America's First Daughter: A Novel(67)

“Are the others arriving late?” I asked as I sat. And then I realized there were only two settings.

“I understand that your father will soon take leave to America. But my nieces tell me you might be induced to stay, given the right offer.”

“What can you mean?” I asked, my scalp prickling as a servant swept into the room to pour the tea.

In answer, the duke produced a velvet pouch. “I wish to propose an alliance.” He dropped the contents of the little bag into his hand, and then held something out to me.

A ring. A diamond ring.

Perspiration dampened the back of my neck. “What kind of alliance is sealed with such an extravagant gift?”

“The kind that would unite your family and mine, and might reunite your people and mine.”

The diamond glinted in the candlelight, but I had not the slightest urge to take it. Mon Dieu, did he mean to make a proposal of marriage? I could not allow it, and not only because my heart belonged to another. This was highly improper in every way. And setting aside propriety, my father was the voice of American independence. To even entertain such a proposal would be to betray my father’s principles.

I had already allowed this to go too far. The duke continued speaking, and I may have replied, but what I remember most is my haste to escape. “Your Grace, I beg you to say no more.” I rose clumsily from my chair. “I am beyond grateful for your many kindnesses over the years, and I love your nieces dearly, but I cannot accept more than friendship from you.”

The duke’s hand sagged and he gave a little incredulous laugh as if he could not quite believe he was being refused. And by an American at that. For long moments, he pressed his case upon me, and I pleaded devotion to my father by way of excuse. Finally, in a resigned voice, he said, “Then take the ring anyway and remember me by it, for it is just a bauble.”

Perhaps to him a diamond ring was just a bauble, or perhaps he was salvaging his pride. I was just grateful that he did not seem angry when I finally took my leave.

Without the ring.

By the time I returned home, I was consumed with guilt, wondering if I had misled the duke and somehow disgraced my papa thereby. And I wondered if I should tell my father of the incident. If I should tell anyone of the incident. It would mortify Papa and perhaps the entire American embassy. Even if I could bring myself to make such a humiliating confession, it might force a discussion about William’s plans for our future. And that was a conversation I wasn’t ready to have.

So, that evening, I sat anxiously at the dining room table, nibbling at a spoonful of James’s strawberry ice cream.

“Don’t you like it?” Sally asked, readying to take my crystal dish. “It’s my favorite.”

“It’s delicious,” I said but could barely taste it for the maelstrom in my head and heart.

“Sally, you like ice cream too much,” Polly said, with a girlish laugh, her spoon clinking as she watched Sally round the table. “You’re getting as fat a belly as a pregnant lady. If you aren’t careful, everyone will point and say enceinte.”

“Polly, how unkind!” I scolded, my gaze whipping up. But something about the comment drew my father’s eyes to Sally’s middle. I looked, too, taking in the slight swell beneath the pink-ribboned belt of her flowing chemise gown. The moment might’ve passed without suspicion had Sally not spread her fingers over her belly like a fan, and turned her amber gaze to my father in what looked to be heartbreaking desperation.

My sister giggled. But Sally didn’t laugh and neither did my father. Instead, they exchanged a stricken, naked look between them that resounded like a thunderclap.

And my father flushed scarlet.

A sound like honeybees buzzed in my ears as the horrific re alization slowly made its way past my defenses to assault my reason. Sally was pregnant. And Papa wouldn’t be sitting there burning with shame unless . . .

No. That couldn’t be. It couldn’t be shame I saw on his countenance. Perhaps it was anger that our lady’s maid had been seduced by some villain. Or perhaps jealousy that pretty Sally had given herself to some low-bred delivery boy, or some stranger from the streets, or some visitor.

I looked across the table at my father, searching for the truth, and under my scrutiny, he blanched. The scarlet color in his face drained suddenly away, leaving him in pale, bloodless mortification.

Then I knew he wasn’t jealous or angry.

He was guilty.

I tore my eyes away to spare us both the agony of acknowledging it. Close on the heels of my shock came a wave of anger and indignation. Here I’d been so tormented about wanting to be with William because it would mean leaving Papa alone. And, yet, Papa hadn’t been alone at all!

I clenched my fists beneath the table, which did nothing to still my hammering heart. And before I could compose myself or make any sense of my feelings, Papa shot up from the table, took Sally by the arm, and led her out.

From just outside the dining room, their soft intimate whispers sounded, not meant for our ears. They were lovers having a quarrel, while my sister and I sat there, bewildered, our ice cream forgotten and melting.

“Sally is going to have a baby?” Polly asked.

“Hush.” I pressed my lips together and willed my little sister to silence.

“But she doesn’t have a husband. Will we have to send her to the convent?” We knew girls who had lost their virtue and been sent to the Panthemont in the hopes that the world would forget. Papa had always taught us to treat such girls kindly, and to blame their error upon the wicked men who preyed upon the peculiar vulnerabilities of our sex. But Sally Hemings wasn’t a gentlewoman of society with a family reputation to stain.