The Pearl Brooch

by Logan, Katherine Lowry

  He led her to a bench on the path snugged in between two trees, and they sat together in the moonlight. There was an unease about him, and she sensed it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the situation in France, and knowing he would soon leave the country.

  “What’s the king going to do? Is he concerned for his safety?” she asked.

  “He seems to trust Lafayette, who is in command of the new National Guard. The king agreed to come to Paris to meet at City Hall.”

  “With all those armed citizens? He’s very brave.”

  “The people love their king. I’m not sure about the queen, but they don’t want to overthrow him. All they want is food and representation.”

  “Your sympathies are with the people, aren’t they?” she asked.

  He started to rise, then sank back on the bench with a perplexed frown. “I can’t get involved in this. I have to stay neutral.”

  “Lafayette is your friend. He’ll need your help to navigate France’s revolution. You can’t remain uninvolved.”

  “If you see that so clearly, so will others. I’ll have to be even more circumspect.”

  “You’ll manage fine,” she said.

  “How could you know?”

  “You’ve already been through this. You’re just coming at it from a different perspective. And the general was a key figure in securing America’s liberty. He’s a national hero in France. The Bastille has fallen, and Paris is on fire. Hundreds have died violently, and thousands of citizens are marching around armed with pistols. The only hope for peace rests on Lafayette’s shoulders. He’ll become a leader of the liberal aristocrats, and an outspoken advocate of religious tolerance and the abolition of the slave trade.”

  “I’m continually amazed at how well informed you are.”

  “People talk while I’m painting. I pay attention. And here’s my second prediction of the evening…or morning. You and the general will both lead long, productive lives and die crotchety old men.”

  A long silence ensued before he teased, “Since I’ve just used up the one percent, it looks like I’ll die a crotchety old man.”

  They both laughed, and after the laughter died they sat comfortably in silence until she asked, “Is the moon waning or waxing? I always get those confused.”

  “It’s waning.” He leaned back against a tree and glanced up. “There’s a tale written by Ariosto in 1516 about a knight named Orlando who fell in love with a pagan princess, but after she married someone else, he went mad and traveled around the world causing destruction.”

  “Until Saint John,” she continued his tale, “carried him to the moon, where he went to the Valley of Lost Things and found his sanity.”

  “You’ve read it?”

  “It’s an Italian epic poem.”

  Mr. Petit cleared his throat. “Mr. Jefferson, dinner is served.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Petit.” Jefferson stood and gathered her crutches. “Mademoiselle, your wine awaits.”

  They followed the path back to the entrance to the garden, and when they reached the point where they left the path, she gasped. What Mr. Petit had accomplished during their meandering conversation was nothing short of astounding.

  Eight poles set in a circle, six feet apart, were wrapped with greenery and flowers. The poles were connected by swagged ropes, also wrapped with greenery. A chandelier lit with a dozen votive candles hung in the middle of each swag. The poles circled a table set intimately for two and covered with a white tablecloth. The scent of the thick, velvety-petaled roses permeated the air, and a candelabra with sputtering candles, china, and polished silverware completed the tableau. If she’d been planning a seductive scene to paint, she couldn’t have done better.

  It was magical, and would be burned into her memory for the rest of her life. Like Leonardo guiding her hand while she painted. Like Pete…

  She couldn’t go there. Some things were just too painful to pull out and dissect.

  Her artist’s eye placed Jefferson at the table pouring wine, the full sleeves of his white, lace-frilled shirt billowing in the night air, but it didn’t work, and she mentally erased it. The scene was far too intimate, too revealing, for her to paint. Which disturbed her. Why was it not too intimate, too revealing to paint him in a vineyard?

  She didn’t have an answer.

  Servants pulled upholstered chairs away from the table, and she and Jefferson took their seats. It seemed the household was awake at this hour anyway. She could have used the pull cord. But then she would have missed this romantic setting.

  Mr. Petit adjusted a bench under the table and helped her settle her leg there, then left and returned with a pillow and bottle of wine. Jefferson examined the brass medallion hanging around the neck of the bottle. Satisfied, he poured a small portion into his glass and raised it, but instead of sipping from it, he offered the wine to her.

  “For you, mademoiselle.”

  She tilted the glass slightly and looked at the wine against the white tablecloth. “It’s a clear ruby red.” She gently swirled the wine in the glass to release the flavors. The wine ran down the inside of the glass in pronounced legs. She buried her nose in the glass and inhaled the aromas. “Apple, blackberry, cherry. Cinnamon, pepper, nutmeg. A bit of violet and wild mushrooms.”

