“If you had tugged the bell pull in your bedroom to summon a servant, coming downstairs would have been unnecessary.”
“Not in the middle of the night, especially when I’m capable of fending for myself.”
“Fend for yourself?” His voice was so saturated with irony, she could have wrung it out of the air and mopped it up with a towel. “I don’t believe it’s possible, and I’m indebted to Mr. David for taking care of an American citizen under my protection.”
Ah-ha. So he found out what happened at the Bastille.
“Monsieur David asked me to sit for him.”
“I saw him earlier tonight and he mentioned the possibility.” Jefferson sat in his desk chair, exchanged his finger in the book for a slip of paper, and placed the volume aside. “I was embarrassed to have to inform him that my negligence caused you further injury.”
“Then I’m sure you wouldn’t want him to hear how I tumbled down your stairs, too.”
Just before he answered, he paused, and his eyes darkened, as if the weight of sudden realization brought about a chemical change in him. “Mademoiselle, do you always win an argument?”
She smiled demurely. “I try to, sir.”
His face visibly relaxed. “I’ve come to accept situations in Paris that I would never accept at home. Your attire is unconventional but not unseemly.”
“Coming from you, Mr. Ambassador, I consider that a compliment.” With her leg hanging down, the throbbing intensified. She had to either prop it up on a stool or cry. As if reading her mind, he moved the bench from under his desk over to her and gently lifted her leg. She sucked air through her teeth.
“You need to see a doctor and get something for the pain.”
“Not yet. The pain hasn’t moved from an ouch to an ahh yet, but it will. The leg really doesn’t like to be left dangling. It’s better when I keep it raised.”
“Is that why you woke up? Because of the pain?”
Sophia removed the pillow at her back and slipped it under her knee. “Some pain, but mostly hunger. Since I missed dinner, I was hoping to find a bone to gnaw on in the kitchen.”
“I’m sure Mr. Petit can find something more filling than a bone.” He reached for the pull cord.
“Please don’t disturb him. If you’ll point me in the right direction, I’m sure I can find a midnight snack on my own. I wish someone had awakened me so I could dine with everyone else.”
“Sally went in to see about you. She said you were sleeping soundly.”
“She also changed my ice pack.”
Jefferson returned to his chair. “Mr. Petit watched you do it and was able to instruct Sally.”
She wasn’t sure when Mr. Petit watched her. There must be spy holes in the walls. “Sally told me she was pleased to know how to ice and wrap in case you have another injury.”
“I dislocated my wrist a few years ago. It still hasn’t healed properly.” He rubbed his wrist, and his pained expression spoke to the intensity of the experience.
“You and Mr. Short mentioned your injury earlier. It should have been iced right away. It would have helped enormously with the pain and swelling.”
“Next time I’ll know about icing, and if I injure my leg, I’ll know how to make a pair of crutches.” He sat back in his chair and steepled his hands. “You’re moving well with them.”
She rubbed her hand along the padded handgrip of one of the crutches. “The swing-through gait is pretty easy, and I’ve had to use them before. You just have to remember to press down on the handgrips.”
“I tried them out, although they were too short. It took me several tries to figure out how to use them.”
“The wood is such a rich dark brown. Is it walnut?”
“I wanted to use the strongest wood available.”
She cocked her head. “You made them?”
“I supervised the construction to be sure they were made correctly. However, I did make a minor design change.”
Her mouth twitched with suppressed laughter. “Why am I not surprised?”
He narrowed his eyes. “If a design change would improve the operation of an apparatus, the change should be made. The crutches were too short for me, and the altered design will accommodate taller patients.”
“I didn’t want to complicate things, so I skipped that step,” she said, “but you saw the need immediately. I’ll take good care of this pair so you can give them to another houseguest.” From the look on his face, her attempted joke didn’t go over very well.
“Every time I see them, I’ll remember my negligence caused your accident. I should have noticed the hole in the yard and had it filled. It’s been done now.”
“The knee was already bothering me this morning. Stepping in the hole only twisted an already weakened knee.” She folded her hands in her lap and appraised the rest of the office to see what else he’d done since she left the room in disarray. The tea tray had been removed, most of the books were off the floor, and the shelves on the revolving bookstand were now empty and waiting to be cluttered again.
Mr. Petit appeared at the open door. “Mademoiselle, I heard your voice. I’m sure you’re hungry. May I prepare your dinner now?”
“Thank you, Mr. Petit. Maybe some cheese and bread. Fruit if you have any.”
“That won’t do,” Jefferson said. “She’ll have the grilled pork cutlets with piquant sauce. There’s broccoli and asparagus from the garden and a slice of watermelon.” The way he said it sounded more like wah-a-tah-mill-i-an.
“If I eat all that, I’ll never go back to sleep,” she said. However, Monsieur Petit took his orders from Jefferson, not her. He left, she assumed, to prepare her dinner as instructed.
“I have an extensive library.” Jefferson waved his hand to encompass the shelves of books. “I should be able to find a sufficiently dry and boring book to help put you to sleep after you eat.”
