America's First Daughter: A Novel (14 page)

Ever amiable, Sally’s only concern that winter seemed to be a desire to be included in Polly’s and my doings, and to see the sights of Paris. Meanwhile, Papa lost himself in assuring the credit of our new nation, and shipping wine, rice, silk, and china to friends who requested it.

Even the intrepid Mr. Short didn’t again mention Papa’s encounter with Sally.

Nor ours in the snow.

And I was glad of it, because our friendship had cooled considerably since the night he defended my father’s indefensible conduct with Sally. And my suspicions of Mr. Short’s moral character only increased when, upon having left Sally to sweep up my dressing room after cutting my hair, I returned to ask her some trifle and caught a glimpse of William Short in the doorway, there where he ought not to have been.

His presence there caught me so off guard that I dashed into an empty room so as not to be seen. A moment later, Mr. Short hurried past. As his footsteps retreated down the stairs, I pressed my hand to my heart. What had he been doing in my chamber?

My pulse beating in my ears, the question I’d intended to ask Sally was long forgotten, which was for the best. I didn’t want to chance seeing her and witness in her eyes or on her face anything that might confirm my aching suspicions about Mr. Short’s actions.

Up until that point, I’d fervently prayed that I’d misjudged Mr. Short—that, in my shock and dismay over my father’s conduct, I’d unfairly counted him amongst those men who are unworthy of the kind of affection I bore him—but now I feared that Mr. Short, too, had noticed pretty Sally Hemings.

I won’t spare myself by pretending this fear arose only for her sake; her liaison with my father, however brief, taught me an unfortunate habit of jealousy. I’d already compared my unruly red curls to Sally’s long, flowing dark mane. Already despaired of my tall stature against her petite frame. Already judged with impatience the plainness of my face, where hers was so beautiful. But I was, at that time, still a good-hearted girl with a mind toward decency.

And in spite of all else, I harbored great affection for Sally.

So it wasn’t with
all
self-serving motive that I treated Mr. Short with contempt, turning from him to my new Catholic faith for comfort. My father didn’t know of the rosary that I kept beneath my pillow but blamed my moodiness on my friends at the convent. One night before bed, he gave me a kiss on the forehead and the following advice: “Seek out the company of your countrywomen, who are too wise to wrinkle their foreheads with politics and religious superstition like these Frenchwomen do; it is a comparison of Amazons and Angels.”

I frowned at him, remembering that he was the one who sent me to the school with all these Frenchwomen, when I hadn’t wanted to go. And that the conduct of women seemed to me, in every respect, less objectionable than his.

So while Mr. Short set to work taking dictation as Papa outlined the merits of the Bill of Rights, to be proposed upon adoption of the new Constitution in America, it fell to me to occupy myself with the tender and tranquil amusements of domestic life.

While I mothered Polly, the two men worked tirelessly; so much so that their enterprise spilled out of the study, into the parlor, where my sister and I read our books. That is how I know that Papa worried about the perpetual eligibility of the president for reelection, a thing he feared would make a mockery of liberty. I was there, when, in a tirade, Papa condemned the “degeneracy” of the principles of liberty taking root in America, and Mr. Short slyly chose his moment to convey an invitation for Papa to join the Society of the Friends of the Blacks, of which he, Lafayette, and the Duke de La Rochefoucauld were all members.

My father did pause to consider. But in the end, he said, “Nobody wishes more ardently to see an abolition not only of the trade but of the condition of slavery. But I’m here as a public servant to those who haven’t seen fit to give voice against it.”

Mr. Short nodded, as if the matter were settled, but I could see plainly in his expression that it was not. There was a dogged stubbornness about William Short—one that would lead him to hold out hope for a cause, long after everyone else knew it to be lost. He was as persistent in matters of the heart as he was in matters of moral principle, though I didn’t know it yet. I only knew that I’d judged him to be dishonorable, and yet he stood against slavery, showed loyalty to my father, and had only ever shown me kindness, even when he spoke words that broke my heart.

