America's First Daughter: A Novel(47)

Setting his hat upon an entryway table, he nodded, gravely. “Yes.”

“When?” I forced myself to move down one more step, then another.

“Soon, if all goes as to plan.”

“Where will you go?”

“To Rome and other places.”

I was unused to his cryptic answers and cringed at the way they turned me into an interrogator. Trying to regain my dignity, I descended the remaining step until only an arm’s length separated us. “How wonderful. I know you’ve wanted to see Rome for yourself. You must be very eager to go . . . but are you in such a rush that you must leave matters behind you unsettled?”

At that, his shoulders sagged. It was only with real effort that he seemed to square them again, and face me directly. “I’m afraid I must.”

The acute pain of it was like an arrow. I sucked in air, determined to disguise my anguish. “Do you mean you won’t . . . you haven’t . . .”

“Miss Jefferson,” he began, stiffly. “I’ve had an illuminating conversation with your father. It began with the topic of domestic contentment and ended on the subject of youth, inexperience, and the need for matured judgment.”

Puzzling through his remarks, I wondered if my father had opined on my youth and inexperience or Mr. Short’s.

Before I could ask, he added, “In light of this conversation, your father has seen fit to release me from my duties. In fact, he’s encouraged my oft-wished-for tour of Europe.”

His words sounded like the closing of a leather-bound book, and resounded with a hollow thud. There was no question that whatever had passed between my father and Mr. Short would delay our courtship indefinitely, if not make it impossible. And a thousand emotions passed through me at once.

Anger and upset, sadness and fear, panic and a frantic desire to think how I might change these circumstances. Devastation, too, at Mr. Short’s apparent resignation. He’d said, in the snow, that he was a daring man, that he wouldn’t stop chasing me. But now he wouldn’t risk my father’s esteem.

Not for me.

And despite our imagined painting, and Mr. Short asking what I wanted, I had no say in the matter at all.

Still, I could make no sense of this. Hadn’t Papa said he viewed Mr. Short as his adoptive son? I’d heard him entreat his secretary, on numerous occasions, to buy parcels of land near Monticello, near us. Mr. Short shared my father’s views, was a fellow Virginian, was familiar and cherished with great affection. Wouldn’t it be natural for Papa to welcome Mr. Short as a suitor for his daughter?

I was young, it was true. But friends my age were already starting to court and marry. Did my father think I was less accomplished, less sensible, less womanly than those French girls? Distress gripped me, making it hard to swallow.

These were all questions I couldn’t ask. Mr. Short hadn’t declared his feelings for me. And now, if I tried to speak of my own feelings, I might drive a wedge between the men I loved best in the world. Mr. Short must’ve sensed this, because he nodded and softly excused himself to conduct his business.

And for a while, I confided my despair in no one but Marie.

“Poor Jeffy,” she said as we whispered in the darkness of our dormitory. “It is only a trip. If Mr. Short feels love for you now, he’ll still feel it when he returns.”

Yet I worried that whatever he felt for me was already gone. While preparing for his Grand Tour, Mr. Short held himself as distant from me as I once held myself from him, avoiding me at every turn. Long before he left Paris, I felt Mr. Short’s absence as a wound to my very core. Worse, I didn’t know who to blame. Had Papa discouraged Mr. Short as a potential suitor? Or had Mr. Short toyed with me and given me false hope?

I didn’t know. And not knowing was a torment.

One visit home, while I sat staring unseeingly at the artificial flowers I was making as gifts for my friends in the convent, Papa took the seat beside me and handed me a small sack. I blinked up at him. “What is this?” I asked, taking it in hand and working at the little string.

“Something to cheer you,” he said, a small smile on his face.

He’d meant it as a kindness. Of course he did. For he had no way of knowing that the chocolate drops that filled the bag would remind me of that day Mr. Short and I had imagined our futures. But remind me they did until I could no longer hold in the torment, or the questions. “Why did you release Mr. Short from his duties, Papa?”

For a long moment, my father didn’t answer. “As his mentor,” he finally said, “it is my duty to shepherd his career. William wishes to be a diplomat, and that requires that he be well traveled and conversant with places and customs beyond that with which he now has experience.” He said this quietly, seriously, as if this was more than a casual answer to a casual question. As if he didn’t fully approve. As if he knew why I asked, and thought me quite improper for doing so.

“Will he return to your service when he’s completed his travels?” I forced myself to ask around the knot in my throat.

“I hope so. We’ve talked about his returning to Virginia with me, but each man must make his own destiny. At present, William’s is unclear to me.” I didn’t think I imagined that Papa chose his words very carefully—which confirmed what I already suspected. They’d discussed me, or at least intimated that I might be a part of William’s future—a part of his destiny—and the result of that discussion had been for Papa to send him away.