we must go to him there.”

“You and I, alone?” I asked, wary of such an adventure.

“Bring your sister and Mademoiselle Sally, too. There’s room in my carriage. . . .”

Polly groaned. “In this rain? I’d rather drink hot chocolate.”

Marie huffed. “To think I came out in this rain just to see you and your sister, you sweet little wretch! The rain is auspicious after such drought. Besides, better for you to be out in fresh air instead of imprisoned in this house.”

We were not, of course, prisoners, but I hadn’t attended a ball with Marie since the night of Mr. Short’s return. In truth, the social scene in Paris had collapsed under the weight of its politics and the official mourning for the poor little dauphin, who died of consumption and left the queen in despair.

Sorely tempted, I asked, “What reason could we possibly give for going to Versailles on our own?”

Marie smiled, mischief in her eyes. “We’ll go on the pretense of paying a visit to Madame de Tessé at her château.”

Few women were more engaged with the happenings at Versailles than Lafayette’s elderly relation. I’d never been allowed to attend her salons, but Papa said she was a Republican of the first feather. And we often drank tea with her, so Papa couldn’t possibly raise an objection to my taking her a small harvest of American curiosities from our garden. . . .

Still, as much as I longed to see Mr. Short, I hesitated, and Marie’s gaze turned playfully stern. “Come now,
cher
Jeffy. You cannot be timid in matters of love!”

It was decided then. Sally helped me into a gown appropriate for court—jet-black in keeping with mourning customs and in sympathy with the commons, who were still obliged to dress in their dark mark of inferiority. There was no time to don the elegant hedgehog-style wig I’d been saving for such an occasion. Besides, the rain outside would only ruin it and natural hair was now in fashion, so I donned a bonnet, then off we went.

“We’ll never find him,” I fretted. “Half of Paris is at Versailles. In the throngs of thousands, where will we even look?”

“At your papa’s elbow,” Sally said as we settled into Marie’s carriage. “Your father stands taller above the crowd than anyone excepting perhaps Lafayette.”

Marie nodded in agreement, then shrugged. “Besides if we don’t find Short, what of it? The king and queen are at their palace at Marly, and I suppose we’ll arrive too late for mass, but we’ll have a fine day of it in the Hall of Mirrors.”

Alas, we had quite underestimated the rain. It drove against the carriage windows in sheets, flooding the streets and sending our wheel into a river of filthy water in a ditch. There was nothing for us to do but abandon it to the coachman, gird ourselves under umbrellas, and run back to the house, with Marie’s dog yapping at our heels. In full sprint, blinded by the rain, I reached the corner of rue de Berri and the Champs-Élysées, and crashed into a man standing there.

I looked up into the red and rain-soaked face of Mr. Short.

Puffing for breath, and without even a hat to protect him from the elements, he cried, “Patsy Jefferson, what the devil are you doing?”

W
HILE
I
STRUGGLED WITH MY UMBRELLA
against the rising wind, Mr. Short escorted me toward our house, all the while scolding me for rashness in leaving in the first place.

Meanwhile Marie scooped up her bedraggled poodle and said, “
Mon Dieu,
you two are hopeless. Come, Polly. Let’s find a roof and leave your sister and Mr. Short to argue like fools in the rain!”

Together with Sally, they dashed up the stairs while Mr. Short caught my elbow and pulled me into the empty carriage house to seek shelter amidst the extra wagon wheels, the scent of horses and liniment oils strong in my nose.

“For shame, Miss Jefferson. Have you
no
understanding of how critical the situation is?”

He was still in high temper with me, and much higher, I thought, than my behavior merited. “Papa says we’re in no danger.”

Mr. Short slicked rain-soaked hair back from his eyes, letting me look unhurried upon his handsome face for the first time in days. “He doesn’t want to frighten you. But yes, there’s danger. Today we arrived in Versailles to see placards everywhere, banning the commons from meeting in their hall. The king locked them out of their chambers at threat of bayonet!”

Mr. Short snapped the umbrella from my hand, our fingers brushing, then shook the rain water off it for me before setting it down against a bale of hay. Anger washed off of him and, together with his touch, heated my skin against the rain’s chill.

