America's First Daughter: A Novel (15 page)

He removed his hat and stared at his feet with chagrin. “With our friendship imperiled, I felt the want of a keepsake to remind me of happier times.”

My heart insisted it was more than that. I recalled the gold watch key containing a braided lock of my mother’s hair that Papa had commissioned. So that he’d never forget her. So that he’d carry her with him always. Mr. Short wanted that kind of connection . . . with me? “Why didn’t you simply ask me for such a token?”

“I thought you’d be ill-disposed to such a request. Moreover, I’d never presume without your father’s permission. And given that Mr. Jefferson had just confided his intention to leave you and your sister under my protection, any discussion of my feelings for you would have sounded suspect, if not depraved.”

Mon Dieu!
I thought I might fall into a breathless swoon before I got the words out. “What
are
your feelings for me?”

“Ask me again,” Mr. Short said, snatching back the token of hair from my grasp, “. . . when your father returns.”

W
AS THERE EVER A TIME OR PLACE
for love better than spring in Paris?

With my father away, William Short and I exchanged witty little notes, discussed books, and railed at the injustice of French commoners paying taxes, while nobles and clergy were exempt. We marveled together at the revolutionary spirit in Paris. Indeed, we knew ourselves to be caught up in a singular moment in history, and hoped the whole world, inspired by my father’s ideals, was poised to make itself over anew.

All the while, I kept my vow; I pretended not to know about the lock of hair. At least, I never again made mention of it during Mr. Short’s dangerously frequent visits to the convent. Nor did he openly declare his feelings for me. Indeed, during our long walks, we thought ourselves models of restraint, our behavior above the suspicion of even the most censorious nun.

Though we were far too clever together to let restraint, or propriety, or even our confinement get in the way of affection’s bloom.

When it rained and we were forced to shelter under the cold, gray arches of the Panthemont, we shared a little bag of chocolate drops. Mr. Short said, “Let’s warm ourselves by painting a mental picture of a sun-drenched field. . . .”

I laughed, delighted. “Given my lack of talent for drawing, I fear to take up the imaginary brush. What else do we see but a field?”

“Some trees.” He grinned. “Perhaps a church tower in the dis tance.” His grin widened. “A pair of sweethearts picnicking together.”

Smiling, too, I closed my eyes to the pitter-patter of rain, allowing myself to imagine sprawling upon a blanket with him in the sun. “Are these sweethearts well suited?”

“Too soon to tell, but they’re both enormously fond of chocolate drops, so I have high hopes for them.”

That made me laugh.
Dear Mr. Short
. “Is a mutual fondness for chocolate drops a strong basis for affections?”

“It is if you understand how seriously this fellow regards his confections. . . .”

Blinking with guile I asked, “Oh, is he a chocolatier?”

Mr. Short chuckled, his green eyes dancing with mirth. “A country lawyer by training, but he was induced to serve a diplomat in a foreign land. He’s very dashing and a sprightly dancer, too.”

The desire to twit him was irresistible. “Aha! I’ve guessed who our sweethearts are. Nabby Adams and her father’s secretary, the dashing Colonel Smith.”

Mr. Short smirked. “No, but our sweethearts are similarly situated.” Then, more peevishly— “You really think Colonel Smith is dashing? He’s a dreadfully stiff dancer and whenever the man sings, he’s off-key.”

“I thought he was your friend!” I exclaimed, warming inside at his displeasure in my complimenting Colonel Smith.

“He
is
my friend. That’s why I’m so well acquainted with his faults. I taunt him for his lack of musicality and he taunts me about the elderly Frenchwomen who are taken by my charms.”

It wasn’t only elderly Frenchwomen who were taken by his charms, but I refused to let the thought dim my enjoyment of our game. “Let’s return to the sweethearts in our imaginary painting. Does the fellow enjoy his work?”

“He does, though he’s worked for years now, without respite. He arrived desperately eager to see the Continent, but his employer hasn’t been able to do without him.”

It was a mild, implied complaint that made me laugh, for I be lieved my papa’s resistance had more to do with his fears about young American men being at great risk of corruption in Europe. “To work so hard, without respite, this fellow must be either industrious or ambitious.”

