America's First Daughter: A Novel(130)

So I protested, “You presume on the man, Polly!”

“It’s Maria,” she said, rolling her eyes at me in exasperation. “At least come for supper, Mr. Short.”

He winced. “Please forgive me, but my business makes me quite unsociable. I hope you’ll accept these confections as my apology. Or at least consider them an offering to two goddesses of motherhood.”

Polly was delighted, digging into the bag of chocolates at once. But I was made entirely self-conscious; I never wanted him to see me so fat and swollen. “Thank you, but I shouldn’t want to overindulge.”

“Whereas I make a habit of it,” Mr. Short said. “Is there a place we can take some coffee or tea together as we did in Paris?”

My sister laughed. “I’m afraid you’ll find Charlottesville wanting if you’re hoping for those tables that sink down into the ground and come back up with pastries on them . . . oh, I do miss strolling the galleries of the Palais-Royal. All of us, and Sally, too.”

Mary Hemings Bell studiously did not look up from her counter at the mention of her sister and France.

William said, “Shall we take a walk then, ladies?”

“Oh, no,” my sister said at once. “You two go ahead. I’m too tired for that. I’ll stay and chat with Mary.”

There was no way for William to know why the prospect of Polly having a private word with her maid’s mother should give me pause. But he didn’t give me even a moment to object. Instead, he laced his arm in mine and said, “Let’s walk then, Mrs. Randolph. I’ll go slow, so as not to tax you in your delicate condition.”

“There is nothing delicate about my condition,” I assured him. I fell into stride beside him on the main street, determined not to let him think I couldn’t still match his steps on the cobblestones. “Nothing delicate at all. There’s a reason our husbands are so happy to have an excuse to be absent until after the children are born.”

Mr. Short laughed. “You plan to hole up the whole winter at Edgehill with only a houseful of women and girls?”

“And my son, of course. Jeff is the ten-year-old man of the house, now. He’s been riding out each day to check on the property. He fancies himself quite a man grown.”

“He seemed like a very earnest boy. Like his father.”

It was strange to hear William’s assessment of my husband, and a good one at that. “Yes, but he’d hate to hear it. Jeff aims to be just like his grandfather, one day.”

“Don’t we all?” William smiled, wryly.

It was a subject entirely too close to old pains. But still, I asked, “You’ve ambitions to be president?”

“Nothing so lofty. Just the minister to France.”

“You’d go back to Paris? Given all the danger, given the state of the revolution, now with Napoleon—”

“What other American knows the whole of what has happened there, start to finish, better than me?”

No other American, I thought. Not even my father. “Then you’re here in Virginia to mend those fences you spoke of?”

William cleared his throat. “Alas, I’m not sufficiently regretful for having kicked at Mr. Madison’s delicate fences. I confess, I’ve seldom disliked a man more than I dislike Madison.”

It was strange to hear; no one but Federalists disliked Madison. And most of them hated my father much more. “But—”

“Don’t let it trouble you. I’m certain the feeling is mutual. And I’m sure you’ve had enough of conflict after your time in Washington City. I’m told you quietly conquered the place during your winter campaign.”

I felt myself blush for his characterization of it. How was it that he always saw me as some sort of warrior? And how was it that I never minded? “I hope I did some small good.”

“Margaret Bayard Smith sings your praises,” he said. “You may count yourself a success when a newspaperman’s wife says that you’re one of the most lovely women she’s ever met, with manners so frank and affectionate that you put her perfectly at ease.”

Margaret’s husband was a Republican, so she was apt to praise me, but still my cheeks burned with peculiar pleasure. “Given such a recommendation, Mr. Short, I’m confident enough to advise you. If you’re seeking a diplomatic post, you must reach accord with our secretary of state.”

William’s gaze slid from mine and landed at our feet. “Your father is the president. If he wishes for me to serve as an ambassador, I’m pleased to serve in that capacity. Madison’s approval shouldn’t be required.”

But it would be, I thought. Mr. Short ought to have known it. Surely he did know it. And I suddenly suspected his unwillingness to swallow his pride was a ruse. He was, for some reason, postponing a return to Europe. I traitorously wondered if it had to do with me.

It would be better if he left. Better for him. Better for Rosalie. And better for me.

Because I was unsettled every time we met. Unlike Jack Eppes, I would never risk all that I loved for fleeting desire. But it would be better never to be tempted in the first place.





Chapter Twenty-nine


Washington, 23 January 1804

To Martha Jefferson Randolph from Thomas Jefferson

The snow is still falling with unabated fury. I expect Mr. Eppes will leave in order to be with Maria at the knock of an elbow in February. On Friday Congress gave a dinner on the acquisition of Louisiana. As much as I wished to have yourself and sister with me, I rejoice you weren’t here. The brunt of the battle falls on the Secretary’s ladies, who are dragged into the dirt in every federal paper. You’d have been the victims had you been here, and butchered more bloodily. Pour into the bosom of my dear Maria all the comfort and courage which the affections of my heart can give her, and tell her to rise superior to fear for our sakes.