America's First Daughter: A Novel(43)
So it wasn’t with all self-serving motive that I treated Mr. Short with contempt, turning from him to my new Catholic faith for comfort. My father didn’t know of the rosary that I kept beneath my pillow but blamed my moodiness on my friends at the convent. One night before bed, he gave me a kiss on the forehead and the following advice: “Seek out the company of your countrywomen, who are too wise to wrinkle their foreheads with politics and religious superstition like these Frenchwomen do; it is a comparison of Amazons and Angels.”
I frowned at him, remembering that he was the one who sent me to the school with all these Frenchwomen, when I hadn’t wanted to go. And that the conduct of women seemed to me, in every respect, less objectionable than his.
So while Mr. Short set to work taking dictation as Papa outlined the merits of the Bill of Rights, to be proposed upon adoption of the new Constitution in America, it fell to me to occupy myself with the tender and tranquil amusements of domestic life.
While I mothered Polly, the two men worked tirelessly; so much so that their enterprise spilled out of the study, into the parlor, where my sister and I read our books. That is how I know that Papa worried about the perpetual eligibility of the president for reelection, a thing he feared would make a mockery of liberty. I was there, when, in a tirade, Papa condemned the “degeneracy” of the principles of liberty taking root in America, and Mr. Short slyly chose his moment to convey an invitation for Papa to join the Society of the Friends of the Blacks, of which he, Lafayette, and the Duke de La Rochefoucauld were all members.
My father did pause to consider. But in the end, he said, “Nobody wishes more ardently to see an abolition not only of the trade but of the condition of slavery. But I’m here as a public servant to those who haven’t seen fit to give voice against it.”
Mr. Short nodded, as if the matter were settled, but I could see plainly in his expression that it was not. There was a dogged stubbornness about William Short—one that would lead him to hold out hope for a cause, long after everyone else knew it to be lost. He was as persistent in matters of the heart as he was in matters of moral principle, though I didn’t know it yet. I only knew that I’d judged him to be dishonorable, and yet he stood against slavery, showed loyalty to my father, and had only ever shown me kindness, even when he spoke words that broke my heart.
And so, in the helpless way of a girl who has never learned to guard that heart, I’d fallen most desperately in love with him.
It didn’t matter that I was angry. It didn’t matter that I believed him a knave. It didn’t matter that I’d decided to take my vows.
Try as I might to deny it, my chest felt empty and hollow on the days when we were parted. And that exquisite suffering was replaced with a swelling ache when I came again into his company. Yes, I was a young girl with a secret love. And this tortured predicament was made only more agonizing by my father’s decision to tour Europe in March of that year, leaving instructions that Mr. Short was to watch over me and Polly while he was away.
IN PAPA’S ABSENCE, Mr. Short’s attention turned to me. He came to the convent within days of my father’s departure, ostensibly to ask after Polly’s health. Strolling through the courtyard, he said, “I want to be able to assure your father that she’s recovered of her illness.”
“She was recovered of it before Papa left,” I replied, coldly. “But I’ll write a letter if he’s worried.”
“I’ll wait, should it please you to have my company while you compose. . . .” There was a thread of hope in his voice, but I knew that my friends at the convent were watching us from the windows above.
So I only shook my head. “I would rather send my letter tonight for you to enclose with your own.”
The disappointment that flashed through his eyes pleased me. And he was back again three days later. Then six days after that. Each time, I remained perfectly placid, according him civility but not more than that. Until, at last, he visited on the pretext of delivering to me an allowance. “Your father sent this payment, some for you, some for your tuition, and some to the servants.”
It was the mention of the servants that made me say, “I’d like Sally to stay at the convent with us. We’ll be glad to have our lady’s maid close at hand.”
Settling beside me on a bench, and casually crossing his leg at the knee in a way that drew my eyes to the strong and lean muscle of his calf beneath its white silk stocking, Mr. Short replied mildly, “Your father considered sending Sally to stay with you but didn’t approve the cost of boarding her at the convent.”
“How much can it cost? Perhaps with my allowance and Sally’s savings—”
“No. Your father doesn’t wish to invite inquiries as to the special status of his servants. Such inquiries might not only prove embarrassing to him, but also result in a substantial fine for his failure to register his black servants as per French law.”
It surprised me that my father, a great believer in laws, was breaking one. “How large a fine?”
Mr. Short’s voice did not waver. “Three thousand livres for Sally and James, each. Six thousand in all. Should their slave status be brought to the attention of the authorities, both of them might be arrested and expelled from the country . . . or, conversely, they might both file a petition for emancipation in the Admiralty Court. Which is certain to be granted, by the way.”