“It’s upon some flimsy pretext of needing to redecorate the great hall,” he continued. “Better to have said it was in mourning for the dauphin. Either way, with nowhere else to go in the rain, the deputies found shelter in the tennis court.”

“But why is this—”

“Think, Patsy,” Mr. Short said, giving me a little shake. “There are the people’s representatives, huddled together in a tennis court, surrounded by armed soldiers, yet still they insist on their right to govern themselves. They’ve vowed a sacred oath not to dissolve until a new constitution has been adopted. Never in my life have I seen such brave, patriotic men.”

“Not even in America?”

He tilted his head, and some of the anger ebbed from his eyes and brow. “Not even in America. For when your father and the others pledged to each other their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor . . . the king was an ocean away, royal troops with bayonets not
literally
at the door.”

Picturing such a scene, it was easy to imagine how passions might become inflamed. The king and his soldiers could slaughter the people’s representatives. The reformers might die in a single clash of new principles and ancient tradition. Their bravery became quite clear, and I wondered if they might’ve even deliberately taken this stand knowing their deaths might come to pass. Would they, in their fervor, speak of my father’s authorship of their new constitution?

Finally, a sense of alarm shivered down my spine. “Where is Papa now?”

“On his way. We came in different coaches because we feared unrest in the city might spill over and block the roads. I ran the last bit because I had to see for myself that you were safe. And what do I find but you traipsing toward danger!”

He’d come . . . for me? Hugging myself against the chill of the rain, I shook my head. “I only wanted to find you. I’ve been wanting to speak to you most desperately. . . .” I trailed off because, given what he’d just told me, my romantic longing sounded suddenly petty even to my own sixteen-year-old ears.

Nevertheless, his expression softened and he stepped closer. “No doubt, you’ve felt quite abandoned in recent days. What do you wish to speak about so
desperately
?”

My gaze flickered away. “I beg you to forget it, entirely. I see now that it’s a trifling matter.”

He yanked his soaked neck cloth open from where it had tightened. “Miss Jefferson, is my present state of agitation not enough to convince you that nothing is a trifling matter to me when it concerns you?”

I’d rehearsed what I’d say, how I’d get answers in the most subtle ways. But now that he was waiting so expectantly and standing so close, my heart pounded and I blurted, “You went to Saint-Germain.”

He nodded. “Yes. After being gone for eight months, I wanted to look in on—”

“The Belle of Saint-Germain,” I interrupted, the heat of jealousy burning my cheeks. “You professed love to me, but you went to see
her
.”

The reproach was so plain that he couldn’t mistake it. Still, he seemed untroubled. “Indeed. She’s a dear friend and I’d not seen her in nearly a year.”

His words were entirely reasonable, but I couldn’t quell my hurt feelings. “Do you claim your relations with her entirely innocent?”

“They are now.”

My mouth fell agape because in making this admission, he’d skillfully denied me an opportunity to ask more without resorting to indelicacy. Then he made matters worse by meeting my eyes directly. “Ask me, Patsy. Go on. If it troubles you, ask me.”

I could do nothing but stammer. “Were you, was she—”

“You don’t have to find the polite words. Not with me.”

The indecent question burst out of me. “Was she your lover?”

“Yes.” He didn’t even have the grace to wince. “I’ve protected her identity because she’s married now, and they have together two young sons. But I don’t want you turning little mysteries into great obstacles between us, so you may as well know that her name is Lilite Royer.”

I didn’t care what her name was! Only that she’d known, intimately, the man I loved. That stabbed at a place inside me I wasn’t even fully aware existed. Still, this knowledge wasn’t enough. I cringed to hear myself interrogate him. “And what of your duchess? They say you’re infatuated with her.”

His smile disconcerted me. “Along with every other man in Paris. But the beautiful Rosalie is too good and dutiful to betray her marriage bed. Even if she could, it wouldn’t be for an infatuation. She’d never have a man who cannot offer his heart . . . and I cannot, for I’ve given my heart to you. I love you, Patsy.”

The whole world stopped. The smell of the carriage house disappeared. The sound of the rain faded. The humidity of the air was no more. The whole world narrowed to the two of us and his declaration. He
loved
me. His answer was delectably sweet, but instead of letting it melt away like chocolate on my tongue, I breathlessly demanded, “Why do you love me, if you do. . . .”