America's First Daughter: A Novel(46)
“Oh, I wouldn’t make too much of his courage. He was so seasick on the way to his post that he now contemplates staying abroad forever rather than face the crossing again.”
I smiled at the admission of the shortcoming. “But wouldn’t he miss his country?”
Mr. Short contemplated, one finger tapping his lips in a way that drew my gaze there. “He already does, but he’s not homesick for some of its peculiar customs. He’d like to return to his native land, secure a comfortable fortune as a planter, and make a home for a suitable wife, but he worries it cannot be done except at the cost of his sacred honor. Do you think that’s something his sweetheart could understand?”
I swallowed, trying to make sense of his question. “That depends . . . is his sweetheart a French girl?”
“Virginian.”
In spite of my intention to remain coolly, flirtatiously aloof, my breath caught and my lips parted as I met his pointed gaze. “Then she understands.”
How ignorant I was. I’d never before given any thought to how difficult it was to prosper in Virginia without slaves. Never contemplated the obstacles of leasing lands to free sharecroppers. Never racked my brain to choose crops requiring only the labor that might keep both a plantation and conscience in good order. The only thing I understood was that Mr. Short was fearful of returning to a way of life in Virginia that he despised.
“And the girl in this picture?” he asked. “What does she dream for her future?”
As tangled as my thoughts had become, the question took me utterly unawares. I had, from the youngest age, been given directives. How to comport myself in a way that honored my father. What to learn to make myself a more pleasing companion. I still heard my mother’s reedy voice bidding me to take care of my father all of the days of his life. No one had ever asked me what I wanted. “What can you mean?”
He mischievously stole the last chocolate drop and held it just out of my reach. “What sort of life do you think she’d like to lead? Does she wish to marry or give herself to spinsterhood? Does she see herself the lady of a house in town, visiting with her friends and debating in salons? Does she see herself the mistress of a vast country plantation, brewing beer, slaughtering pigs, haying in its season?”
My father always spoke as if I would, inevitably, return to take up life on a plantation. Except for my now mostly forgotten desire to join the convent, other choices had never before been presented to me. And when faced with this dizzying array, the words that bubbled up from within me were born of raw instinct. “She dreams of a future in which she, too, might be of both service and consequence to her country.”
It was an absurd answer. Mr. Short might’ve laughed in mockery. Or he might’ve presumed it was a docile, noncommittal reply, rather than the ambitious and prideful one it really was. But knowing I was my father’s daughter in this, and everything, he stared with wonder, surrendering to me the last chocolate drop. “Well, then, Miss Jefferson, the sweethearts in this idyllic painting are very well suited indeed.”
THE ONLY THING that clouded our sunny romance was the seemingly endless wait for my father’s return. It came in April, when Papa rolled up to the convent with a carriage full of gifts for me and Polly. He was eager to talk about the food, art, and ideas the soils of Germany had given him about the best design for a plow. And though he could no longer play the violin with any real skill, due to his injury, I made enough music for the both of us with my new harpsichord, a thing we both treasured.
Papa’s buoyant spirits delighted Polly and reassured me that he’d be receptive to Mr. Short, should he choose to declare himself for me. Waiting for that fateful moment at the convent school, I huddled together with Marie, my only confidante in such matters, and anxiously counted the days before we’d dine together at the Hotel de Langeac. Polly, Papa, me, and Mr. Short. What a pleasant little family of four we’d make!
I was puzzled, then, upon our end-of-week visit, to find Mr. Short not there. My father pulled me into a hug, chiding me gently that I’d not seen fit to pen him but a few lines while he was away. I was ashamed of my neglect, for it was born of my infatuation, and I almost told him as much when asking after Mr. Short.
Papa smiled distractedly over a game board upon which he was playing chess against himself. “He’s quite occupied arranging for his travels.”
“Travels?” In his role as my father’s secretary, Mr. Short was part courier, part negotiator, part translator, and representative—he was Papa’s voice wherever Papa couldn’t be. He traveled frequently throughout France and sometimes beyond. And yet, I’d have thought I’d first hear of a new mission from Mr. Short himself. More than that, I feared I couldn’t bear the waiting if he should decide to postpone his talk with my father until after such a sojourn.
With my heart filled with love that I couldn’t express, I was afflicted with the greatest impatience of my life. So much so that I waited up late, going down the stairs on some pretext of needing chamomile tea for an unsettled stomach when I heard Mr. Short come in.
Mr. Short’s first, instinctive reaction to the sight of me that night was a smile. But then that smile gave way to sadness. “Whatever are you doing awake at this hour, Patsy?”
My position on the staircase caused me to look down upon him. “I’m told you’re to leave Paris.”