“Very ambitious,” was Mr. Short’s answer. “He’d like to be of both service and consequence to his country.”

My heart fluttered anew. How could I not admire such a man? “How brave to make his career so far from home.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t make too much of his courage. He was so seasick on the way to his post that he now contemplates staying abroad forever rather than face the crossing again.”

I smiled at the admission of the shortcoming. “But wouldn’t he miss his country?”

Mr. Short contemplated, one finger tapping his lips in a way that drew my gaze there. “He already does, but he’s not homesick for some of its peculiar customs. He’d like to return to his native land, secure a comfortable fortune as a planter, and make a home for a suitable wife, but he worries it cannot be done except at the cost of his sacred honor. Do you think that’s something his sweetheart could understand?”

I swallowed, trying to make sense of his question. “That depends . . . is his sweetheart a French girl?”

“Virginian.”

In spite of my intention to remain coolly, flirtatiously aloof, my breath caught and my lips parted as I met his pointed gaze. “Then she understands.”

How ignorant I was. I’d never before given any thought to how difficult it was to prosper in Virginia without slaves. Never contemplated the obstacles of leasing lands to free sharecroppers. Never racked my brain to choose crops requiring only the labor that might keep both a plantation and conscience in good order. The only thing I understood was that Mr. Short was fearful of returning to a way of life in Virginia that he despised.

“And the girl in this picture?” he asked. “What does she dream for her future?”

As tangled as my thoughts had become, the question took me utterly unawares. I had, from the youngest age, been given directives. How to comport myself in a way that honored my father. What to learn to make myself a more pleasing companion. I still heard my mother’s reedy voice bidding me to take care of my father all of the days of his life. No one had ever asked me what I wanted. “What can you mean?”

He mischievously stole the last chocolate drop and held it just out of my reach. “What sort of life do you think she’d like to lead? Does she wish to marry or give herself to spinsterhood? Does she see herself the lady of a house in town, visiting with her friends and debating in salons? Does she see herself the mistress of a vast country plantation, brewing beer, slaughtering pigs, haying in its season?”

My father always spoke as if I would, inevitably, return to take up life on a plantation. Except for my now mostly forgotten desire to join the convent, other choices had never before been presented to me. And when faced with this dizzying array, the words that bubbled up from within me were born of raw instinct. “She dreams of a future in which she, too, might be of both service and consequence to her country.”

It was an absurd answer. Mr. Short might’ve laughed in mockery. Or he might’ve presumed it was a docile, noncommittal reply, rather than the ambitious and prideful one it really was. But knowing I was my father’s daughter in this, and everything, he stared with wonder, surrendering to me the last chocolate drop. “Well, then, Miss Jefferson, the sweethearts in this idyllic painting are very well suited indeed.”

T
HE ONLY THING
that clouded our sunny romance was the seemingly endless wait for my father’s return. It came in April, when Papa rolled up to the convent with a carriage full of gifts for me and Polly. He was eager to talk about the food, art, and ideas the soils of Germany had given him about the best design for a plow. And though he could no longer play the violin with any real skill, due to his injury, I made enough music for the both of us with my new harpsichord, a thing we both treasured.

Papa’s buoyant spirits delighted Polly and reassured me that he’d be receptive to Mr. Short, should he choose to declare himself for me. Waiting for that fateful moment at the convent school, I huddled together with Marie, my only confidante in such matters, and anxiously counted the days before we’d dine together at the Hotel de Langeac. Polly, Papa, me, and Mr. Short. What a pleasant little family of four we’d make!

I was puzzled, then, upon our end-of-week visit, to find Mr. Short not there. My father pulled me into a hug, chiding me gently that I’d not seen fit to pen him but a few lines while he was away. I was ashamed of my neglect, for it was born of my infatuation, and I almost told him as much when asking after Mr. Short.

Papa smiled distractedly over a game board upon which he was playing chess against himself. “He’s quite occupied arranging for his travels.”

“Travels?” In his role as my father’s secretary, Mr. Short was part courier, part negotiator, part translator, and representative—he was Papa’s voice wherever Papa couldn’t be. He traveled frequently throughout France and sometimes beyond. And yet, I’d have thought I’d first hear of a new mission from Mr. Short himself. More than that, I feared I couldn’t bear the waiting if he should decide to postpone his talk with my father until after such a sojourn.

