America's First Daughter: A Novel(31)

In the first place, I’m sure the wretched woman kept the original. And in the second place, I tried to burn it once before. . . .

That autumn, in Paris, somehow the duet of my life with Papa had become a trio. But the music stopped altogether when, in a foolish attempt to impress Maria Cosway by jumping over a fence, Papa badly injured his wrist. The echo of how he’d hurt himself trying to impress my mother all those years ago made me furious.

Mrs. Cosway was now leaving the city—and good riddance to her!—yet, Papa was chancing making a greater fool of himself by insisting on offering a personal farewell. On the dreary October day I returned from the convent to find my father gone, I fretted to Mr. Short, “But the doctor who set his bones said that he shouldn’t go anywhere!”

Mr. Short rose from the desk chair where he’d been conducting his work. “Your father insisted, Patsy. I offered my opinion that it wasn’t in his best interest to accompany Mrs. Cosway, but he’s my employer. I’m not his.”

There was something strange in the way he phrased it; something that made me worry Mr. Short also suspected the entanglement between Papa and Mrs. Cosway was improper. So I tried to cast the shameful matter in terms of my father’s health. “He’s barely sleeping for the pain. Saint-Denis is two hours by carriage each way. He’s canceled every other engagement these past weeks, yet, for her . . .” I shook my head, angrily, recalling the migraine that had kept Papa from my birthday dinner and his presentation of the Marquis de Lafayette’s bust to the citizens of Paris the next day. In both cases, Mr. Short had appeared in Papa’s stead.

“I share your concern, Patsy, but Mr. Jefferson was intent on seeing Mrs. Cosway off on her departure to London.”

I wondered if Mr. Short not only suspected but knew the danger Maria Cosway presented—to Papa’s heart, mind, and reputation. If Mr. Short knew of my father’s affair, ought I be glad or horrified? Horrified, I decided, and tried to deflect suspicion. “I suppose Papa has such tender sentiments toward his friends that he must see them off personally.”

Mr. Short wasn’t fooled by my efforts. “You’re a good daughter, Patsy. But you must try to remember . . . it’s been nearly four years since he lost your mother.”

My cheeks warmed. “I never forget it, for now I’m all he has.”

A vigorous shake of his head released a lock of sandy hair to shadow his eyes. “No, Patsy. That’s not true.”

“It is true.” My chest rose and fell swiftly under the weight of my obligation. I couldn’t bear for anything to tempt Papa’s melancholy to return. And I was the only one who could protect him from it. “Our kin are far across the sea. Even if they weren’t, I’m the only one who understands. . . .” I trailed off, twice as convinced. “I am all Papa has.”

“Patsy, you’re much mistaken,” he said with insistence, standing so close that the weight of his presence steadied me. “Mr. Jefferson has me, too. He’s a father to me, and ours is a bond of affection that cannot be broken. I honor him. He’s the beating pulse of every cause dear to me. He may always rely upon me, and so may you.”

The words were a balm to my heart. Mr. Short had repaid my father’s patronage with a devotion as clear-eyed as it was ardent. He’d seen my father in strength and weakness, cleaving to his side no matter how his fortunes rose or fell.

Dear Mr. Short.

Knowing that there existed someone else who cared so much for Papa was the greatest relief. And for the first time, I felt understood. I believed Mr. Short understood me completely. It was such a revelation that it felt oddly intimate, forcing me to take a step back. “Thank you—”

The jingle and clatter of a carriage sounded from the front of the house. I headed for the stairs, with Mr. Short following, knowing it must be Papa returned from his ill-advised adventure. My father’s face was white as a bedsheet, each step costing him a great deal. Mr. Short poured a glass of amber liquor for Papa, who emptied it with a grimace. In a flat voice that invited no discussion, my father said, “Go to bed, Patsy.”

I was forever being sent to bed early, but what argument could I make to convince him that I should stay? When Papa was in such a dark mood, he wouldn’t hear me. His wrist clearly pained him, but there was something else. Something else terribly wrong. And I knew that it must have something to do with Maria.

Acid flooded into my stomach at the realization that Mrs. Cosway had said or done something. Maybe she had quarreled with Papa. I was desperate to know how she returned him to such melancholy, but I dared not ask because I was afraid he’d taken this woman to his heart—a heart he pledged forever to my mother on her deathbed. Having captured that heart, was it possible that Maria had shattered it?

If so, perhaps it was no more than he deserved.

Angry, I pushed up from my chair. “Good night, Papa.”

But it wasn’t a good night. And my father’s mood failed to improve. Indeed, much of the weekend he closed himself in his chamber struggling to write with his uninjured left hand, with which his penmanship was quite poor. Each time I entered to check on him, he scrambled to secure the pages. He didn’t fool me, of course. I knew he was writing to her. He was writing a secret letter to a married woman. And I knew that it must be a shameful letter if he wouldn’t even let Mr. Short write it for him.