America's First Daughter: A Novel(45)

The implications of this confession broke a fissure in my resentment like the sun cracking open a frozen river. Mr. Short hadn’t sought out a private moment with Sally. He’d stolen a token of mine! Overcome with a rush of emotion, I pressed a hand to my chest, crushing the front of my crimson frock, and breathed in, as if for the very first time. “Why would you do such a thing?”

He removed his hat and stared at his feet with chagrin. “With our friendship imperiled, I felt the want of a keepsake to remind me of happier times.”

My heart insisted it was more than that. I recalled the gold watch key containing a braided lock of my mother’s hair that Papa had commissioned. So that he’d never forget her. So that he’d carry her with him always. Mr. Short wanted that kind of connection . . . with me? “Why didn’t you simply ask me for such a token?”

“I thought you’d be ill-disposed to such a request. Moreover, I’d never presume without your father’s permission. And given that Mr. Jefferson had just confided his intention to leave you and your sister under my protection, any discussion of my feelings for you would have sounded suspect, if not depraved.”

Mon Dieu! I thought I might fall into a breathless swoon before I got the words out. “What are your feelings for me?”

“Ask me again,” Mr. Short said, snatching back the token of hair from my grasp, “. . . when your father returns.”





Chapter Ten


WAS THERE EVER A TIME OR PLACE for love better than spring in Paris?

With my father away, William Short and I exchanged witty little notes, discussed books, and railed at the injustice of French commoners paying taxes, while nobles and clergy were exempt. We marveled together at the revolutionary spirit in Paris. Indeed, we knew ourselves to be caught up in a singular moment in history, and hoped the whole world, inspired by my father’s ideals, was poised to make itself over anew.

All the while, I kept my vow; I pretended not to know about the lock of hair. At least, I never again made mention of it during Mr. Short’s dangerously frequent visits to the convent. Nor did he openly declare his feelings for me. Indeed, during our long walks, we thought ourselves models of restraint, our behavior above the suspicion of even the most censorious nun.

Though we were far too clever together to let restraint, or propriety, or even our confinement get in the way of affection’s bloom.

When it rained and we were forced to shelter under the cold, gray arches of the Panthemont, we shared a little bag of chocolate drops. Mr. Short said, “Let’s warm ourselves by painting a mental picture of a sun-drenched field. . . .”

I laughed, delighted. “Given my lack of talent for drawing, I fear to take up the imaginary brush. What else do we see but a field?”

“Some trees.” He grinned. “Perhaps a church tower in the dis tance.” His grin widened. “A pair of sweethearts picnicking together.”

Smiling, too, I closed my eyes to the pitter-patter of rain, allowing myself to imagine sprawling upon a blanket with him in the sun. “Are these sweethearts well suited?”

“Too soon to tell, but they’re both enormously fond of chocolate drops, so I have high hopes for them.”

That made me laugh. Dear Mr. Short. “Is a mutual fondness for chocolate drops a strong basis for affections?”

“It is if you understand how seriously this fellow regards his confections. . . .”

Blinking with guile I asked, “Oh, is he a chocolatier?”

Mr. Short chuckled, his green eyes dancing with mirth. “A country lawyer by training, but he was induced to serve a diplomat in a foreign land. He’s very dashing and a sprightly dancer, too.”

The desire to twit him was irresistible. “Aha! I’ve guessed who our sweethearts are. Nabby Adams and her father’s secretary, the dashing Colonel Smith.”

Mr. Short smirked. “No, but our sweethearts are similarly situated.” Then, more peevishly— “You really think Colonel Smith is dashing? He’s a dreadfully stiff dancer and whenever the man sings, he’s off-key.”

“I thought he was your friend!” I exclaimed, warming inside at his displeasure in my complimenting Colonel Smith.

“He is my friend. That’s why I’m so well acquainted with his faults. I taunt him for his lack of musicality and he taunts me about the elderly Frenchwomen who are taken by my charms.”

It wasn’t only elderly Frenchwomen who were taken by his charms, but I refused to let the thought dim my enjoyment of our game. “Let’s return to the sweethearts in our imaginary painting. Does the fellow enjoy his work?”

“He does, though he’s worked for years now, without respite. He arrived desperately eager to see the Continent, but his employer hasn’t been able to do without him.”

It was a mild, implied complaint that made me laugh, for I be lieved my papa’s resistance had more to do with his fears about young American men being at great risk of corruption in Europe. “To work so hard, without respite, this fellow must be either industrious or ambitious.”

“Very ambitious,” was Mr. Short’s answer. “He’d like to be of both service and consequence to his country.”

My heart fluttered anew. How could I not admire such a man? “How brave to make his career so far from home.”