America's First Daughter: A Novel(49)
What if the locket wasn’t just a gift, but . . .
No. As resentful as I was at my papa, he’d been nothing but gentlemanly with Sally since the night I saw him kiss her. Besides, how could I trust myself to see attraction or affection between a man and a woman, when I hadn’t even properly understood Mr. Short’s feelings for me?
I put it out of my head and dismissed it entirely. I was too miserable with my own troubles to care about the dresses and baubles my father bestowed upon his servants. And to add to my misery, in November we learned Papa had requested a congé—a leave of absence that would enable us to return to Virginia.
When I gently questioned the decision, he only said, “When we came to France, I supposed an appointment of five months. We’ve been here five years. Affairs at home can no longer wait, and political passions here are poised to erupt. I must see you and your sister settled in a more appropriate place.”
“You intend to leave us in Virginia?” I asked, horrified. Was it to rid himself of the temptation Sally presented or to keep me away from Mr. Short? I couldn’t ask. I didn’t dare ask. And what answer could he have given that would’ve been a balm to my savaged heart?
“It’s for the best,” was all he said.
And I sat there, staring up at the painted domed ceiling to keep hot tears of helpless anger from escaping the corners of my eyes. Because what I thought best didn’t matter. It wasn’t even deemed proper for me to acknowledge my feelings for William. Not to him, nor to my father, who had not felt the need to consult me. I’d had no say—no sway, even—in his decision to release William, nor in William’s decision to go. Or even whether or not I wanted to return to Virginia. And I never would have a say, because in the world outside the convent, men did as they pleased and women were left to simply accept the consequences.
But it seemed to me as if the world outside of the convent was both wicked and unjust, and the only place I could be happy was at the Panthemont, where I thrived in the company of friends and God.
As autumn faded to darkest winter, and not a single letter arrived for me from William Short, the desire to remain at the Panthemont and take my vows grew more and more within me. And once I’d decided upon this course, the only question that remained was how to tell my father.
PAPA HAD DISCOUNTED THE FAITH to which I’d been called as “superstitious and hostile, in every country and every age, to liberty.” But I told myself that I didn’t care if my spiritual calling made him angry; perhaps I even hoped that it would. Still, my desires weren’t born of mere petty rebellion. I’d have opportunities to teach in the convent. I could think on great matters and help shape the minds of young girls. It was a vocation, a calling, both earthly and spiritual, to be of consequence. And because the desire rose up in me so strongly, I resolved to tell Papa at Christmas.
Why then, having found comfort in God, did I feel consumed by hellfires?
The very night I resolved to tell my father, shivering sent my teeth chattering, and yet, I burned. Outside, the canals were impassible with ice, the Seine River frozen solid, preventing shipments of grain from reaching the city. The other girls huddled together in the convent to keep warm, but a fire consumed me from the inside, and a rash had broken out on my skin.
Marie sent for an abbess. “Cher Jeffy has the typhus!”
By morning, Polly was sick, too.
We were both sent from the convent to my father’s home, with fear that we wouldn’t recover. My recollection is hazy, for I suffered from bouts of delirium. I scarcely knew day from night. I have slight memories of white snow frosting the windows and howling drafts stealing through the blankets under which I tossed and turned. One thing, however, I remember with perfect clarity: it was my father himself who tended us and no one else.
He lodged my sister and me in his own quarters, holding spoonfuls of gruel to our lips, urging us to take sips of wine, wiping our brows, cleaning our messes, and singing us little songs. The illness didn’t swiftly pass over us. And while my fa ther’s constant attentions helped ease my pain, Polly couldn’t be comforted. She suffered that bitter winter, through what Papa said was a Siberian degree of cold.
And all the time, he was never far from us. He never uttered a harsh word, no matter how often we called to him for water or cool damp cloths. He was so tender and motherly that I forgot my resentments. Forgot everything but my love for him as we were drawn together again in the fear of losing Polly.
One afternoon, I called to her from my bed and she didn’t answer. In terror, I screamed, “Papa! Make her answer. Make her answer me.”
In sweat-stained white shirtsleeves that matched his exhausted pallor, my father kissed the damp curls on my sister’s brow. “She can’t hear you,” he whispered, rocking Polly. “The fever has robbed her of hearing.”
My little sister wasn’t dead but in a stupor, deaf and insensible. At Christmas, Polly could no longer open her eyes. We had no hope she’d live to see the new year.
I half dreamed I saw my mother in our room with angel’s wings, but when I woke, I wondered if it was only the white lace curtain at the drafty window. When I asked my father if Mama was watching over us, he lowered his head to his hands and was quiet a long time. “I’d like it to be true . . . you’ll never know how I long for her, even still.”
The memory of my mother’s face had faded for me. Her voice I couldn’t remember at all. There’d been in me over the years a slow and gentle farewell. But he’d written on her gravestone that she’d been torn from him in death. He may have given up chasing her into the grave, but he was, even all these years later, still bleeding from what he considered a violent parting.