America's First Daughter: A Novel(60)
It was true, of course. We entertained all manner of Americans and Frenchmen here at the Hotel de Langeac, but that didn’t make James’s challenge any less surprising.
Seated at the table beside my father, I kept my eyes on my lap, wondering if Papa would snap in anger, but he merely cleared his throat. “I’m not accusing you of theft, James. I’m simply prying into the truth of it.”
“I’d never lie to you, Mr. Jefferson. Nor to any man.” James straightened beneath his white chef’s hat, unlacing his hands and letting them hang confidently at his sides. “Lies are for frightened slaves cowering under the whip. And there are no slaves in France.”
At this announcement, the room went quiet. I barely bit back a gasp and held my breath until I feared it would explode from my lungs. Sally wobbled as if she might fall.
Papa finally broke the silence, his voice carefully even. “Do you consider yourself a Frenchman, James?”
James eyed my father levelly. “I reckon I should start to. You won’t make me go to the Admiralty Court for my freedom, will you?”
Color drained from my father’s face, perhaps contemplating the censure he’d face from his revolutionary friends if that came to pass. He couldn’t fight the emancipation in court without acute embarrassment; what would Lafayette say?
Papa held up a hand. “That won’t be necessary.”
James swallowed hard at his apparent victory, as if he’d been nervous to fight for it, or was afraid to believe it. “I’ll be happy to serve you here in Paris, Mr. Jefferson, but I want to be free. So when you go back to Virginia, I can’t—I won’t—go back with you.”
Papa steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “I see.”
Prickles ran over my skin and a thrill warmed my blood as I sat witness to yet another extraordinary conversation, the meaning of the revolutionary fervor swirling around us coming home to me. It was right here, in this man’s heart, not asking for his freedom, but taking it.
Not that James did so without trepidation. He swallowed again, obviously finding no pleasure in this confrontation. He had a stubborn sense of pride for a servant, but not all the pride in the world would’ve made him risk being put out into the streets where thousands were starving. No, he pressed the matter because, like me, he knew his fate was to be decided by our next missive in the post. My father’s request for leave had forced James’s hand, and having no choice but to play on, his determined gaze flicked to Sally. “My sister will stay with me.”
At that declaration, I did indeed gasp as my eyes cut to my lady’s maid. My father had, until this point, remained calm, but now he scowled with displeasure. He too glanced at Sally, who twitched under our scrutiny like a cornered mouse.
Papa looked to James. “Surely you don’t think you can provide for Sally, here in Paris, with the economy of the place in a shambles, with robbers and cutthroats roaming the streets. She needs protection—”
“I can protect her,” James replied, taking off his hat and squeez ing it in his tawny hands. “Moreover, Sally can sew and launder. She has experience as a chambermaid, and a lady’s maid, too. We’ll do fine.”
Papa didn’t look convinced and turned his next question on Sally. “Is that what you want?”
Sally shook her head in misery, as if she didn’t know where to look. Into the coaxing eyes of the master who cosseted her but held her in bondage, or into the uncompromising eyes of the brother who meant to liberate her? For a moment, I thought she might take flight.
And when her eyes brimmed with tears, Papa softened his words, as if to a frightened child. “Well, then. Let’s not be hasty. The orders haven’t come yet, so we can take time to decide what’s best.”
It was a dismissal. James gave a stiff bow. Sally curtseyed. Then both withdrew, leaving me alone with my father.
In their wake, Papa rubbed his temples. “I face threats of abandonment on all sides.”
It felt like a rebuke. Was he still stung by my desire to take the veil? Oh, how, in my distress, I wanted to reassure him that was done now and that all I wanted was to become the wife of Mr. Short and live with both of them forevermore!
But before I could think of even a way to hint at such a thing, Papa said, “It pains me not that he wants his freedom. . . .” I suspected he’d be furious that James had spoken to him in a way that slaves never spoke to their masters. Perhaps he was deeply troubled by the potential loss of their services and hard-pressed to find another chef so well trained to the peculiarities of his palate. But he didn’t seem angry. “It’s that he could think to leave us and condemn his delicate sister to an uncertain and hardscrabble life in a place so far from home.”
Papa was worried. And wounded. Hurt as he’d been, when, on his knees, he’d begged me not to join the nunnery. A possessive man, his distraught expression told me he took the specter of freedom for James and Sally as yet another deeply personal loss. But I knew it was more than that because I’d heard him speak many times of his honor-bound duty to protect and care for his people.
I debated how to comfort him, especially since I supported James’s desire for freedom. Papa and I both believed slavery to be wrong. We both ought to have applauded the man’s stand. Yet, beyond the loss of talent and property that James’s departure would represent, was the truth that Papa hated little more than to be left behind.