America's First Daughter: A Novel(62)
“You and I, alone?” I asked, wary of such an adventure.
“Bring your sister and Mademoiselle Sally, too. There’s room in my carriage. . . .”
Polly groaned. “In this rain? I’d rather drink hot chocolate.”
Marie huffed. “To think I came out in this rain just to see you and your sister, you sweet little wretch! The rain is auspicious after such drought. Besides, better for you to be out in fresh air instead of imprisoned in this house.”
We were not, of course, prisoners, but I hadn’t attended a ball with Marie since the night of Mr. Short’s return. In truth, the social scene in Paris had collapsed under the weight of its politics and the official mourning for the poor little dauphin, who died of consumption and left the queen in despair.
Sorely tempted, I asked, “What reason could we possibly give for going to Versailles on our own?”
Marie smiled, mischief in her eyes. “We’ll go on the pretense of paying a visit to Madame de Tessé at her chateau.”
Few women were more engaged with the happenings at Versailles than Lafayette’s elderly relation. I’d never been allowed to attend her salons, but Papa said she was a Republican of the first feather. And we often drank tea with her, so Papa couldn’t possibly raise an objection to my taking her a small harvest of American curiosities from our garden. . . .
Still, as much as I longed to see Mr. Short, I hesitated, and Marie’s gaze turned playfully stern. “Come now, cher Jeffy. You cannot be timid in matters of love!”
It was decided then. Sally helped me into a gown appropriate for court—jet-black in keeping with mourning customs and in sympathy with the commons, who were still obliged to dress in their dark mark of inferiority. There was no time to don the elegant hedgehog-style wig I’d been saving for such an occasion. Besides, the rain outside would only ruin it and natural hair was now in fashion, so I donned a bonnet, then off we went.
“We’ll never find him,” I fretted. “Half of Paris is at Versailles. In the throngs of thousands, where will we even look?”
“At your papa’s elbow,” Sally said as we settled into Marie’s carriage. “Your father stands taller above the crowd than anyone excepting perhaps Lafayette.”
Marie nodded in agreement, then shrugged. “Besides if we don’t find Short, what of it? The king and queen are at their palace at Marly, and I suppose we’ll arrive too late for mass, but we’ll have a fine day of it in the Hall of Mirrors.”
Alas, we had quite underestimated the rain. It drove against the carriage windows in sheets, flooding the streets and sending our wheel into a river of filthy water in a ditch. There was nothing for us to do but abandon it to the coachman, gird ourselves under umbrellas, and run back to the house, with Marie’s dog yapping at our heels. In full sprint, blinded by the rain, I reached the corner of rue de Berri and the Champs-élysées, and crashed into a man standing there.
I looked up into the red and rain-soaked face of Mr. Short.
Puffing for breath, and without even a hat to protect him from the elements, he cried, “Patsy Jefferson, what the devil are you doing?”
WHILE I STRUGGLED WITH MY UMBRELLA against the rising wind, Mr. Short escorted me toward our house, all the while scolding me for rashness in leaving in the first place.
Meanwhile Marie scooped up her bedraggled poodle and said, “Mon Dieu, you two are hopeless. Come, Polly. Let’s find a roof and leave your sister and Mr. Short to argue like fools in the rain!”
Together with Sally, they dashed up the stairs while Mr. Short caught my elbow and pulled me into the empty carriage house to seek shelter amidst the extra wagon wheels, the scent of horses and liniment oils strong in my nose.
“For shame, Miss Jefferson. Have you no understanding of how critical the situation is?”
He was still in high temper with me, and much higher, I thought, than my behavior merited. “Papa says we’re in no danger.”
Mr. Short slicked rain-soaked hair back from his eyes, letting me look unhurried upon his handsome face for the first time in days. “He doesn’t want to frighten you. But yes, there’s danger. Today we arrived in Versailles to see placards everywhere, banning the commons from meeting in their hall. The king locked them out of their chambers at threat of bayonet!”
Mr. Short snapped the umbrella from my hand, our fingers brushing, then shook the rain water off it for me before setting it down against a bale of hay. Anger washed off of him and, together with his touch, heated my skin against the rain’s chill.
“It’s upon some flimsy pretext of needing to redecorate the great hall,” he continued. “Better to have said it was in mourning for the dauphin. Either way, with nowhere else to go in the rain, the deputies found shelter in the tennis court.”
“But why is this—”
“Think, Patsy,” Mr. Short said, giving me a little shake. “There are the people’s representatives, huddled together in a tennis court, surrounded by armed soldiers, yet still they insist on their right to govern themselves. They’ve vowed a sacred oath not to dissolve until a new constitution has been adopted. Never in my life have I seen such brave, patriotic men.”
“Not even in America?”
He tilted his head, and some of the anger ebbed from his eyes and brow. “Not even in America. For when your father and the others pledged to each other their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor . . . the king was an ocean away, royal troops with bayonets not literally at the door.”