And so, in the helpless way of a girl who has never learned to guard that heart, I’d fallen most desperately in love with him.

It didn’t matter that I was angry. It didn’t matter that I believed him a knave. It didn’t matter that I’d decided to take my vows.

Try as I might to deny it, my chest felt empty and hollow on the days when we were parted. And that exquisite suffering was replaced with a swelling ache when I came again into his company. Yes, I was a young girl with a secret love. And this tortured predicament was made only more agonizing by my father’s decision to tour Europe in March of that year, leaving instructions that Mr. Short was to watch over me and Polly while he was away.

I
N
P
APA’S ABSENCE,
Mr. Short’s attention turned to me. He came to the convent within days of my father’s departure, ostensibly to ask after Polly’s health. Strolling through the courtyard, he said, “I want to be able to assure your father that she’s recovered of her illness.”

“She was recovered of it before Papa left,” I replied, coldly. “But I’ll write a letter if he’s worried.”

“I’ll wait, should it please you to have my company while you compose. . . .” There was a thread of hope in his voice, but I knew that my friends at the convent were watching us from the windows above.

So I only shook my head. “I would rather send my letter tonight for you to enclose with your own.”

The disappointment that flashed through his eyes pleased me. And he was back again three days later. Then six days after that. Each time, I remained perfectly placid, according him civility but not more than that. Until, at last, he visited on the pretext of delivering to me an allowance. “Your father sent this payment, some for you, some for your tuition, and some to the servants.”

It was the mention of the servants that made me say, “I’d like Sally to stay at the convent with us. We’ll be glad to have our lady’s maid close at hand.”

Settling beside me on a bench, and casually crossing his leg at the knee in a way that drew my eyes to the strong and lean muscle of his calf beneath its white silk stocking, Mr. Short replied mildly, “Your father considered sending Sally to stay with you but didn’t approve the cost of boarding her at the convent.”

“How much can it cost? Perhaps with my allowance and Sally’s savings—”

“No. Your father doesn’t wish to invite inquiries as to the
special status
of his servants. Such inquiries might not only prove embarrassing to him, but also result in a substantial fine for his failure to register his black servants as per French law.”

It surprised me that my father, a great believer in laws, was breaking one. “How large a fine?”

Mr. Short’s voice did not waver. “Three thousand livres for Sally and James, each. Six thousand in all. Should their slave status be brought to the attention of the authorities, both of them might be arrested and expelled from the country . . . or, conversely, they might both file a petition for emancipation in the Admiralty Court. Which is certain to be granted, by the way.”

There are no slaves in France.
That was the official policy.

But the specificity with which Mr. Short imparted the legal procedure was not only a revelation, but also a weapon. He must have struggled over whether or not to make the Hemingses aware of their path to freedom. And now I’d have to struggle with it, too. I remember thinking that if he were any kind of a gentleman, he wouldn’t have burdened me with it. Then again, no other man would have guessed it
would
burden me. “How fares your conscience, Miss Patsy?”

The question drew me back to the night of my discovery, back into my confusion and outrage. “I cannot imagine what you mean.”

His gaze darkened. “In addition to your other cruelties toward me, are we to now add dishonesty to the mix?”

I gasped. “My cruelties? What injury do you imagine I’ve done you?”

The squeezing pang of my heart belied my need to ask. I’d seen the shielded flashes of hurt and disappointment in his eyes, the crestfallen expressions, the false cheerfulness at my coldness. I’d never known before it was possible to enjoy being cruel to a man, and I’d
reveled
in it.

His eyes didn’t shield the hurt this time but allowed it there plainly for me to see. “You’ve held yourself so distant from me that the only logical conclusion I can draw is that you
intend
to cause me distress.”

