America's First Daughter: A Novel (21 page)

“
If
I love you?” He snorted. “By God, have I taught you to suspect me or is it simply your nature? Of course, that nature is how you won my heart. Ferreting out spies. Stealing letters not meant for your eyes. Prying into facts no other girl would dare. You’re like me. Skulking about in the shadow of great moments and great men, doing for them what they cannot do for themselves. Your father doesn’t understand what a champion he has in you, but I do. I’ve said it before; hiding beneath all that flimsy lace beats the heart of an Amazon. And
that
is why I love you.”

This answer nearly swept my knees out from under me. “Oh, Mr. Short—”

“William.” He cupped my cheek. “Call me William.”

The touch of his damp hand, fiery against my cold cheek, made me forget we were quarreling. “William,” I whispered, testing it on my tongue for the first time, and tingling with delight. Then I tried it in French. “
Guillaume.
”

His eyes softened as he stroked a damp thumb over my cheekbone. “Patsy, I’ll never lie to you, because you cannot love me if you don’t know me truly. I’m guilty of indiscretions you’ve guessed and some you haven’t. There have been women before you, but on my honor, if you become my wife, there will be none after.”

It felt as if all the air left the close confines of the carriage house. Breathless, I was forced to press a hand over the quick pounding of my heart.
Wife
. He wanted me for his wife. And who was I to judge him harshly for his conduct when mine had never been above reproach?

“Can you love me, Patsy?”

“I already do!” The words burst out of me, and now that I’d been so reckless, I couldn’t stop them. “I love you, William. Oh, I love you. I do. I want to carve it on the tree. I want to shout it in the streets!”

“Carve it here.” He drew my fingers to his chest, where I felt his heart thump beneath his sodden white shirt. “With a kiss.”

Trembling and breathless, I dared to kiss him there, then lifted my lips to his, my fingertips creeping up to the skin he’d bared by removing his neck cloth. He felt hot to the touch, feverish even. And as we kissed, I thought I’d stop for no reason under heaven.

But I was wrong.

We sprang apart the moment we heard the clatter of Papa’s coach.

Paris, 17 June 1789

From Thomas Jefferson to John Jay

A tremendous cloud hovers over France, and the king has neither the courage nor the skill necessary to weather it. Eloquence in a high degree, knowledge and order, are distinguishing traits in his character. He has not discovered that bold, unequivocal virtue is the best handmaid, even to ambition, and would carry him further in the end than the temporizing wavering policy he pursues.

I
T WASN’T A TIME FOR LOVE
, but revolution. The loss of his army’s loyalty forced the king’s hand in negotiating with the people, and in Paris, the mood was hopeful. Perhaps that’s why I received my first social invitation in nearly a month to attend a dinner hosted by the infamous Georgiana Cavendish, the Duchess of Devonshire. She was a committed
whig
and sympathetic to all the causes we held dear. Papa would never ask me to do something so unladylike as eavesdrop for useful information, but he didn’t need to ask.

Instead, he took me to the Palais-Royal past market stalls filled with snuffboxes, bric-a-brac, and jewelry, where he bought me a new ring to replace the one that had been stolen. Planting a kiss atop my head, he said, “Let me pamper you while you’re still mine.”

Good thing my eyes were fixed on the glass case. For I felt them widen at his wording and wondered if he knew about the love William and I shared. Had William spoken to him? Maybe even gone as far as declared his intentions?

Emboldened, I found my courage. “Papa, I don’t want to go home to Virginia. I’d rather stay with you in Paris as long as your assignment keeps you here.”

“What a dutiful daughter you are,” he said, sliding the new ring upon my finger, admiring it in the light. “But this is no place for you and your sister. It’s too selfish to keep you with me in a city where cutting off heads has become so much à la mode that we’re apt to check each morning whether our own heads are still on our shoulders.”

How could he say such a thing in the midst of the Palais-Royal, the throbbing heart of Paris? And yet, taking in our surroundings, I noticed unsavory characters. Cutpurses and hungry, bareheaded peasants, and rabble-rousers who read polemic screeds while standing atop café tables. “But there hasn’t been violence in a month.”

“Yes, but the want of bread greatly endangers the peace. It may yet come to civil war.” Papa kept his voice low, for political chatter echoed all around us. And because he was of such renown, often dragged into such conversations even by perfect strangers, we sought a quiet café from which to take coffee.

