America's First Daughter: A Novel(170)

Yes, he might open the door for Septimia because she was a child, but I didn’t intend to use her in such a way. “Your father has always suffered dark moods. Then he comes out of them. He always comes out of them. So we must give him privacy.”

From the parlor, where he’d been setting up a chessboard, my father called, “Ah, Ellen, come play!” Papa was inordinately proud of both his granddaughter and his chess set—a gift from the French court. “I’ve been telling Mr. Short that if you’d been born a man, you’d have been a great one. So show him how you’ve learned to use my chessmen.”

William had been examining Papa’s “magic” double doors, which, by some ingenious innovation, opened of their own accord. But he looked up when Ellen pulled a crimson damask chair to the board by the window and challenged him to a game. “You won’t go easy on account of my sex, will you, Mr. Short?”

William smirked. “To the contrary, I’m contemplating asking special dispensation on account of my age.”

Ellen threw her head back in laughter, a dark tendril of hair escaping the bun at her nape . . . and proceeded to a ruthless victory.

Smiling in easy defeat, William turned to me. “Your daughters have inherited your talents, Mrs. Randolph. Ellen’s wit. Virginia’s music. Cornelia’s artistry . . . why her architectural drawings rival those of professional draftsmen. I’ve advised your father to hire her for the University.”

My girls were delighted by this praise, and I was, too. Even so, I felt compelled to say, “You forget I was an abysmal artist in my youth—to this day, I can scarcely sketch a pea.”

“I remember perfectly well,” William countered. “It’s only that paints and pencils were never the tools of your trade. You were a different kind of artist. The craft you mastered was spycraft!”

“Spycraft?” Ellen asked, eyes round at the mention of the disreputable business.

My children were fascinated, and William looked very satisfied. “Shall I tell your children how you rooted out an English spy?”

I gave my assent with an indifferent shrug and a secret smirk, deciding that so many years had passed there could hardly be scandal in it.

The story of how I’d stolen papers from the rooms of Charles Williamos was one my father had never heard before. And in hearing it, poor Papa looked as if he didn’t know whether to scold or congratulate us. “The secrets come out only when your children think you’re too old and feeble to discipline them!”

We laughed together beneath the rows of paintings that my father prized. All of us had needed to laugh. Which left me even more grateful for William’s visit. He paid court to my father with the affection and comfort of an old friend, bolstering his spirits. He played games with my children and told them stories about Lafayette, which put them in even more excited anticipation of setting eyes upon our beloved Marquis.

William made us forget our troubles; he made it easy to pretend that my husband wasn’t lurking on the grounds each night . . . or even that I wasn’t married at all.

After winning another game, Ellen announced, “Mr. Short, you’re paying too much homage to your queen. But I’ll allow you to avenge yourself with one last game.”

“I’m content to leave the field in ignominious defeat,” William said.

She clasped her hands together. “I fear your years in Philadelphia have turned you into a Yankee! No Virginia gentleman, born and bred, would bow so easily.”

A Yankee. It no longer had the same bite on her tongue as it did the day Joseph Coolidge came to our door. That’s how I knew that my Ellen was in love. In love with a man she wouldn’t marry because she feared to abandon me.

That night, I took her chin and made her look into my eyes. “If you can be happy with Mr. Coolidge, then marry him. You must go and be happy.”

Her long dark lashes fluttered with surprise. “But I’m accustomed to spinsterhood. And my duty—”

“Don’t let duty chain you,” I said, though it would break my heart to lose her. “Not to me, not to your father, not even to your grandfather.”

Ellen blinked, her brow furrowed. “But I wish to do as you’ve always done, Mama.”

My heart sank at the sentiment, sweet as it was. There had been sacrifice enough for duty. Ellen deserved to make the choice I hadn’t been able to. I grasped her hands. “No, Ellen. You’ve done your duty. It’s time to consider your own happiness.” For I was determined that my precious daughter, the one I clung to the way my father clung to me, would well and truly find it.





I AWAKENED TO THE SILHOUETTE of a man in my bedroom doorway. It was my husband, drunk and ornery. He stumbled into my closet—where he must’ve still expected to find a bed. Smashing instead into trunks and hatboxes, he uttered a dark curse.

“Tom?” I asked, not fully awake.

He never answered. Instead, he followed my voice in the dark, then hefted his body onto the bed, climbing atop me. “You’re my wife,” he snarled, yanking down the blankets.

“You’re drunk,” I accused, pushing him away.

“So you’re the wife of a drunk,” he said, forcing upon me a rough, wet kiss.

I didn’t want him. Not like this. Not angry and rough and stinking of wine. “No, Tom. We decided—”