America's First Daughter: A Novel(34)
“I’ve heard the political quarrel has spilled out into the streets in scuffles,” I said, a little ashamed of the thrill in my voice, especially since it wasn’t the danger that excited me, but the nearness of Mr. Short. How had I never noticed before how noble a profile he had? And his green eyes . . . how could eyes be so strangely world-weary and enchanting at the same time?
“Men will fight for liberty,” Mr. Short was saying, sounding very much like Papa. “But there’s always a risk that fighting will descend into lawlessness.”
“Then I’m glad our revolution is over in America.”
Mr. Short’s lips twitched up. “You think our revolution is over and done, Patsy?”
“Have we not wrested our liberty from the British?”
“We’ve won, at force of arms, the right to draw up a Constitution. Yet, you need look no further than your father’s own plantation in Virginia—or indeed, our embassy kitchen—to see that liberty hasn’t been secured for all men.”
My lips parted in astonishment. Mr. Short was unwilling to judge my father for his affair with Mrs. Cosway, but on the matter of slavery, I heard the very certain note of censure. Bristling, I said, “I suppose the Virginia gentlemen of Spring Garden, from whence you hail, don’t keep slaves?”
“Not this Virginia gentleman,” he said, with a determined shake of his head. “I entered this world with a small patrimony. I hope to grow my investments such that my fortune may sustain me. But I will not water it with the infamous traffic in human flesh. The practice compromises our morals and teaches us a habit of despotism.”
His vehemence took me entirely unawares. I couldn’t imagine this was a conversation of which my father would approve, but the lure of discussing anything with an impassioned Mr. Short proved too much to resist. “Then what—what is to be done about slavery?”
Mr. Short turned us into the bright green hedge maze. “I haven’t an answer yet. But I intend to join a society for effecting the abolition of the slave trade.”
As we walked, Mr. Short explained to me his vision for a world where slavery was no more and men lived in equality and deference to the law. And for once I didn’t curse my long legs, for I had no trouble matching his stride as our shoes fell into rhythm together. I’d always taken him for a pragmatist—a shrewd man if not an entirely virtuous one. But that day I learned he was a man whose ideals were as lofty as my father’s.
Perhaps loftier.
When he left me, I raced up to the bedroom so that I could stand at the window overlooking the street to watch him go. Marie came upon me and flounced atop the embroidered-coverlet of the bed, propping herself up on one elbow in bored repose. When she glanced out the window to see the retreating figure of Mr. Short, her mouth formed a little circle of surprise. “Mon Dieu! Jeffy, you are smitten.”
“Nonsense,” I said, not risking a glance at her. “Mr. Short is merely a friend of long acquaintance.”
“Then why are you pink to the tips of your freckled ears?”
At last, I decided it would do no good to hide it from her. I spun on my toes in an excited pirouette. “Do you think he fancies me? Whenever he visits, he stays longer than he is obligated to do. He had an artist paint a portrait for me. . . .”
Marie’s expression fell. “Oh, poor Jeffy. Has no one told you that your Mr. Short is infatuated with Rosalie, the Duchess de La Rochefoucauld?”
I pretended to dismiss it, waving a hand. “That’s a malicious rumor.”
She hesitated at my staunch defense, then concluded, “I think it’s true that he’s infatuated with her, but let’s hope it is only rumor that they’ve become lovers.”
Lovers. I was wholly unprepared for the flash of pain that burned just beneath my breastbone at the thought. Mr. Short was a man of twenty-seven who spent his days with the cream of French society . . . of course he took lovers.
With sinking spirits, I decided that I’d been a fool. The reminder made me wonder how I’d ever so much as entertained the notion that he might take an interest in me. How ridiculous to dream, for even a moment, that a mere schoolgirl could compete for his affections with the likes of a duchess, no matter that she was another man’s wife. . . .
Wounded, I kept to myself, finding comfort in the scriptures. I reported the political happenings in Paris to Papa by post, hoping to keep him apprised. But he didn’t seem pleased by my interest in politics. My letters were all too often met with silence and, in one case, a veiled rebuke that I should attend ancient Latin texts and keep my mind always occupied to guard against the poison of ennui!
How could I care about the translation of Livy with the world in such a state? Moreover, I wouldn’t need to keep my father apprised of the goings-on in France if he hadn’t been away, pining for the plumed and piffling woman who aroused his sinful impulses.
Only you, Martha. That’s what he swore to my mother four years before as she gasped her last breaths. I believed him then and so did she. But what I learned about men in Paris—even American men in Paris—opened my eyes and bruised my heart. And so I wrote to Papa, bitterly, of the latest news, almost hoping to wound him:
There was a gentleman, a few days ago, that killed himself because he thought that his wife did not love him. I believe that if every husband in Paris were to do as much, there would be nothing but widows left.