I lifted my chin, though my chest throbbed with guilt. “Why, I didn’t suspect you’d even notice being held at a distance, Mr. Short. You’re known to immerse yourself in your own amusements. Why, not long ago, I saw you pay visit to my dressing chamber at the Hotel de Langeac.”

He paled, as he ought to have. But when he recovered from his shock, he said, “Please believe I meant no disrespect or impropriety.”

“As I’m sure Sally can attest.” This bitter rejoinder escaped my lips before I could stop it, and I regretted it at once.

Especially when Mr. Short only tilted his head in apparent bewilderment. “Sally?” he asked, as if he’d never heard her name. “I waited until she went down for a broom so I wouldn’t be seen.”

I was now equally bewildered . . . and scandalized. “You don’t mean to imply that you came to see
me
in my private chambers, do you?”

Where he’d been pale, color suddenly flooded his cheeks. “Do you take me for a scoundrel?” And when he saw I might answer that question, he hurried forth to say, “I suppose you must. I’m a bit of one, but not in this. At least, it was in no way my intent for you to ever discover. . . .” He shook his head.

I hadn’t the faintest idea how to react. “Mr. Short, if you weren’t visiting my dressing room to see Sally nor to see me, then why were you there?”

He glanced away. “Ask me again when your father returns.”

He meant for that to be the end of the discussion, but because my heart was pounding against my ribs beneath my stays, I feared my unfulfilled curiosity would kill me. “You speak of my cruelty, Mr. Short, yet
you
refuse to answer the simplest question.”

“Patsy, leave it be.”

Until that moment, I didn’t know I had the capacity for co ercion, but Mr. Short brought out a great many things in me I didn’t know were there. “Since you’re so concerned that the matter must wait until my father’s return, I’ll simply write him about it. . . .”

Mr. Short turned to me with an expression of astonishment at my threat. “And to think everyone who meets you praises you as such a good-natured, happy girl with the charm of a perfect temper. Everyone from Abigail Adams to the nuns at your convent assure your father that you’re a girl with the utmost simplicity of character.” He gave a rueful laugh. “None of them knows you in the slightest.”

I took instant offense. “I behave as Papa wishes me to behave.”

“And he knows you least of all. You’re his Amazon
disguised
as an angel.”

This was another insult, or at least, it should’ve been. And yet, I sensed in Mr. Short’s tone the hint of approval. Nevertheless, I became painfully aware that we were quarreling in an abbey under the eyes of gossipy girls. “Thank you for your visit, Mr. Short. You may assure my father that I won’t spend my allowance on fripperies.”

It was a dismissal, so he rose, stiffly. Tipped his hat, curtly. But he didn’t take his leave. “What a mess of this I’ve made,” he murmured. Then, with one gloved hand, he reached into his coat and pulled from some inner pocket a folded note of linen paper. He placed it gently on the seat beside me, and added, almost timidly, “Mercy,
Mademoiselle
. I beg of you.”

My mind raced with all manner of villainy that might’ve been written upon that paper, but when I opened it, I found no ink at all. Just a blank page, between the folds of which was pressed a glossy curl of ginger. “Is this—is this a clipping of my hair?”

Mr. Short cringed, as if in the greatest mortification. As if he might like to jump the gates and hop out of the convent, escaping into the streets on foot. “You’re most unkind to ask. An
angel
would’ve spared me the humiliation.”

Of a sudden, my heart pounded even harder and a flush heated my skin. “Then I vow to pretend I know nothing about it.”

He sighed with resignation. “On the day Sally cut your hair, I took this clipping before she could sweep it up. I hope you can forgive my act of petty larceny.”

The implications of this confession broke a fissure in my resentment like the sun cracking open a frozen river. Mr. Short hadn’t sought out a private moment with Sally. He’d stolen a token of mine! Overcome with a rush of emotion, I pressed a hand to my chest, crushing the front of my crimson frock, and breathed in, as if for the very first time. “Why would you do such a thing?”