America's First Daughter: A Novel(58)

“Hmm?” My father looked up, having taken a bite of a crumpet browned to his exact specifications the way no one but James could manage.

Mr. Short gave me a private smile that made me blush from head to toe. “The chocolate drops are for Patsy, actually.” But by that point, my little sister had already stuffed two in her mouth. “. . . and for you, too, Polly. For both of you, of course.”

I didn’t mind sharing them, as his thoughtfulness was all the sweetness I needed. Even if he hadn’t lain awake all night replaying the kiss and imagining our next, it was still proof that he’d thought of me. And wanted me to know.

He also had a gift for my father. A macaroni machine for the man who was passionate about every sort of invention! With much laughter, Mr. Short demonstrated how the thing could make the long and silly noodles of which we were becoming so fond. How glad I was for us all to be gathered together again under one roof.

My sister, my father, and the man I loved. Could I ever willingly be parted from any of them, even if it was God’s desire?

It was a question still on my mind when I returned to the convent.

I went back not to take the veil but to attend in the company of my father a musical performance by the mixed-race prodigy George Bridgetower. Music had long been a special thing between my father and I. The notes, and especially the silences be tween them, were a language we shared. Our songs were duets; they left no room for other singers. And so I took great pleasure in going, just the two of us.

With gallantry, Papa guided me to my seat saying, “I’ll be very interested to see if a boy of only ten years can have such talent as if by way of nature and not learning.”

Someone overheard and broke in. “I’m more interested to see if the mulatto boy’s talent weighs as evidence against his race’s inferiority.”

The whole room was alive with such talk as the boy-musician appeared in an exquisite pink suit coat embroidered with satin threads, violin in hand. In that strange moment, it seemed as if the question of slavery rested upon this little boy’s shoulders. He tossed his black curls and played to a room filled from velvet curtain to paneled wall. And what shall I say of his music? It was sublime. Technically precise, with stormy flurries that left tears shining in the corners of many eyes.

It left me profoundly affected, too, when, through the din, someone asked Papa, “Given this violinist is of mixed race, how can we know if his talent derives from his African or European ancestry?”

“It doesn’t matter,” my father replied.

“But if Africans are our natural equals,” I dared to ask, “doesn’t it make a stronger case for freeing slaves?”

I knew my father didn’t care to hear me opine on this subject. More, I feared my father might change the subject, as he did whenever I weighed in on a matter of any controversy. But instead, he replied quietly, “It does not. It’s my belief that blacks are more gifted than the whites for tune and time. It’s also my belief that the admixture of white blood always improves the black. Any man with eyes can observe differences—”

Perhaps it was the way I recoiled from my father that caused him to stop midsentence, for my heart had dropped to my stomach in shame at his words. And even though everyone else seemed to hang on his every utterance with fawning ad miration, the bitter disappointment in my eyes seemed to have shaken him.

Reaching for my hand, he hastened to add, almost apologetically, “And yet, differences shouldn’t be used to legitimize the unjust practice of slavery. It makes slavery no less wrong. It’s a dangerous premise upon which opponents of slavery ought not rely. Indeed, I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just and that his justice cannot sleep forever.”

I was glad to hear my father reaffirm his opposition to slavery, in spite of our private circumstances. But I was startled, too, by the fact that he’d done it, in part, because I pushed him to. Until this moment, I had rarely dared to question him. But now, I had done more than question him. I had challenged him—perhaps more boldly than even Mr. Short would have done. For I had challenged him in public.

And he had answered that challenge by lending his voice to the cause of justice.

I’d be lost without you. Lost.

That is what Papa had said when he pleaded with me not to shut myself up in this convent. Now I wondered if he had not meant that he needed more than my companionship and care, if my father needed me and William both to challenge him when no one else would. Or could.

Renewed purpose welled inside me until my eyes sought out the crucifix on the wall, a gilded portrait of our Christ in suffering. I stared upon it for a long moment, and the lightness of clarity stole over me. I felt no more guilt for leaving this convent. I’d bargained with God that I’d give myself over to him if he saved my sister, but my father had been sent to France to protect and secure those inalienable rights endowed by our Creator. If Papa himself could be an instrument of God’s justice, was it not a moral duty for me and William Short to serve as his helpmates?





Chapter Thirteen


Paris, 9 May 1789

From Thomas Jefferson to John Jay

The revolution of this country has advanced thus far without encountering anything which deserves to be called a difficulty. There’ve been riots in which there may have been a dozen or twenty lives lost. A few days ago a much more serious riot took place in this city, in which it became necessary for troops to engage with the mob. Neither this nor any other of the riots have had a professed connection with the great national reformation going on. They are such as have happened every year since I’ve been here.