Page 14 of America’s First Daughter

Chapter Thirteen

Paris, 9 May 1789

From Thomas Jefferson to John Jay

The revolution of this country has advanced thus far without encountering anything which deserves to be called a difficulty. There’ve been riots in which there may have been a dozen or twenty lives lost. A few days ago a much more serious riot took place in this city, in which it became necessary for troops to engage with the mob. Neither this nor any other of the riots have had a professed connection with the great national reformation going on. They are such as have happened every year since I’ve been here.

H OW SANGUINE THIS LETTER READS NOW , with the benefit of hindsight, but we were so hopeful, never anticipating the whirlwind. While men like Lafayette, La Rochefoucauld, Condorcet, and my father shaped the great events unfolding, the storm I faced took smaller shape within the Hotel de Langeac. There was, after all, no time for kisses and declarations of love—especially not with Papa and William gone almost daily to Versailles and Lafayette visiting so often for advice, now that he’d been elected to represent the nobles as a representative to the Estates-General.

I took it upon myself to carry the tea service on the day that Lafayette arrived unexpectedly, in a state of great agitation, rambling half in English, half in French, as he was prone to do.

“They will not hear reason!” Lafayette shouted as I poured tea into his cup. “My fellow nobles have only themselves to blame. They want only a sham of democracy, no true national assembly at all.” His anger stemmed from his noble constituents instructing him to vote against the common people. “My conscience will not allow me to support the disenfranchisement of ninety-six percent of the nation. Yet, how can I violate the instructions of those who sent me to represent them and still call myself a champion of democracy? I see no choice but to resign.”

“Forgive me, my dear friend, if my anxiety for you makes me talk of things I know nothing about,” Papa began, using the clever but unassuming manner he often employed to soften the giving of difficult advice. “But if you resign, there will be one less voice of reason in the Estates-General.”

“There are other voices of reason at Versailles?” asked Mr. Short, sardonically. “I’m told the nobles are quite out of their senses and the commons have amongst them some mad, radical hotheads—”

“My cause is liberty,” Lafayette snapped, with all the zeal of his ancestry, which boasted a companion of Joan of Arc. It was on Lafayette’s suggestion that the king had called the Estates-General in the first place. Few men were as invested in its outcome. “No matter how mad the agitators in the commons may be, I will die with them rather than betray them.”

Mr. Short frowned. “I think it better to compromise and live with them rather than die with them. Why not use your voice in your chamber of nobles to bring about a peaceful resolution to this crisis?”

Electrified by the conversation, I poured the next cup slower, not wishing to be dismissed and wondering how serious the threat of violence truly was.

Mr. Short’s advice seemed good and sensible.

But perhaps more than any man who ever lived, my father was acutely aware of the interplay between public reputation and political power and the risks that must be taken to acquire both. “This is your moment of opportunity, Lafayette,” Papa said. “Your opportunity to defy the instructions of your noble constituents, go over to the people now, and win their hearts forever.” Papa’s voice rang out with increasing fervor, reminding me of bygone days when I saw my father engaged in our own revolution and inspiring other men to fight for their independence. “If you wait too long, currying favor with both sides, you will lose both. The nobles will only love you so long as you do their dirty work for them. If you do not now declare yourself a man of the people, some other prominent nobleman will do so before you, and he will then have the unprecedented power and influence that ought to be yours. Take at once the honest and manly stand your own principles dictate.”

This was Papa at his finest, mixing pragmatism and principle in a way only a handful of men could.

Madison. Adams. Hamilton. And my father.

Lafayette studied Papa and nodded, thoughtfully. “Tell me. How did you feel on that glorious day you took your own honest and manly stand and signed your name to the Declaration of Independence?”

Papa’s expression turned wry. “I felt a noose tightening around my neck.”

The men barked with dark but well-needed laughter. Then, at length, the conversation turned to brokering a bargain in which taxes would be levied in exchange for a charter of citizens’ rights to be signed by the king.

A charter that my father said he would be happy to draft.

He was no unaffected bystander in this struggle. None of us were.

“Miss Patsy!” Sally said, motioning to me from the open door. The alarm in her voice ushered me out of the room. “Someone’s robbed us again and they’ve taken some of your ribbons and rings.”

How violated I felt, learning someone had stolen into my bedchamber, taking little things from me that were not nearly so precious as my peace of mind! Beside my trinkets, the thief—or thieves—made off with food from our larder, some of Papa’s favorite Burgundy wines, and some silver to boot.

First the candlesticks, now this.

We might’ve taken it as a sign of the times, for starving peasants were, every day, streaming into the capital in desperate search of employment or charity. I’d just heard Papa discuss the growing violence but never imagined such a thing would cross our threshold.

That evening, Papa sat at the head of the long dining room table, surrounded by botany books and specimens, and called James and Sally Hemings to account. “James, the thief might be one known to you. Perhaps an acquaintance you met at the taverns?”

With his hands laced behind his back, James’s stiffening spine revealed that he bristled at the implication. “No friend breaks into my kitchens and thinks he can leave with stolen goods and an unbloodied nose. But you, sir, have guests in and out of this place day and night.”

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.

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.”

O UR 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 Assembl ée 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.”

“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?”

W HILE 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.”

