America's First Daughter: A Novel(42)
“It’s not the same,” I argued, though, unlike Mr. Short, I had no experience in the pleasures of a candlelit bedchamber to guide my convictions. I had only my conscience. And my conscience cried out that this was wrong. I knew it was. So did William Short. Yet apparently he’d do nothing to stop it, even if it meant putting souls, as he said, beyond redemption. Was it because Mr. Short had seduced and corrupted the Belle of Saint-Germain and his married duchess, too? Did he feel as if he had no standing to judge my father’s illicit conduct when he himself stood guilty of indiscretions?
Mr. Short reached for my hand. His eyes filled with desire, the same desire I’d seen only moments ago on my father’s face. . . . “Patsy, it’s no sin to—”
“It is,” I said, pulling away.
Not everything I’ve felt for Sally Hemings over the years has been noble or unselfish, but that night I perceived a difference between her and the preening, pampered Maria Cosway. With the memory of Sally’s tarnished little bell, the one my mother bequeathed her, I felt somehow compelled to defend her. But because I could conceive of no way to influence her circumstance or my own, I was filled with rage not only at my father, but also at William Short—the man who made our helplessness plain.
I wrenched away before he could reach for me again, thinking myself miserably foolish to have ever presumed his flirtation carried with it an honorable intent. Foolish to have ever thought Mr. Short wished to court me—or marry, ever.
“It is a sin, Mr. Short,” I said, remembering all the teachings my father supposed I didn’t hear at the convent. I knew God gave us commandments, the sixth of which forbade adulteries and fornications—even those lusts committed only in the heart. Yet the men of Paris seemed to believe the Lord could not see past the glittering brilliance of Versailles into the darker deeds done in its shadow. Deeds done under the same roof where my innocent little sister played with her dolls.
So it was that with all the righteous indignation that can be mustered by a confused and heartbroken girl of fifteen, I brushed past Mr. Short without a backward glance.
SALLY HEMINGS WAS AS OPAQUE TO ME as I tried to make myself to the rest of the world. We had that in common. So when she came to brush out Polly’s hair that night, she let slip not the slightest hint of anything amiss.
In the days that followed at the Hotel de Langeac, my father’s behavior was, in every respect, correct, benevolent, and genteel. Papa was gallant with Polly, spoiling her with gifts on Christmas Day. He contrived to play music with me, ignoring the pain in his wrist, lavishing me with praise and warmly asserting after a particularly well-performed duet that he loved me infinitely. He also announced, on the coming of the new year, that he’d begin paying wages to Jimmy—who now insisted upon being called James—both generous and appropriate to his new official station as a chef de cuisine, in full command of our kitchen.
Furthermore, Papa bestowed upon Sally a wage of twenty-four livres, plus another twelve as a gift, a sum so wildly excessive for a chambermaid that I could only understand it as a gesture of apology and regret. In truth, this largesse to Sally was all that convinced me I had not imagined the encounter between them. I thought the extravagance must be a farewell to their intimacies. The thought comforted me, and I convinced myself quite easily that it would never happen again.
Ever amiable, Sally’s only concern that winter seemed to be a desire to be included in Polly’s and my doings, and to see the sights of Paris. Meanwhile, Papa lost himself in assuring the credit of our new nation, and shipping wine, rice, silk, and china to friends who requested it.
Even the intrepid Mr. Short didn’t again mention Papa’s encounter with Sally.
Nor ours in the snow.
And I was glad of it, because our friendship had cooled considerably since the night he defended my father’s indefensible conduct with Sally. And my suspicions of Mr. Short’s moral character only increased when, upon having left Sally to sweep up my dressing room after cutting my hair, I returned to ask her some trifle and caught a glimpse of William Short in the doorway, there where he ought not to have been.
His presence there caught me so off guard that I dashed into an empty room so as not to be seen. A moment later, Mr. Short hurried past. As his footsteps retreated down the stairs, I pressed my hand to my heart. What had he been doing in my chamber?
My pulse beating in my ears, the question I’d intended to ask Sally was long forgotten, which was for the best. I didn’t want to chance seeing her and witness in her eyes or on her face anything that might confirm my aching suspicions about Mr. Short’s actions.
Up until that point, I’d fervently prayed that I’d misjudged Mr. Short—that, in my shock and dismay over my father’s conduct, I’d unfairly counted him amongst those men who are unworthy of the kind of affection I bore him—but now I feared that Mr. Short, too, had noticed pretty Sally Hemings.
I won’t spare myself by pretending this fear arose only for her sake; her liaison with my father, however brief, taught me an unfortunate habit of jealousy. I’d already compared my unruly red curls to Sally’s long, flowing dark mane. Already despaired of my tall stature against her petite frame. Already judged with impatience the plainness of my face, where hers was so beautiful. But I was, at that time, still a good-hearted girl with a mind toward decency.
And in spite of all else, I harbored great affection for Sally.