America's First Daughter: A Novel

by Stephanie Dray

  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 squeezing 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 salv
ation. 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.”

  OUR 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 Assemblée 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 château.”

  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.”

  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.”