Picturing such a scene, it was easy to imagine how passions might become inflamed. The king and his soldiers could slaughter the people’s representatives. The reformers might die in a single clash of new principles and ancient tradition. Their bravery became quite clear, and I wondered if they might’ve even deliberately taken this stand knowing their deaths might come to pass. Would they, in their fervor, speak of my father’s authorship of their new constitution?

Finally, a sense of alarm shivered down my spine. “Where is Papa now?”

“On his way. We came in different coaches because we feared unrest in the city might spill over and block the roads. I ran the last bit because I had to see for myself that you were safe. And what do I find but you traipsing toward danger!”

He’d come . . . for me? Hugging myself against the chill of the rain, I shook my head. “I only wanted to find you. I’ve been wanting to speak to you most desperately. . . .” I trailed off because, given what he’d just told me, my romantic longing sounded suddenly petty even to my own sixteen-year-old ears.

Nevertheless, his expression softened and he stepped closer. “No doubt, you’ve felt quite abandoned in recent days. What do you wish to speak about so desperately ?”

My gaze flickered away. “I beg you to forget it, entirely. I see now that it’s a trifling matter.”

He yanked his soaked neck cloth open from where it had tightened. “Miss Jefferson, is my present state of agitation not enough to convince you that nothing is a trifling matter to me when it concerns you?”

I’d rehearsed what I’d say, how I’d get answers in the most subtle ways. But now that he was waiting so expectantly and standing so close, my heart pounded and I blurted, “You went to Saint-Germain.”

He nodded. “Yes. After being gone for eight months, I wanted to look in on—”

“The Belle of Saint-Germain,” I interrupted, the heat of jealousy burning my cheeks. “You professed love to me, but you went to see her .”

The reproach was so plain that he couldn’t mistake it. Still, he seemed untroubled. “Indeed. She’s a dear friend and I’d not seen her in nearly a year.”

His words were entirely reasonable, but I couldn’t quell my hurt feelings. “Do you claim your relations with her entirely innocent?”

“They are now.”

My mouth fell agape because in making this admission, he’d skillfully denied me an opportunity to ask more without resorting to indelicacy. Then he made matters worse by meeting my eyes directly. “Ask me, Patsy. Go on. If it troubles you, ask me.”

I could do nothing but stammer. “Were you, was she—”

“You don’t have to find the polite words. Not with me.”

The indecent question burst out of me. “Was she your lover?”

“Yes.” He didn’t even have the grace to wince. “I’ve protected her identity because she’s married now, and they have together two young sons. But I don’t want you turning little mysteries into great obstacles between us, so you may as well know that her name is Lilite Royer.”

I didn’t care what her name was! Only that she’d known, intimately, the man I loved. That stabbed at a place inside me I wasn’t even fully aware existed. Still, this knowledge wasn’t enough. I cringed to hear myself interrogate him. “And what of your duchess? They say you’re infatuated with her.”

His smile disconcerted me. “Along with every other man in Paris. But the beautiful Rosalie is too good and dutiful to betray her marriage bed. Even if she could, it wouldn’t be for an infatuation. She’d never have a man who cannot offer his heart . . . and I cannot, for I’ve given my heart to you. I love you, Patsy.”

The whole world stopped. The smell of the carriage house disappeared. The sound of the rain faded. The humidity of the air was no more. The whole world narrowed to the two of us and his declaration. He loved me. His answer was delectably sweet, but instead of letting it melt away like chocolate on my tongue, I breathlessly demanded, “Why do you love me, if you do. . . .”

“ If I love you?” He snorted. “By God, have I taught you to suspect me or is it simply your nature? Of course, that nature is how you won my heart. Ferreting out spies. Stealing letters not meant for your eyes. Prying into facts no other girl would dare. You’re like me. Skulking about in the shadow of great moments and great men, doing for them what they cannot do for themselves. Your father doesn’t understand what a champion he has in you, but I do. I’ve said it before; hiding beneath all that flimsy lace beats the heart of an Amazon. And that is why I love you.”

This answer nearly swept my knees out from under me. “Oh, Mr. Short—”

“William.” He cupped my cheek. “Call me William.”

The touch of his damp hand, fiery against my cold cheek, made me forget we were quarreling. “William,” I whispered, testing it on my tongue for the first time, and tingling with delight. Then I tried it in French. “ Guillaume. ”

His eyes softened as he stroked a damp thumb over my cheekbone. “Patsy, I’ll never lie to you, because you cannot love me if you don’t know me truly. I’m guilty of indiscretions you’ve guessed and some you haven’t. There have been women before you, but on my honor, if you become my wife, there will be none after.”

It felt as if all the air left the close confines of the carriage house. Breathless, I was forced to press a hand over the quick pounding of my heart. Wife . He wanted me for his wife. And who was I to judge him harshly for his conduct when mine had never been above reproach?

“Can you love me, Patsy?”

“I already do!” The words burst out of me, and now that I’d been so reckless, I couldn’t stop them. “I love you, William. Oh, I love you. I do. I want to carve it on the tree. I want to shout it in the streets!”

“Carve it here.” He drew my fingers to his chest, where I felt his heart thump beneath his sodden white shirt. “With a kiss.”

Trembling and breathless, I dared to kiss him there, then lifted my lips to his, my fingertips creeping up to the skin he’d bared by removing his neck cloth. He felt hot to the touch, feverish even. And as we kissed, I thought I’d stop for no reason under heaven.

But I was wrong.

We sprang apart the moment we heard the clatter of Papa’s coach.