“I noticed a book on gardening lying open on the floor this afternoon. I bet that one is dry and boring.” She studied the leather bindings, wondering how many of the books would survive the Library of Congress fire? And if there was a boring gardening book, how many people had been inclined to read it? Probably a slew of Jeffersonophiles.
“Just curious. Why would you spend money on a boring book?”
“Even boring books have something to offer.”
“A gardening book?” She laughed, wiggling her thumbs. “You’ll notice mine aren’t green.”
“From algae growing on the outside of earthenware pots?” He gave her a killer smile that reached his eyes. “You might not have algae stains, but I’m sure you routinely have paint on your hands or chalk on your face.”
She touched her face self-consciously, recalling how gently he’d rubbed chalk off her cheek. According to the biography she listened to, Jefferson enjoyed women of superior education and experience who also had artistic and musical talents. He considered them his intellectual equals. Did he see her as an educated, talented woman?
The short, wide pendulum of the Pillar Clock resting on the mantel ticked off irreplaceable seconds and minutes. The room was getting warm, even with a steady breeze from the windows. She reached for her crutches, and, creating an awkward segue asked, “Would you like to walk in the garden while I wait for my late supper?”
“A walk?” He knitted his brows to an inquisitive point. “You should rest.”
She braced the crutches under her arms and replied, as calmly as she could, “I need air. Can we walk halfway around the garden?” What she really needed was space. A lot of it. “Besides, I want to see it in the moonlight. Then tomorrow when I go out to sketch, I won’t have to imagine what it looks like at night.”
“We can go as far as you’d like.” He followed her out. “You manage the crutches well. I was confused by your measurements. But I finally realized the distance from under your arm to six inches beyond your shoe allows for the proper swinging motion. The design also requires upper body strength. You and my daught
er Patsy are close in height, and she couldn’t support herself. How is it that you can?”
“I practice an ancient form of Chinese exercise called Tai Chi. It promotes good health through meditation and movements, and it works the entire body to build strength and flexibility.”
“Where’d you learn a Chinese exercise? Did you travel to China?”
She stopped in one of several circles of light in the hallway. “I learned from a Chinese master who was visiting Florence. It changed my life.”
He nodded, and his expression said he was considering her answers, but had more questions. “I’d like to see it performed. Will you show me how it’s done?”
“As soon as I can put weight on my leg, I’d be happy to. The philosophy of Tai Chi is simple yet profound. The core concept is, everything consists of two opposing forces that harmonize with each other to create a whole. Every left has a right, every up has a down. There’s a yin-yang, white-black, exhale-inhale, release-store, expand-contract, give-receive, offense-defense. But what it does for me is sharpen my focus and increase my creativity.”
“How long have you been doing it?”
She continued crutching her way toward the salon. “Five years. I wanted to feel empowered and able to protect myself. Now I spend the first two hours of every day doing the exercises and meditating. The training kept me calm and enabled me to survive what happened at the Bastille. I’ve never experienced such violence and anger.”
“A form of meditation that strengthens and protects you. Now I’m even more curious.”
“Tai Chi is the deadliest self-defense martial arts ever invented.”
“Martial arts have developed independently in many different cultures throughout history. But I’ve never encountered anyone who practiced it, and certainly not a woman.”
“Wait until you see a demonstration. It’s compelling to watch, and very graceful.”
They reached the circular salon, where Mr. Petit was instructing a servant carrying a tray with silverware and dishes.
“Mr. Petit, we’ll be walking in the garden,” Jefferson said.
“Would you like dinner there?” Mr. Petit asked.
Jefferson deferred to her. “Do you have a preference?”
“Dinner in the garden sounds delightful.” She considered the hazards of mixing wine with using crutches and decided one glass wouldn’t impact her balance. “A glass of red wine would be nice. Maybe a medium-bodied red like a Chianti. It would pair well with the grilled pork, don’t you think?”
He pursed his lips. “One doesn’t drink wine to wash down food. One drinks cider or beer. Then one lingers after the meal with a fine bottle of wine and good conversation.”
“But wine enhances the food’s flavor on your tongue,” she said. “The crispness in white wines brings out the light, delicate flavors of fish and chicken. Big, red wines with tannins like to marry with the fats in marbled meats and high-fat cheeses. The buttery taste of an oaked chardonnay marries well and enhances the flavors of foods with cream sauces. You’re a foodie, Mr. Jefferson. Try it. You might like it.”
“I’m a what?”
She couldn’t tell if he was offended, shocked, or ready to laugh. “Didn’t someone accuse you recently of being unfaithful to good, old-fashioned roast beef in favor of French cuisine?”
He smirked. “My nemesis Patrick Henry, an ignorant man who has probably never opened a book, was mistaken. My table has always been supplied with Southern staples—fried chicken, country ham, a variety of peas, beans, and greens.”
“And wine,” she added.
“What wine would you pair with fried chicken?” From the confident look in his eyes, he believed he would win the challenge.
She leaned on the shoulder rests. “Fried chicken is a fatty food, and champagne is an acidic beverage. The bubbly clears your palate for chicken, and chicken clears your palate for champagne. They are a perfect pairing. I know my wines, Mr. Jefferson.”
“If you can tell me how to get vines to grow in Virginia, I’ll believe it.”
