America's First Daughter: A Novel (18 page)

“
Fils de putes!
” Marie cursed, after my dance with the duke was done. “Must you grab the attention of all the most eligible bachelors in France? Will you leave none for the rest of us? The men all stare at you for your height and that red hair. If I did not love you so much, Jeffy, I would rip it from your head.”

“I’m merely a freckled American curiosity!” It was true that in a ballroom, I attracted the notice of young men who might have overlooked me on the street. But I don’t think it was my height or red hair or even my dancing skills that drew them to me. I think it was because I held myself unattainable.

I’d already foolishly given my heart to a man who abandoned me. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. So I remained cordial but cool to the men who asked me to dance, and found myself flattered by admirers and overwhelmed by male attention, bewildered and intrigued.

My most ardent suitor, by far, was the young and energetic Armand Jules Marie Héracle, son of the Duke of Polignac, who, upon making my acquaintance, drew my hand up to kiss as if I were of rank to offer, and said, “
Enchanté
. . .”

The Polignacs were amongst the most powerful families at the court, and my suitor’s mother a great favorite of Queen Marie-Antoinette. The
chevalier,
who some afforded the courtesy title of prince, challenged me with an aristocratic bearing. “Do you care to test your American
pionnière
fortitude against my stamina?”

I accepted and we danced a lively cotillion that had me sweating at the back of the neck. When the dance master called the next dance, Polignac said, simply, “Again.”

“But that’s not permitted,” I replied, fanning my flaming cheeks, for we could not dance twice in succession without inviting scandal.

“Then the dance after that,” he said with a rakish smile. “I must best the Duke of Dorset, so give me the honor of every other dance, Mademoiselle.”

Polignac was brash and pleasant to look at in his sea-green coat with its embroidered gold lapels. Papa would’ve been appalled by my deference to titled nobility—but I found myself quite unable to refuse the son of a duke. Before the night was through, I’d danced sixteen times, eight of them with him.

We caused a sensation, and I admit to feeling satisfaction at the brazenness of it, even when the ladies Tufton scolded, “Have you set your cap on a Polignac, Patsy?” and “If you aim to be a duchess, at least favor our uncle, so that we can all be family one day!”

Marie hushed the Tufton sisters with a violent whack of her lace fan. “
Tais-toi!
” Then she turned shrewd eyes on me. “
Cher
Jef is just in revolt against her papa. She has half the French court whispering Jefferson’s daughter will convert to the true faith. Now the other half will whisper that the daughter of equality’s champion aims to marry an aristocrat.”

Marie saw in my behavior some spark of hostility, some lack of care for Papa’s reputation, and I didn’t want to think it was true. “Marry an aristocrat?” No, I had no designs on marriage whatsoever, much less to Polignac or the Duke of Dorset. Besides, neither man was William Short. They were merely pretty distractions . . .

. . . and didn’t my father want me distracted?

T
HE START OF THE
F
RENCH
R
EVOLUTION
was orchestrated in my father’s parlor. The leading reformers consulted Papa for every scrap of news of America. Our country’s independence served as proof men could throw off the chains of tyranny and rule themselves.

Though Polly and I always left the table before the men turned to port and tobacco and more heated political discussions, we heard enough to know that none of them, not Papa nor any of the idealists gathered at our hearth in those early days, feared it would come to armed rebellion.

The king had called for elections and summoned the Estates-General for the first time in more than a century and a half. It was taken as a clarion call to make a new government that gave a voice to the people. We were all excited. When the great day came, we were all awakened before dawn by the peal of bells and booming cannons that sent people into the streets in celebration.

I helped Papa brush the shoulders of his best blue coat while Sally hastily mended the button on his red waistcoat. With white breeches and a dark blue felted hat, he was entirely bedecked in the colors of American and French patriots. Red, white, and blue.

I wanted nothing more than to go along with him to witness the debates from the gallery, but Papa wouldn’t have approved even if he had an extra ticket. However, I was able to see the pageantry of the procession in the carriage of the elderly Madame de Tessé, the woman Lafayette called his aunt.

Thousands crowded the streets, swarmed the rooftops of every building along the avenue, clapping and reciting the famous pamphlet, “
What is the Third Estate? The whole people. What has it hitherto been in our form of government? Nothing. What does it want? To become Something.
”

Swept up in the excitement, I hummed along with the flutes and trumpets. Soldiers marched in blue coats with gold epaulettes, wearing their proud ranks of insignia. The king marched beneath a canopy covered in fleurs-de-lis. The purple-robed bishops and red-robed cardinals chanted as they made their way to Versailles. The nobles strolled in rank, with gold sashes and feathered hats. Then came the sea of the Third Estate, representatives of the people, obliged to dress in stygian black and slouchy hats to denote their inferior rank.

