America's First Daughter: A Novel(39)

And a few days later, something even more wonderful happened.

Mrs. Cosway left Paris.

I learned this from Papa, who came in from the wintry cold with frost upon his wig and a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. “I was to have breakfast with her this morning,” he bit out. “But I found only a note of farewell.”

Papa marched up to his chambers and stayed there. And though my father was always writing, that whole next week, he sent not a single letter. Seeing me fret over this, Mr. Short asked, “Will you never stop wrinkling your forehead with worry for your father, Patsy? He’s merely lanced a boil.”

Had Mr. Short also believed that Maria Cosway was a plague on our house? If so, why had he stood by and let her happen? “She might return to Paris.”

“He wouldn’t see her again if she did. If nothing else, Mrs. Cosway deprived your father of his good-bye, of a closing scene, of a way to make sense of it, categorize it, and put it in final order. He despises nothing so much as that.”

He had the right of it, for he knew my father well. Papa might be miserable but would soon be purged of it. What he needed was someone to tend to him so that he could distract himself with work, as he’d always done. Sally had returned from her ordeal in the countryside hale and hearty, not a pock mark on her beauty, so I tasked her with being Papa’s chambermaid. It was a cold winter—colder than anyone in Paris could remember—and I instructed Sally to keep the fires blazing at his hearth until Polly and I returned from the convent for Christmastide.

In the meantime, at Jimmy’s insistence, Papa hired a special tutor to teach the Hemingses French. I provided Sally with a new wardrobe from my cast-off clothing, so she’d look like a suitable maid to accompany us on social visits. Together, my sister and I took to the city, bedecked in new, elaborate dresses of our own. And Mr. Short sometimes accompanied us, playing the part of gentleman chaperone while stealing little smiles at me whenever I glanced his way. Between this, the gaiety of the holiday, and the passionate political debates on every street corner, it was all a delight.

When Polly and I returned home the Sunday before Christmas, the embassy was alive with the smell of bread. Low candles and crackling fires warmed every room, and I was filled with an undeniable happiness. Polly and I shared tea and buttered rolls, and I showed her the Cabinet des modes, a popular fashion leaflet in Paris. “Would you like a gown like this?”

I was eager to dress her just as Mrs. Adams had dressed me upon my own arrival in France. And Polly was so much prettier, just like a little doll. What fun it would be for us, two sisters, to choose fabrics and ribbons and shoes, together. But Polly just shrugged. She was less interested in clothes than in playing outside, so I tossed the leaflet aside. “Shall we go out and see the snow?”

Polly’s face immediately brightened. “Oh, let’s!”

We bundled up and went into the courtyard, where we made a game of throwing little balls of snow. To my surprise, Mr. Short joined us in the merriment.

Under threat of slushy snow packed in his gloves, I cried, “You wouldn’t dare!”

Mr. Short, cheeks pink from the cold, grinned at me. “Mademoiselle, I’m a daring man. The question is whether or not you’ll duck away.”

Light-headed at his flirtation, I fluttered my eyelashes like a coquette. “I could run.”

Packing the snow tighter in his palms, he narrowed his eyes. “If you run from me, Patsy Jefferson, I vow to give chase.”

I didn’t think we were speaking of the snow game any longer.

Nevertheless, I wanted him to prove it. Giddy, I grabbed my skirts and fled down the pathway. Our garden was nothing next to the snow-covered green majesty of the palace grounds, but that day, ours seemed more beautiful. The cold made my lungs tighten as I ran, laughing. But when Mr. Short chased, I began to feel as if it was each thud of my pounding heart that forced the breath out of me.

In moments, Mr. Short caught me by the coat, spinning me to him. Alas, my heel caught a patch of ice and my foot went out from under me. But I didn’t fall. At least, not right away. Mr. Short’s arms came around my waist and I crashed against his chest. Then we both lost our footing and, still laughing, fell together into a drift of snow.

With my head cradled upon his shoulder where he lay sprawled, his hat blown away by a gust of snowy wind, I didn’t feel the cold. Though the frigid melting water seeped into my woolen dress, I felt only the warmth of Mr. Short’s breath on my face. Only the heat banked in his eyes. Only the strange desire that burned in me, to take off my glove and trace his cheek with my bare fingers.

Instead, I let my hand drift near to his, and nearly swooned when he hooked my little finger with his own. We hadn’t touched skin to skin, but there was an unmistakable intimacy as his gloved finger linked, tightly but tenderly, with my own. We breathed in perfect harmony, bound so innocently, finger to finger, even as we ached for more.

It was a still and perfect moment. . . .

Which Polly ruined by pelting us with snow.

Declaring herself the victor, she danced over us. Still breathless and exhilarated, we went inside to change into dry clothes. When we came down, Jimmy set out spiced cider, and Mr. Short suggested that we summon Papa to join us. I wondered—perhaps vainly—if Mr. Short meant to speak to my father about a courtship between us. It was with this question in my mind, veritably floating on air, that I went in search of my father.