We never found one. Nor could we find the tender brioche loaves sweetened with sugar and raisins that Polly wanted; it was just as well, for the shortage of flour in France made the indulgence insulting to our sympathies. Instead, we walked home past the tree where William’s initials were carved, still waiting for mine. “I’m not afraid, Papa.”

“That’s because you’ve always been braver than I am, my dear. Still, my heart can only be content once I know you and your sister are safely settled in Virginia.”

I wanted to believe that was the reason he was so determined to take us from France. But I feared there was another reason, and I needed to be clear. It was untoward, but he had to know my choice. “Papa, you must understand that my heart can only be content with Mr. Short.”

With scarcely a blink, he said, “I see.”

Now that I’d started my confession, the rest rushed out. “There won’t be time for a wedding before you return to America, and it’d be unseemly for us to live under one roof without you, once we’re betrothed. But I’ve divined a solution! I’ve arranged to lodge at the convent. Then Mr. Short and I can be married when you come back.”

Now Papa did blink. “William has asked you to wed?”

“Not yet. He wouldn’t do so until he was sure of his position because he worries that you don’t think him capable of supporting a wife and family—”

“He’s not.” My father’s flat appraisal forced me to utter silence. “He’s in no way capable. Our dear William came here with an idea of staying only two years. His loyalty to me has prevented him from making his fortune and his inheritance amounted to nothing even before he gave liberty to the slave that came with it.”

How I swelled with pride at my love’s actions, even as Papa’s words made me wary. “He’s very principled.”

My father stopped by our gate. “I
think
William means to return to America, where he may buy a farm near to me in Albemarle County; of this I’m not sure, having avoided asking him lest he should mistake curiosity for inclination. But if those are his plans, what happy neighbors we’ll be! Then I’ll be very happy to give this match my blessing.”

My fear melted away and my heart soared with joy. Soared like one of those balloons that Papa had taken me to see, rising up and up and up! I rushed to kiss his cheek in excitement before his words sank in. “Do you mean to say, you won’t give your blessing now?”

The light of that Parisian summer day glinted in his blue eyes. “I merely ask that you wait until William has established himself somewhere without the element of danger or poverty. Then, if he proposes marriage, I’ll be delighted to welcome into our family a man who is already a son to me, one whose company I find necessary to my happiness.”

Papa wanted us to wait, after we’d already waited so long! That I didn’t burst into tears on the spot was, I thought, something to be quite proud of. Papa’s words had the ring of perfect reason to them, so why did I hear in them such injustice?

When the heart finds its one true desire, any separation and delay is unbearable. And so it was to be a miserable evening, one that I suffered with an ache blooming in my chest. The Duchess of Cavendish commented favorably upon my height just before I was presented to her as “Miss Jefferson, the daughter of His Excellency, Thomas Jefferson, the American minister.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard of him,” the duchess said. “
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal
.” She made a twirling motion with her fingers. “Et cetera, et cetera.”

I curtseyed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“But not the women,” she said, frowning. “In France, I’m hoping to meet women dedicated to
égalité
and the right to decide our own fates. Your father wrote all
men
are created equal, but made no mention of the ladies. Haven’t you wondered why?”

Yes, I wondered. Because in the spirit of the times, and my own discontent, everything I knew was open to question. . . .

G
UILT RIDDEN,
I
confessed to William that our love was no longer secret as we sat admiring our gardens. He lifted my chin with his fingers, the smile he wore revealing that he took my confessions well enough. “It’s all right. I suppose your father cannot have been much deceived, given how I dote upon you.”

In truth, I thrived upon his doting, as I hoped he knew. “Papa wants to know your plans for the future. He says he hasn’t asked if you’ll return to Virginia for fear of influencing you.”

At this, Mr. Short looked quite taken aback. “I find that painfully curious, since I’ve already told him my decision.”

Confused, I shifted toward him on the bench. “Perhaps I misunderstood him. . . .”

William clutched my hand. “He wants me to set up a law practice in Albemarle County, Patsy, but I intend to pursue foreign service. My appointment as
charg
é d’affaires
should make me a candidate to replace your father as minister to France. If not, then I’ll seek an appointment to Spain or the Netherlands.”

Though William had told me he was an ambitious man, I hadn’t grasped just how ambitious. “Then you mean to stay in Europe?”

“For a few years,” he said, warming to the subject. “What a fine diplomat’s wife you’ll make. There’s so much of the world you’ve yet to see, and I dream of showing you. Everywhere on my travels, I wished for you, every treasure diminished before my eyes because it wasn’t seen by yours.”