That’s all I saw of the opening day. It was not, however, my last visit to Versailles. So many great personages couldn’t be gathered together in one place, even for such serious business, without evening entertainments.

At the next ball, I danced again with the Duke of Dorset and the Duke of Polignac’s son, sending a scandalized titter through the politicized crowd, and a ripple of sighs for our precise steps so elegantly made in white-heeled shoes.

My
chevalier
and I stopped only for refreshments near the sideboard table, dodging dripping wax from the candelabras overhead and taking glasses of sweet wine from silver trays. My friends joined us, musing over whether or not we could sneak into the covert card game some aristocratic ladies had arranged in a private room upstairs.

It was, of course, improper for women to play cards in public, or at all, but a certain duchess was an inveterate gambler. “Speaking of dazzling duchesses,” murmured my
chevalier
. “Please excuse me, ladies. The lovely Rosalie has arrived and I must pay my respects.”

I turned to give my suitor a wave of farewell, but Marie grabbed my arm and pinched it so hard I yelped. “
Mon Dieu,
Jeffy. Don’t look up!”

It was too late. I’d already spotted the pretty Duchess de La Rochefoucauld, and there, at her side, was William Short.

O
UR EYES LOCKED
across the crowded ballroom, never wavering, in spite of the servants passing with silver trays of bubbling pink champagne in crystal glasses.

Without breaking my gaze, William Short whispered a quick word into his companion’s bejeweled ear. I hated the sight of his cheek so near to the porcelain skin of her shoulder and plunging décolletage. Then hated more when he left her side to close the distance between us, striding between plumed ladies and men swaggering about with swords on their hips.

Most violently, my heart tried to take flight, leaving me suddenly breathless and light-headed. I’d yearned for our reunion, but now that it was upon me I felt utterly unprepared.

As if sensing my plight, my friends circled to form a phalanx before me in a violent swish of petticoats and lace. Marie, who had the best reason to know the pain Mr. Short’s long absence had caused me, didn’t bother with subtle gestures. She rudely shook her dance program at him as if shooing away a fly.

“Ladies.” Wearing the warmest smile, Mr. Short ignored the flapping page and bowed. “Miss Jefferson . . .”

I just stared.

Eight months he’d been absent. Eight months, without a word. Wars had been fought and won in less time. Certainly, my whole world had changed. Yet, he addressed me as if a mere day had passed since our last visit.

William Short ought not have presumed we were still friends. No, he ought not have presumed.

I finally managed an icy, “Mr. Short. What a surprise.”

“May I have a quiet word, Miss Jefferson?”

He scarcely waited for me to nod before herding me away from my coterie. I pulled away, not letting him touch me, not taking his arm, even as I followed him into an empty alcove where gold-tasseled curtains framed a tall, elegant window. I was so dizzied by his presence that the fleurs-de-lis on the blue silk wallpaper danced before my eyes, but I refused to let him see how affected I was.

I crossed my arms, seething. “I had no word you were back in Paris, Mr. Short.”

“I just arrived in the past hour, actually, which explains my state of dress.” It was then that I realized how out of place he looked in a dark coat and breeches, an outfit more fit for travel than the ballroom. “I feared I might be denied entrance, but fortunately, Rosalie vouched for me.”

The gall of mentioning her to me in this moment! My gaze narrowed and my tone chilled even more. “Fortunate, indeed.”

Mr. Short winced and shook his head. “I only meant to make clear that I came straightaway, from your father’s house.”

Accustomed to loss and calamity, I was thrown into instant worry and dropped my arms. “Has something happened to Papa? To Polly?”

He stepped closer. “No. They’re both well. But I didn’t want to miss seeing you tonight, so I dared not delay in coming here.”

I frowned. He wanted me to believe he’d come to the ball to see
me
? I could scarcely credit that. “I’m very curious to know what has happened to make you so suddenly remember my existence.”

His hand went to his heart. “I never forgot you, Patsy. Never.”

I quite nearly snorted. Men were apt to say sweet nothings. Some men more than others, and Mr. Short was a practiced diplomat. How could I trust anything he said?

It sent a surge of rage through my veins. But rage was a forbidden emotion, so I forced myself to be aloof, to resist his flattery and his handsome face as I’d resisted all the other men in Pari sian ballrooms. I waved my fan. “Will you be returning to my father’s service at the Hotel de Langeac?”

“Eagerly.”

Mon Dieu
. When he’d lived at the embassy before, I spent most of my days and nights at the convent. Must we now live together under the same roof? I thought it such an injustice, I could manage only a bland nicety. “Well, then. Welcome back, Mr. Short. My father will be happy for your return.”