“It could be the plants. Take a European grape and cross-pollinate it with an American grape to create a hybrid. That’ll combine the flavor of a European wine with the hardiness of an American wine.” She shrugged. “Or it could be the climate. Wait two hundred years and climate change will make it warmer.” She groaned. She couldn’t continue to banter with him. “Speaking of warm, let’s go outside where it’s cooler.”
To Mr. Petit he said, “Uncork a bottle of Chianti and bring two wine glasses.”
“Do you want the wine after dinner?”
“The mademoiselle would like her wine with her meal,” Jefferson said. “And since I’ve already dined, I’ll have a glass with Mademoiselle Orsini’s stimulating conversation.”
“I’m sorry to be such a bother,” Sophia said, “but if you have lemon, I’d like a glass of water with lemon slices.”
“To wash your hands?” Mr. Petit asked.
“No, to drink. Thank you.”
Jefferson led her through an oval-shaped drawing room and opened the French doors to the widest possible extent. He hovered, arms outstretched, ready to catch her as she climbed down the steps to the garden.
She inhaled the heavy night air. The moon was not quite full, but the sky was so clear, so cloudless, the whole planet appeared gilded in silver. Her one good leg nearly trembled at the magic and beauty of it all.
“Do you want to sit or walk?”
“Let’s keep walking.” Her knee throbbed, but she had asked for a walk in the garden. To sit down now would make her seem silly and indecisive.
He directed her toward a low hedge. “The path starts here.”
They followed a serpentine path, wending their way through the garden. In the moonlight, it was enchanting. She didn’t care where they went, and obviously he didn’t either, so long as they remained linked by their pulsing thread. Lanterns lit the path as it wound its way to the top of a low rise. There she found statuary, a torch-lit pond, and a parterre with an ornamental arrangement of flower beds. Mr. Petit must have sent someone ahead to light the torches.
“What is climate change?” he asked.
Uh-oh. It took a moment to come up with an answer. “Well…let’s see. Have you heard about the Ice Age?” She didn’t know when evidence was first discovered, or how she would explain it if the term was unknown to him.
“I haven’t heard that term either.”
Double uh-oh. “Well, hmmm. I heard it in…Florence. This man claimed the earth was covered by ice millions of years ago.”
“Who was the man?”
She continued hobbling along on the crutches, stalling. Finally, she said, “I was painting and not paying full attention. I’m sorry. I didn’t catch his name.”
“What else do you remember?”
Go slowly, and don’t get specific. Remember, he doesn’t miss a thing.
“He mentioned the glaciers in the Alps shrinking. I don’t know how he knew that. I’m not a scientist, I’m a painter, but from what I heard, he believed the earth warmed, and the ice melted. I just figured if the earth warmed once, it could warm again. That’s climate change. You should talk to Benjamin Franklin. Didn’t he study the effects of deforestation on local climates?”
“He’s also studied the Gulf Stream, but if I understand what you said, Virginia could get warmer and the vines could survive the winter.”
“All you can do is track the outside temperature year after year and see if it changes significantly.”
He frowned. Not a good look for him. “I’m looking for an alternative crop to Virginia’s soil-leaching tobacco. I need to talk to this man. Do you think he’s still in Florence?”
“He was very old. He’s probably dead by now.” Needing to change the subject, she asked, “Did you get more news about what happened at the Bastille?”
He clasped his hands behind him and lowered his head for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts or compartmentalizing them.
“While you slept, after I gave instructions to my carpenter to make the crutches, I visited a friend, Madame de Corny, and received another firsthand account. It was as you reported. She also had news from Versailles.”
Sophia hobbled around the torchlit pond, watching dragonflies skim the water’s surface. Other winged insects buzzed and swarmed the scented air. She moved back from the water, leaned on the crutches, and waved away the bugs.
“What did she say?”
“The slaughter of the people, the beheading of the governor, and the lieutenant governor so concerned the King that, along with his two brothers, he went to the États-Généraux, promising to disperse the troops. He pledged reform to restore peace and happiness to his people.”
Jefferson skirted the pond to meet her, and together they continued along the serpentine path with Sophia setting the pace. “I wrote Thomas Paine tonight and told him I have never seen a more dangerous scene of war than what I saw on the streets this afternoon.”
“I predict the French Revolution will be longer and bloodier than America’s.”
“How often do your predictions come true?”
“I have about a ninety-nine percent accuracy rate.” She wanted to kick herself in the butt. She couldn’t give Jefferson hints of the future in a playful game of I Predict. He was too smart for her.
“Then I predict this is the one percent,” he said.
“I can’t pick which predictions to believe and which ones to ignore.”
“I can,” he said. “If this chopping off of heads is to become à la mode, then I’m apt to wake every morning wondering if mine is still sitting on my shoulders.”
She laughed, although she shouldn’t, but he had such a wonderful sense of humor. “Mr. Ambassador, I don’t believe your life is in danger. At least not like it was during America’s Revolution. If the war had been lost, you, Washington, Franklin, Adams, Hamilton, Henry, and the rest would have been hung as traitors, and your places in history would be only footnotes.”
The Pearl Brooch Page 12