America's First Daughter: A Novel(29)

This left me with only one suggestion. “Then let me go with you. I’d very much like to see Nabby again.”

“You have your schooling,” Papa said firmly. “The more you learn, the more I love you. Lose no moment in improving your head, nor any opportunity of exercising your heart in benevolence. Your duty is to attend your studies at the convent. My duty takes me to England.”

What of the duty Mama had bestowed upon me to watch over him?

Nevertheless, Papa left me in the care of Mr. Short, who had command of the American embassy while my father was away. I believed it was the increased responsibility that was behind the infrequency of Mr. Short’s visits to the convent and not—as my friends whispered behind their hands—that he spent all his free time in the company of notorious women. But their rabid gossip gave me the strangest sinking feeling, so I refused to even acknowledge it.

On the day he came to pay my tuition, Mr. Short reported, “Your father has arrived safely in England. He bids me to look after your happiness.”

Tartly, I replied, “I’d be a good deal happier if he’d write me.”

Mr. Short straightened his cravat and gave a sympathetic smile as we walked together on the convent grounds. “Perhaps he’ll return with a little gift . . . I have it on good authority that he’s ordered a special harpsichord for you.”

I gasped, imagining the duets Papa and I would play together. My mother played the harpsichord and I wanted to make beautiful music with one, too. “Is that really true?”

My spirits lightened as Mr. Short guided me to a bench and we sat in the cool spring sun. “It is. And maybe he’ll return with your sister Polly, too,” Mr. Short suggested, perhaps encouraged by the light in my eyes. Hope flooded my heart. Seeing Polly would be even better than a harpsichord! It shocked me to realize that it’d been nearly a year since we wrote instructing Aunt Elizabeth to send Polly to us. Seldom was anything my father commanded left undone, and I began to worry that they were all very ill at Eppington. Too ill to come to us here in France. And I said as much.

“Patsy, if you keep fretting, you’ll wither away before your fourteenth birthday and I’d hate to see a fair bloom spoiled before it blossoms.”

A thrill rushed through me. Had Mr. Short called me a fair bloom? Did he mean anything by it? Certainly not. Still, an odd lightness of being filled my chest until I was nearly giddy. The heat of a blush flustered me. I remembered the gossip about Mr. Short and notorious women, and his words made me bold. Brushing away a tendril of my hair caught by the breeze, I forced my gaze to meet his, which was bright green in the light of the sun. “Mr. Short, what should a friend do if she knew your reputation was in danger?”

He tilted his head. “If my friend was a daughter of the U.S. minister, she should tend to her father’s reputation and not mine.”

I had tended to Papa’s reputation; but Papa was better now, his reputation unblemished, his honor as a Virginia gentleman beyond reproach. “Doesn’t my father call you his adoptive son? Therefore, by your reasoning, I should tend to your reputation because it reflects upon him.”

Mr. Short smirked at my boldness. “Why do you think my reputation is endangered?”

“Rumors say you’re overfamiliar with women, especially with a girl in the village of Saint-Germain, where you first learned French.” My brazenness set me to trembling. I clasped my hands to hide it.

“Ah, the Belle of Saint-Germain.” He laughed, proving he took no offense.

But I hoped he’d deny it and didn’t know how to respond to laughter, nor to the odd disappointment welling in my chest. Finally, I said, “It’s gossip. I know it’s not true. You’re a sprightly dancer. How can you be blamed if licentious Frenchwomen flock to you?”

This only made him laugh harder.

“I’ve defended your honor,” I added hastily, my temper rising with my discomfort. “I’ve vouched for your good character.”

He squinted his green eyes with mischief and mirth. “Oh, never do that. You can never know the heart of a diplomat. Perhaps the gossip about me is true.”

My spirits sank, but my spine straightened. “Mr. Short, do you not realize that I’d defend you against disparaging words even if they were true?”

My earnestness pierced his bubble of merriment. He sat forward, his amusement dying away. “I’m sorry that such matters should ever concern you, Patsy. Truly. I endeavor to flaunt my affections with such openness that I cannot be suspected of secret lusts or hidden vices. My affections for the Belle of Saint-Germain and for the Duchess de La Rochefoucauld, and any number of Frenchwomen who frequent the salons of Paris, are genuine and transparent. I’ll not claim my own actions are innocent, but theirs are blameless.”

His admission that he felt affection for these women made my throat go suddenly tight. “Well, I worry,” I managed weakly.

Mr. Short smiled. “Your care is ever a comfort. Just be sure you attend to your own happiness, too.”





I HOPED PAPA WOULD RETURN from England with my little sister. And failing that, my new harpsichord. Instead, he returned with a startling missive from Polly, who refused to join us in France, writing: I want to see you and sister Patsy, but you must come to Uncle Eppes’s house.

Polly’s willfulness pained me. Never would I have defied Papa’s wishes in such a way. And since my sister’s letter was written under Aunt Elizabeth’s supervision, I couldn’t help but think it had my aunt’s approval, which left me quite sour toward her.