With my heart filled with love that I couldn’t express, I was afflicted with the greatest impatience of my life. So much so that I waited up late, going down the stairs on some pretext of needing chamomile tea for an unsettled stomach when I heard Mr. Short come in.

Mr. Short’s first, instinctive reaction to the sight of me that night was a smile. But then that smile gave way to sadness. “Whatever are you doing awake at this hour, Patsy?”

My position on the staircase caused me to look down upon him. “I’m told you’re to leave Paris.”

Setting his hat upon an entryway table, he nodded, gravely. “Yes.”

“When?” I forced myself to move down one more step, then another.

“Soon, if all goes as to plan.”

“Where will you go?”

“To Rome and other places.”

I was unused to his cryptic answers and cringed at the way they turned me into an interrogator. Trying to regain my dignity, I descended the remaining step until only an arm’s length separated us. “How wonderful. I know you’ve wanted to see Rome for yourself. You must be very eager to go . . . but are you in such a rush that you must leave matters behind you unsettled?”

At that, his shoulders sagged. It was only with real effort that he seemed to square them again, and face me directly. “I’m afraid I must.”

The acute pain of it was like an arrow. I sucked in air, determined to disguise my anguish. “Do you mean you won’t . . . you haven’t . . .”

“Miss Jefferson,” he began, stiffly. “I’ve had an illuminating conversation with your father. It began with the topic of domestic contentment and ended on the subject of youth, inexperience, and the need for matured judgment.”

Puzzling through his remarks, I wondered if my father had opined on
my
youth and inexperience or Mr. Short’s.

Before I could ask, he added, “In light of this conversation, your father has seen fit to release me from my duties. In fact, he’s encouraged my oft-wished-for tour of Europe.”

His words sounded like the closing of a leather-bound book, and resounded with a hollow thud. There was no question that whatever had passed between my father and Mr. Short would delay our courtship indefinitely, if not make it impossible. And a thousand emotions passed through me at once.

Anger and upset, sadness and fear, panic and a frantic desire to think how I might change these circumstances. Devastation, too, at Mr. Short’s apparent resignation. He’d said, in the snow, that he was a daring man, that he wouldn’t stop chasing me. But now he wouldn’t risk my father’s esteem.

Not for me.

And despite our imagined painting, and Mr. Short asking what I wanted, I had no say in the matter at all.

Still, I could make no sense of this. Hadn’t Papa said he viewed Mr. Short as his adoptive son? I’d heard him entreat his secretary, on numerous occasions, to buy parcels of land near Monticello, near us. Mr. Short shared my father’s views, was a fellow Virginian, was familiar and cherished with great affection. Wouldn’t it be natural for Papa to welcome Mr. Short as a suitor for his daughter?

I was young, it was true. But friends my age were already starting to court and marry. Did my father think I was less accomplished, less sensible, less womanly than those French girls? Distress gripped me, making it hard to swallow.

These were all questions I couldn’t ask. Mr. Short hadn’t declared his feelings for me. And now, if I tried to speak of my
own
feelings, I might drive a wedge between the men I loved best in the world. Mr. Short must’ve sensed this, because he nodded and softly excused himself to conduct his business.

And for a while, I confided my despair in no one but Marie.

“Poor Jeffy,” she said as we whispered in the darkness of our dormitory. “It is only a trip. If Mr. Short feels love for you now, he’ll still feel it when he returns.”

Yet I worried that whatever he felt for me was already gone. While preparing for his Grand Tour, Mr. Short held himself as distant from me as I once held myself from him, avoiding me at every turn. Long before he left Paris, I felt Mr. Short’s absence as a wound to my very core. Worse, I didn’t know who to blame. Had Papa discouraged Mr. Short as a potential suitor? Or had Mr. Short toyed with me and given me false hope?

I didn’t know. And not knowing was a torment.

One visit home, while I sat staring unseeingly at the artificial flowers I was making as gifts for my friends in the convent, Papa took the seat beside me and handed me a small sack. I blinked up at him. “What is this?” I asked, taking it in hand and working at the little string.