America's First Daughter: A Novel(26)

By contrast, some of our American friends and other guests seemed insensible to our loss. Charles Williamos, a Swiss-born adventurer who often dined with us, said my father should simply remarry and make another baby to heal his broken heart.

At hearing this, Papa excused himself from the table, no doubt to wrestle with his grief in private. But I had not Papa’s good manners. Williamos’s heartless advice reminded me of Colonel Randolph’s suggestion that Papa remarry. Were the affections of these men so shallow they believed a lost life, a lost love, could simply be replaced?

From that moment, I despised Mr. Williamos.

And it must have showed. Mr. Short looked up from the meal, caught a glimpse of the enmity on my face, and said, “Patsy, shouldn’t you be abed? Better still, back at the convent?” He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin and stood up. “I’ll carry you there myself.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t leave Papa when he was so upset. In fact, I wanted to sneak up to my father’s room and lie beside him as I did when my mother died. But Mr. Short prevented me. “You’re forgotten here in the glumness, Patsy. You’ll be better cared for at the convent, and your well-being will weigh less upon your father’s mind.”

With that, Mr. Short reached for his coat with a stance that brooked no argument.

For a young man of such good humor, there was a hard strength in William Short. And I remembered how, when we were hiding from the British, he went off into the wilderness by himself, against all advice. When he made up his mind, he was as firm in it as my father could be. Maybe even firmer. And so I had no choice but to do as he said.

But I glanced back over my shoulder at Charles Williamos with a promise to myself that I would see the obnoxious man gone from my father’s house, somehow. . . .





Chapter Six


Paris, 11 May 1785

From Thomas Jefferson to Francis Eppes

My appointment will keep me somewhat longer. I must have Polly.

DUE TO THE SLOWNESS OF THE POST, we received a letter from Aunt Elizabeth telling us of Lucy’s death, seven months after it had been written. Reading the details cut us open all over again. And Papa finally wrote a letter to Uncle Frank commanding him to send Polly to us as soon as he could.

She couldn’t arrive soon enough. Knowing that I’d never see baby Lucy again, I longed for Polly. I was fond of Marie and my friends at the convent, but I began to dream of Polly and her angelic blue eyes, which made me sad upon awakening to find myself still without her.

Papa and I were still dispirited the next week when the Adams family came for a farewell dinner. Mr. Adams had been assigned to London, so we’d soon lose them across the narrow channel, which saddened me, too, because they’d been good friends. And Papa confessed their departure would leave him in the dumps.

“Oh, my poor dears,” Mrs. Adams exclaimed. “How you must mourn your little Lucy!” But it was hard to remember our sadness when Mrs. Adams swept into the house and expressed a lively opinion about every new thing she saw. She approved of Papa’s window coverings, saying they must have set him back his whole salary. She also approved of the pie we served, which delighted me, because I had helped Jimmy crimp the crust before it was put into the oven.

The only thing to spoil the farewell dinner was Charles Williamos, who dined with us again. I watched his fork flick the crust, as if he found it not to his liking. I suppose that was fair, because he was not to my liking either, and not merely because he suggested my father take a new wife and make a new baby to replace the dead one.

He was the sort of man who never spoke to me directly, referring to me only when forced as the girl. Otherwise, he didn’t seem to notice me at all. But I noticed him and the shrewd way he directed the dinner conversation, pushing the men to speak of politics in front of the ladies with a relentlessness that bordered on the unmannerly.

I’d have happily listened to Mrs. Adams decry the morals of Frenchwomen, or whispered gossip with her daughter Nabby, but always, Charles Williamos turned the topic to finance. How much could America borrow? How many loans had the envoys secured? And whenever a question was put to him about his own affairs, he answered it with a question of his own.

Since my mother died, I’d come to understand silences better than most. Perhaps that’s why I found something strangely suspect in the things Mr. Williamos chose not to say.

Later, when I crossed paths with Mr. Short in the hall, I asked, “How did my father come to be in company with Charles Williamos?”

Mr. Short rubbed his cheek in thought. “I can’t say I am entirely sure, Patsy, but why do you ask? He’s always eager to fetch whatever your father needs. He’s made himself a useful friend.”

The hollowness in my gut insisted Williamos was no friend at all. “I have no fondness for him.”

It was an unladylike thing to say and I wished I could call it back when Mr. Short raised a brow. “Why ever not?” Mr. Short shot a ferocious look in the direction of the dining room, as if he intended to be my champion against some unseen foe. “Has Charles Williamos said something to you?” he asked sharply, eyes narrowed. Then, more darkly, “Has he done something untoward?”

Mr. Short’s fierceness unleashed a tingle in my hollow belly and helped me voice my suspicions. “It is only that he listens differently than other men at the table. Have you not observed it? He always holds his tongue when he might offer an opinion, and is uninterested in the opinions of others unless they’re made with great specificity. He’s trying to learn something of us without allowing us to learn anything of him.”