Caught up in his enthusiasm, I imagined myself a diplomat’s wife, learning new languages, venturing to strange new places, seeing sights few Americans would ever see. What a glamorous adventure we’d have together. “You think I’m suited for such a life?”

“Who better?” he asked with affection and confidence. “You know court etiquette. You’ve studied diplomacy in your father’s own parlor and have learned to make yourself amiable with every sort of person, from peasants to duchesses. I’d count myself blessed to have you for my own.”

My heart pounded faster to think it. Then I remembered Papa, and it fell hard, like a stone, into my belly. “But if you stay in Europe, we’d have to leave Papa.”

It seems I face threats of abandonment on all sides. . . .

“Oh, President Washington will keep your father quite busy in the coming years. We’ll all be back together before he even notices.” I didn’t like the way William’s gaze slid away from mine as he spoke such cavalier words. We’d once shared the burden of my father’s madness, protecting him from the world and from himself. Surely William hadn’t forgotten.

“Papa relies upon us,” I said, searching his eyes for understanding. “He needs us.”

William leaned in to place reassuring kisses on my cheeks. “Your father is past those dark days. You’ve taken care of him since you were a girl. Come with me, now, my love. Let me take care of
you
until the end of our days.”

How my heart swelled at his words.

How tempting he was.

How unreasonable and ungrateful I felt for my apprehension.

But I simply couldn’t help myself. “How many years before we could join Papa in Virginia?”

William fell silent in a way that troubled me beyond measure. His thumb stroked the back of my hand. Finally, he swallowed and met my eyes. “I cannot make my home in Virginia, Patsy.”

It took me a moment to understand his words, and even then, I was left bewildered. The breeze caught my curls, and I brushed them away. “You’re a
Virginian,
William. Where else could you make your home?”

He looked at the sky for a long moment. “Somewhere else. Someplace in America where prosperity can be had without slaves. It cannot be done in Virginia.”

“That can’t be true,” I sputtered. “Your practice at the law—”

“Would fail utterly even if I didn’t mind the drudgery of it.” He bolstered himself with a deep breath. “Perhaps you don’t remember Virginia society because you’ve come of age in France. The gentry will never trust a lawyer who isn’t also well established as a Virginia planter.”

“Then be a planter,” I argued. “Take a small farm, employ only sharecroppers. . . .”

“I’d soon be a very poor, indebted planter, who could, in no way, support the daughter of Thomas Jefferson in the manner to which she has grown accustomed.”

“I can grow accustomed to something else!”

He took my face in his hands and smiled. “If anyone could, it would be you, but I’m resolved. I’ll never run a slave plantation. I’ll never be a part of that evil. All Virginia is stained with it. My conscience won’t allow me to make a home there, and yours shouldn’t allow it either.”

My confusion gave way to a slow spark of anger that took hold and began to smolder. “And neither should Papa’s conscience. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

Staring hard, he said, “I wouldn’t presume to judge your father.”

A stinging pressure pricked at the backs of my eyes. “You think he should free all his slaves.”

“I think he
cannot
free his slaves without impoverishing himself and his daughters,” William replied, his eyes filled with both sadness and understanding. “Without slaves, he’ll have nothing. He’ll lose it all, right down to the last book. He’s shielded you from this, but when your grandfather Wayles died, your father inherited a portion of his debt, more staggering than we ever imagined. Your father has only this year learned the full extent of it, which is why he’s eager to return home and deal with his creditors.”

My mouth dropped open and I struggled for words. How could that be? For months now, my father had done nothing but lavish gifts upon me. New ball gowns, gold watches, and rings. That was to say nothing of the concerts and horse riding lessons!

This flurry of shopping started when I confessed my desire to join the convent. Had my father been so desperate to keep me with him that he’d driven himself into more dire financial straits? Guilt bit at me. “
Poor Papa!
How can he satisfy the creditors?”

William sighed. “He’ll have to sell land or slaves.”

A wave of nausea swept over me. “Surely not!”

Owning slaves was an evil, but
selling
them . . .

“Patsy.” William forced me to look at him, his voice dropping an octave to meet the severity of his countenance. “When it comes to the evil of slavery, the only choice you’ll ever have is in which husband you marry. I want to take you away from plantation life. The government doesn’t enrich its ambassadors, but my salary will be enough. We’ll scrimp and save enough to make wise investments in stocks and bonds. And that’s what we’ll live on.”