America's First Daughter: A Novel(61)
As Mama had done, and Lucy, and as I had nearly done.
But in this, he would simply have to accept it. It would be good for him to accept it. So I drew a deep breath and said, “In any other circumstances, I’m sure they’d never leave us. Perhaps Sally and James can remain in France in your employ a bit longer. Mr. Short can watch over them during your leave. We’re very fortunate to have Mr. Short for such a constant friend, aren’t we?”
“Quite.” Papa pulled his tray of leafy specimens closer and retrieved his magnifying glass. One of my father’s many scientific acquaintances had requested his opinion on classifying flora he’d found on his estate, and Papa had been poring over Linnaeus’s Philosophia Botanica all afternoon. After a moment, he frowned and lowered the looking glass.
It was a frown that shot an arrow of worry through me. There had been, since Mr. Short’s return, a slight undercurrent of impatience between the two—as if the nature of their relationship had changed. Until this moment, I’d dismissed it as merely the tension of the political moment, but now I was forced to ask, “You are happy Mr. Short returned to us, aren’t you, Papa?”
“Indeed. William has returned charged like a bee with the honey of wisdom, a blessing to his country and an honor to his friends. I think no one is happier for his return than me, save for his friends in Saint-Germain.” In the clearing of his eyes and disappearance of the furrow in his brow, it seemed the change of subject brightened Papa’s disposition. If only a little.
But now it was my turn to frown, for I knew of only one friend in Saint-Germain. A sweetheart I thought Mr. Short had given up long ago. “He’s gone to Saint-Germain tonight?” My heart threatened to creep into my throat in anticipation of the answer.
“Not tonight, no,” Papa said, casually, though I sensed some purpose behind his words. “I’d be surprised if he went again to Saint-Germain so soon after his last visit. . . .”
My heart lodged solidly in my throat. What could he mean?
Leaning in over his specimens again, Papa added, almost as an aside, “Patsy, we must be good to Mr. Short, for I fear he may soon suffer a great disappointment.”
My bewilderment turned to fear. Had Papa guessed at our love? Did he plan to forbid it? Nearly breathless with anxiety, I asked, “What disappointment?”
Papa glanced to his notes. “I’ve pressed his appointment in my absence as chargé d’affaires with my superiors as far as is prudent, but Mr. Short isn’t known to them. He may not get the appointment.”
I contemplated what that might mean for Mr. Short—and for me. “Will this ruin his future?”
“He may believe so, but it may be his salvation. It would do him good to return to America at the soonest opportunity. Men too long in France acquire a fondness for luxury and a contempt for the simplicity of our own country.”
His words left me utterly appalled. “You cannot doubt Mr. Short’s patriotism!”
“Of course not.” Papa drew his gaze back to me. “I’m merely observing that, in my experience, young men in France get caught up in destructive affairs of the heart. They learn to consider fidelity to the marriage bed as an ungentlemanly practice.”
Mon Dieu. Did Papa think Mr. Short a lecher? I burned at the indelicate warning. Indeed, I was too mortified to speak! Did he not recognize the hypocrisy of chiding other men for destructive affairs?
My gaze dropped to fists clenched upon the dining table, and Papa patted my balled-up hand. “If Short doesn’t secure the position he desires, we mustn’t let him take it too hard, Patsy. An American too long in Europe loses his knowledge, his morals, his health, his habits, and his happiness. I’d entertained only suspicions of this before, but what I see since coming here proves it.”
Having never heard my father speak even indirectly in criticism of Mr. Short before, a hollow pain took up residence in the center of my chest. “You think so ill of him?”
“To the contrary. William has my warmest and most fatherly affection. And I want nothing but the best for all my children.”
OUR EVENINGS WERE FILLED WITH VISITORS and Papa himself drafting in frantic, coded scribblings for Lafayette a charter of rights that should serve as the new constitution for France. It seemed too fraught a time for carving hearts and initials into trees, especially since I felt keenly the need to question Mr. Short.
Alas, my father kept him too busy. On the day the Third Estate officially declared themselves the National Assembly, and the clergy voted by small majority to join them, we heard cries of “Vive le Roi! Vive le Assemblée Nationale!”
That was the same day Marie came to call, bringing with her a little black miniature poodle with fluffy balls of fur upon its head and paws and tail. Every Parisian of standing kept at least one dog for a pet, it seemed. Seated in a circle beneath the rising golden sun painted overhead, we tried our hand at embroidering with tambour needles, working to embellish one of my new dresses with pearlescent beads. Truthfully, only Sally had any talent for it, and my mind was on Mr. Short.
“He’s asked for my love,” I finally confessed.
Polly beamed with excitement. “Have you given it?”
My shoulders fell. “How can I? He’s always at Versailles.”
Marie set down her needle. “Then we must go to him there.”