“Patsy,” he said, drawing nearer still. “Please don’t retreat behind a polite facade.”

An ache of desire opened up inside my chest, an ache my heart said would only be assuaged by giving in to his entreaties. But I still remembered how much worse was the pain of the heartbreak he’d caused. “I cannot imagine what you mean.”

“You and your father both do it, but whereas Mr. Jefferson can’t help himself, being too vulnerable otherwise, you’re resilient enough to say what you think and feel.”

How his words provoked me! Certain that I’d make a fool of myself if I didn’t flee, I snapped, “Mr. Short, be glad I’m not ill-mannered enough to say what I think and feel. You must excuse me. They’re calling the next dance.”

Regret and contrition slipped into the cast of his green eyes. “You’re angry.”

“Ladies are never angry.” I was livid.

He blocked my avenue of escape. “Ladies and angels are never angry. But Amazons . . .”

I didn’t laugh at his little joke. Instead, I felt penned in, tormented by his use of words that had once meant something between us.
My
words came out as a hiss, leaking past the tight seal of my lips. “You never sent me a letter. Never in all the months you were gone.”

“How could I, without offending your father? I asked after you whenever I wrote to him and sent my best wishes. You’ve no idea the anxiety it put in me to hear that you and your sister were so very ill this winter.”

That had been months ago. Whatever anxiety he felt wasn’t enough to make him return. Not enough to mean anything. “You can see for yourself that I’ve recovered.”

“Yes.” His green eyes traveled with appreciation down my face, over the pale mounds of my bosom, which heaved over the gold satin bows on my gown. Finally, his gaze moved up again, on an intake of breath. “Beautifully . . .”

Heat touched my cheeks. “They’re calling the next dance,” I reminded him, my own breath shallow. “I’ve promised another dance to—”

“Polignac?” Mr. Short turned to see the approach of my
chevalier
. “Refuse him.”

Outrageous. “What cause do I have to be so rude to a suitor?”

“
Refuse
him,” Mr. Short repeated, more emphatically. “Tell him you’re tired, tell him you’re ill, tell him—I don’t care what you tell him, but refuse him.”

Gripping my closed fan, I gave an exasperated shake of my head. “Why should I? Why would you even
ask
such a thing of me?”

“Because I hate him,” Mr. Short said with uncharacteristic malice. “He’s a monarchist. An enemy of liberty. And, more importantly, you just called him your suitor. You’ve danced with him before?”

Having let loose my temper, it now slipped dangerously out of my control at this apparent show of jealousy. “Yes, I’ve danced with him before. And other men besides. I’ll have you know that I am being pursued by the Duke of Dorset—”

“The British ambassador?” Mr. Short broke in, with a note of abject horror. “Does your father know?”

I had mentioned Dorset more to stoke William’s jealousy than because I believed the duke’s flirtations to be earnestly intended. But now I wondered if I’d been foolish not to mention it to Papa, given the politics of the situation. “I don’t wish to speak of it. Not with you. Besides, why should you mind? You left me feeling quite a fool and I will not be fooled again—”

“Patsy.” William’s unsettling green eyes pleaded with me from beneath sandy lashes. He shook his head and sighed. “I’m going about this all wrong. Please, I’ll beg a thousand pardons if you’ll only give me the chance to explain myself.”

Before I could answer, I was forced to contend with the expectant gaze of the duke’s son. Extending a hand to me that displayed the most elegant lace cuff I’d ever seen, the
chevalier
asked, “Mademoiselle, is this dance not promised to me?”

“Yes, it is . . .” I braved a look at William Short, whose expression barely masked his displeasure at the other man’s interruption. Confusion so gripped me that the decision was more instinctual than purposeful. “But I’m afraid I’m feeling dizzy. Will you forgive me for sitting out?”

The
chevalier
narrowed his eyes in concern and glanced between us. “Please, if you’re unwell, Mademoiselle, let me see you to—”

Mr. Short stepped between us. “I’ll tend her, Polignac.”

The two men must’ve been acquainted because a poisonous look passed between them. In fact, the
chevalier
wouldn’t withdraw until I rested my fingertips upon Mr. Short’s arm.

“As you wish, Mademoiselle Chefferson,” Polignac said, as if he no longer knew quite how to pronounce my name. “Another evening, perhaps.”

Given his high color, I doubted very much that there’d be other evenings with the duke’s son, as he’d obviously taken my refusal for a snub. I ought to have chased after him and explained myself, but all I wanted was to hear what William Short had to say.

