America's First Daughter: A Novel(99)

“Yes,” I said, again, swallowing hard.

This dark man of savage impulses stared so hard I felt on the precipice of something awful. But then his voice lowered to a whisper. “I suppose, then, it’s good you remembered the gum.”

I turned to him but wasn’t able to meet his eyes. “I wish I’d remembered it sooner.”

He tilted his dark head of hair against the cushion as we rattled down the road. He was tired, wrung out from the whole ordeal. But just when I thought he’d fallen asleep, he said, “I pray I never hear another word about it.”





AT SUMMER’S END, Papa burst in the front door of Monticello, my little sister all but yipping at his heels with the dogs she’d left behind. After patting their ears and kissing their heads, Polly ran to me, threw her arms around my waist, and hugged me so tight I could scarcely breathe.

I couldn’t get enough of looking at her. During her time with Papa in Philadelphia, she’d somehow transformed into a beautiful girl of fifteen with a heart-shaped face, bones like a bird, and a tiny waist that would be the envy of every woman in Virginia. My father shook Tom’s hand, and Tom managed to smile—he’d been dreadfully ill that summer, as though the family scandal had sickened him to the core. But at his smile, my father’s return, and Polly’s embrace, I felt whole again.

Everything was right. Safe in the warm glow of my father’s love, I hadn’t the faintest urge to tell him anything more than must be told about the recent unpleasantness.

Meanwhile Sally, who hung back in the hall, twisted her hands anxiously, as if it took a real effort not to run to Papa, too. Papa noticed her, I was sure, but turned away as he settled into his favorite chair in the parlor and said, “I have news. . . .”

President Washington had personally asked him not to resign as secretary of state, but he felt that his term would soon come to an end. First, however, he hoped to negotiate for the release of Lafayette from prison.

Polly piped up with, “Hopefully Mr. Short can help. He’s been appointed minister to the Netherlands, but he’s had contact with Lafayette.”

The sudden pain William’s name caused caught me entirely unawares. I’d forbidden myself to think of him. I was a wife and mother and I loved my little family. I loved Tom. But I’d never told my husband about William, and the unexpected mention of him now, with Tom sitting close beside me, holding my hand, made me acutely aware of the lie of omission. I nearly burned with it.

But my curiosity pricked at me even more sharply. Affecting nonchalance, I asked, “I thought Mr. Short was to be the minister of France.”

“That post went to Gouverneur Morris,” my father replied. “Some say it’s for the best. Mr. Short has, after all, become disenchanted with Paris since the king and the Duke de la Rochefoucauld were executed.”

The duke, much like Lafayette, had helped give birth to France’s constitution. Why was the revolution now eating its fathers? I wondered if such a thing could happen here.

Polly said, “After the duke was executed, Mr. Short was quite frantic for the safety of the widowed duchess. He proposed marriage to her, to rescue her from the violence in France, but she refused him.”

I doubted that William’s motives in proposing marriage were entirely altruistic, as I’d heard too many rumors of his love for Rosalie. But at this news, I was surprised to feel more sadness than jealousy. More pity than bitterness. I felt sorrow that William Short had twice tried to marry a woman, and twice been refused.

The conversation turned to the latest conflict between Papa and his nemesis, Mr. Hamilton, but my thoughts stayed with poor William. He’d wanted nothing more than a wife and children and to follow in my father’s footsteps. He’d wanted it desperately. And yet, nearly four years had passed since I left him in Paris, and he still had no wife, no family, nor even my father’s post in France, where he’d made his career.

But he had been made the minister to the Netherlands. That had to have pleased him. He’d wanted to be of both service and consequence to his country, and he was. I was glad for him, and I pushed down the treacherous, unworthy part of me that imagined myself the wife of an ambassador, strolling with my parasol through the streets of The Hague, wearing fine gowns, having my hair done at my toilette before going down to entertain at a dinner table set with the finest silver. . . .

That evening I strolled with Papa at Monticello. My arm looped through his, we made our way down the pebbled walkway along the vegetable garden as the sun went down. The vibrant hues of autumn stretched out for many miles in every direction, Papa’s mountain providing an unmatched vista of the new country unfolding below. We walked for many long minutes in silence.

“How are you, dear Patsy?” he finally asked, peering down at me.

Because I worried he’d see in my expression my troubles—the scandals, the rift with Tom’s family, Tom’s long illness, our debts—I plastered on a smile. “I’m well, Papa. Even better now that you’re home.”

He leaned into me and winked. “Always my brave girl, aren’t you?”

“I try.” In truth, I felt ridiculously close to tears in that moment and had to look away. Perhaps it was how small I felt beside him, or the knowing look in his eyes, or the relief that we were all together again. “It will be nice when you can stay for good.”