America's First Daughter: A Novel(14)

Papa didn’t answer.

Mr. Short tried again. “Mr. Jefferson, I fear your daughter is concussed.”

Papa’s blank stare betrayed that he couldn’t hear—that he wasn’t even with us. Papa was still in the jaws of his grief, caught in the madness I couldn’t bear for anyone else to discover. I tried to rise, to go to him, but Mr. Short stopped me with a warm hand upon my arm. “Get your head about you, Patsy. I’ll fetch some water.” From the saddlebag of his own mount, Mr. Short withdrew a flask and brought it to me. I wiped my mud-smeared hands on one of the few clean spots on my skirt. What a sight I made, and in front of Mr. Short. Mama would’ve scolded me, but, then, she’d never scold me again for anything. . . .

I took the water. Cool and clean, it eased the constriction of my throat. With sagging shoulders, I held the flask out to him. “I’m sorry. I’ve muddied the pewter.”

Mr. Short smiled. “Pay it no mind. It’s but a little dirt. Can you stand?”

I nodded and my gaze flicked to Papa, whose eyes were still blank and distant, his hands twitching on the reins like he was restless to move on. When Mr. Short helped me up from the ground, Papa seemed to remember himself at last. “Come, Patsy,” he said, his voice hoarse and strained.

It always sounded that way after one of his secret outbursts, but I think, too, he was ashamed anyone else had seen him this way.

Perhaps Mr. Short was right to say that I was concussed, because when I stepped toward Caractacus, I stumbled. Mr. Short steadied me with his hand at my elbow, then bade me to lean on him. “Mr. Jefferson. If you’ll allow me, I’ll see your daughter to Monticello.”

Papa stared a long minute, his dulled blue eyes moving back and forth between us like we were a puzzle to decipher. Seeing the mud on my dress, as if he’d only just realized that I’d fallen, a flush crept up Papa’s neck. “Yes,” he finally murmured, his hands lifting the reins. “Yes, of course.”

“No!” I cried. The thought of Papa wandering alone filled me with icy dread. In his madness, what would he do?

Mr. Short squeezed my other hand. “Come along, Patsy.”

“But, Papa—”

“Go with William,” Papa said, his voice cracking. “It’s for the best. He can take care of you.”

“But you’ll be home for supper?” I searched my father’s eyes for a promise.

Papa pressed his lips into a thin line and looked away. “I’ll be home.”

I reached for Caractacus and stroked the stallion, as much to reassure him as myself. “Take care of him,” I whispered. The horse nickered and pressed his big, regal face against mine. It was all the reassurance I had that someone, or something, would look after Papa in my stead.

Papa tugged the reins and turned about, forcing Mr. Short to huff out a breath. “Mr. Jefferson? Your daughter—” My father had already wheeled his horse around, but Mr. Short shouted after him, more fiercely. “Mr. Jefferson!”

The young man’s tone caught Papa’s attention. My father brought the stallion around, almost warily. I remember now that in that moment, William’s hand trembled where it rested atop mine, a small show of nerves.

“Mr. Jefferson, it didn’t—” Short broke off, swallowing hard on a wavering voice. “This loss didn’t happen only to you, sir.”

I couldn’t appreciate the full measure of these words. Not then. That day, I gasped so forcefully at William’s impertinence that I hurt my throat. “Mr. Short!”

Papa blanched but gave a single, tight nod that made my heart feel heavy within my chest. I felt as if that acknowledgment cost him something I couldn’t name.

Then he turned Caractacus and kicked him into a trot.

“Papa, I . . .” I didn’t think he could hear me. So I shouted, “Papa!”

But he was gone.

Fear drove away concern for manners, and I worried not about offending William Short. I rounded upon him. “How could you?”

At my censure, he merely bowed his head. “He lost a wife, but you lost a mother, Patsy. This cannot go on.”

So he knew.

He knew that Papa had descended into madness. And if he knew, who else did? The heat of shame flooded my face and tears pricked at my eyes at the thought of Papa’s political enemies or even our neighbors gossiping. They wouldn’t understand. Papa was still the bold hero of the Revolution. Still the great man he’d always been. It was only that Mama’s death had laid him low.

Panicked and angered, I no longer felt the cold, the sting of my ear, or the ache in my back. Papa’s outbursts were to have been a secret, between Caractacus and me. I was horrified that William Short had witnessed it, too. “You mustn’t say a word, Mr. Short. On your honor, you mustn’t say anything to anyone.”

Mr. Short stiffened as a Virginia gentleman must when honor is mentioned. “Patsy, I admire your father more than any other man. I’d do nothing to damage his reputation. But your aunt shouldn’t have left you and your sisters in his care. At the very least, Mr. Jefferson should find it in himself to be firmer in your presence. You’re only a child.”

“I’m not,” I stated.

“You are a child, a child who has lost much.”

I looked away, sure that if I didn’t, I’d find myself sharing things better left unsaid, sharing burdens that were mine alone. I couldn’t tell him that I feared Papa was more than mad—that the violence of his emotions might drag him into my mother’s grave with her. I bit back these words, for my mother had asked me to be my father’s solace. No one else.