Infuriatingly, he said nothing. Instead he guided me to the grand marble staircase, wrought in iron and tipped with gold. Arm in arm, we descended, together, very slowly, awkwardly passing the Duke of Dorset, who raised a curious brow, making me wonder just what the Tufton sisters had told him of my feelings for William.

Finally, William said, “I never meant to leave you feeling a fool.”

A hollowness filled my chest. “Then why did you? Without a word of explanation!”

“Please understand that a year ago, when I begged a hearing of your father on the matter of my feelings for you, he made clear that he still considered you—a mere schoolgirl—too young to be wooed much less wed.”

I suspected as much, nevertheless, I swallowed on the word
wed
. “Didn’t you try to persuade him otherwise?”

“And risk losing his esteem forever? No, Patsy. Only time would persuade him my intentions were honorable. So I gave us that time by traveling, by trying to convince your father, in my letters, that I want to provide for a wife and a family.”

I sniffed, trying to hold firm against the words I’d long yearned to hear. “He said nothing to me of these letters.”

“Your father cannot have mistaken my meaning because he wrote with advice on how I might best build a fortune with which to support a wife. Now I’ve returned to Paris to find everything changed.”

“Changed how?”

We stopped on the landing and Mr. Short put his hand on the railing, his gaze searching mine. “The moment I set foot in the Hotel de Langeac tonight, I asked after you. Your father told me that you were no longer in the convent and that he’d let you come out into French society.”

Had Papa also confided in him my desire to take my vows as a nun? While I wondered, Mr. Short continued, “That’s why I came straightaway to find you. I knew, at long last, I could speak openly. I didn’t want to let another hour—not another
second
—tick by without declaring myself.”

I swayed on my heeled shoes, quite fearing a swoon. “What is it you wish to declare?”

He looked down, almost shyly. “I’ve so often planned what I’d say in this moment that it should be ready on my tongue. But poetry has suddenly fled from me . . . how can I find the words?”

I stared, expectantly, wondering if he might dare to take my hand and kiss it. If he might scandalously twine his fingers with mine. If he might lean close to whisper in my ear. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled forth the little piece of folded paper, now worn and creased with time, and unfolded it for me to see my hair still pressed within. “Patsy, this token has never left my possession. It’s been a reminder, every day. What I want to declare—what I want to offer—is quite beyond abiding friendship.”

I gulped, then forgot to breathe. “You kept my hair, all this time?”

“Yes. Near my heart. A year ago, I adored you. But now I adore you even more than before. For you’ve grown into a graceful and beautiful woman.”

How could I believe him? Perhaps I
was
graceful. Shapely, too, with the added allure of an ample bosom and ginger hair. But even then, in the flower of my youth, I knew that I wasn’t so much beautiful as appealing, my face a delicate rendering of my father’s. Maybe it was the very resemblance to my father that accounted for the beauty Mr. Short saw in me—for I was a feminine reflection of a man he idolized.

But still, I was wary. “There are prettier ladies in Paris.”

“Not in my eyes,” he insisted, emphatically.

Now he did draw my hand up and clasp it against his chest, where I felt his heart throb beneath the buttons of his waistcoat—evidence that he
did
think me beautiful.

That, in turn, made me
feel
beautiful. It was a heady, intoxicating feeling. A feeling that could rob a girl of all reason.

“Patsy, will you allow me to take you home?”

In that moment, I’d have gone anywhere with him. It didn’t matter that I’d left my shawl behind. Or even that when I looked up, I realized that the Duke of Dorset was standing at the top of the stairs and had witnessed the entire exchange. That spring in Paris, defiance was the norm. And a wild defiant liberation had taken hold of me, so I didn’t fight it. I simply went with William out into the night, and alighted a carriage back to Paris, quite undone by this turn of fate.

My thoughts were as tumultuous as the jostling ride. I’d built a fortification round my heart, and not only because I’d been hurt. Given my intention to take my vows, I was forced to wonder if Mr. Short was a temptation sent by the devil himself. If so, I was ready to fall into the devil’s arms, but I wasn’t so unprincipled as to deceive him.

When we disembarked on the Champs-Élysées beneath lamps hung in the trees, I turned to him. “Mr. Short, I’m very much changed since you left. You don’t realize the full extent of it. When you learn more, I fear—I fear you must reconsider your declaration.”

“That sounds ominously serious. . . .”

“I’m afraid it is.” I told him of my bargain with God. Of my admittedly wavering belief that I’d been called to serve as a Bride of Christ, rather than the bride of any man.

When I was finished, he exhaled. “What a relief. I feared you’d given your heart to Polignac. I’m much happier to have God as a rival. More glory in it for me if I win your love, and less shame should I lose.”