  She sipped and swished the wine around to coat her tongue and roof of her mouth, holding it for a few seconds to enable the aromas to percolate in her nasal passages. There was an explosion of taste. She swallowed and considered the aftertaste. “There’s a juicy, zingy quality that makes it crisp and fresh, creating a velvety texture in my mouth. It’s very good.”

  Jefferson nodded at Mr. Petit, and he and the other servants faded into the background. Jefferson’s eyes never left her face, and when she emptied her glass, he refilled it.

  “Mr. Franklin told me when I arrived here that French wines, food, and women had been a revelation, and now it was my turn.”

  When he raised his glass, his eyes glinted with either mischief or wine. She wasn’t sure which. She slowly twirled the base of the goblet.

  “Have you found Mr. Franklin’s observations to be true?”

  He didn’t shy away from her question. “I’ve written extensively about French food and wines. But the women of the continent have surprised me with their sophistication, pleased me with their wit and charm, and confounded me with their political knowledge. American women who have spent time on the continent, such as yourself, Abigail Adams, and Angelica Schuyler Church are equally sophisticated and charming.”

  “Enlightened and educated women are sophisticated, charming, and witty, regardless of where they live. But I will agree France allows women, of all colors, freedoms they wouldn’t find elsewhere.”

  “Of all colors?”

  She wasn’t going to discuss the central contradiction at the heart of America’s founding. Jefferson was messy and contradictory. After listening to the Meacham book, Sophia knew Jefferson had included a passage attacking slavery in his draft of the Declaration of Independence, but the passage had initiated such an intense debate among the delegates gathered in Philadelphia that it was ultimately deleted.

  “Yes,” was all she could say. She cut into the grilled pork cutlets with piquant sauce and chewed, occupying her mouth so she wouldn’t say more. She didn’t come up for air until she’d eaten all the pork, broccoli, asparagus, and watermelon. At last, she set down her fork and wiped her mouth with the linen napkin.

  “I didn’t realize I was so hungry. Thank you for insisting I eat more than cheese and bread.”

  Lines around Jefferson’s eyes deepened as he lounged in his chair, watching her and smiling. “You look like you’ve missed a few meals. While you’re here, I’ll set plenty of food in front of you.”

  She could take offense at his remark, but thinking back to the poor, starving women she’d seen earlier, she was on the skinny side. “I don’t need more food. If I gain even a pound, I won’t be able to wear my dress, and I�
��d have to wear these trousers all the time.”

  He sipped his wine, smiled. “I’m becoming rather fond of your trousers.”

  Okay. Change the subject.

  She considered a toast she could make, and tipped her goblet toward his. “To Ambassador Jefferson: father, inventor, astronomer, violinist, architect, horticulturist, mathematician, and obsessive book collector. May you always have… / Walls for the winds / A roof for the rain / Tea beside the fire / Laughter to cheer you / Those you love near you / And all your heart might desire.” She clinked her glass with his. “Slainte.”

  He contemplated the crystal goblet in his hand. “I’ve never cared for the English tradition passed on to the colonists to offer up toasts, but yours was not forced.”

  “It’s an old Irish Blessing my grandmother taught me.”

  “She was Irish?”

  “She was Italian and married a Scotsman.” Sophia didn’t want to talk about her family. It would be too easy to slip up and reveal more than she intended. She shivered. It was getting cool out.

  “You’re cold. We should go inside.”

  Within fifteen seconds, Mr. Petit appeared with a light shawl. “Would the mademoiselle like a châle?”

  She smiled up at him. “You’re so thoughtful. Thank you.”

  Jefferson accepted the light cotton shawl from Mr. Petit and spread it over her shoulders, brushing her neck softly with the backs of his fingers. Goosebumps ran up her spine as his brief touch and the gentle weight settled on her.

  “I don’t want to go inside yet.” In that moment, she changed her mind about painting him in this setting. “I want to paint you like this, here in your garden at night. The man I see isn’t the ambassador, inventor, astronomer, violinist, or obsessive book collector. You’re a Renaissance Man.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Leonardo da Vinci was the original Renaissance Man: artist, sculptor, and so much more. You’re like him. But you have something he didn’t have. You can break a horse, dance a minuet, and play the violin.”

  Jefferson gave a husky shout of laughter. “I’m honored to be compared with da Vinci, but I fall short of his accomplishments.”

  “Your accomplishments may not seem as great to you, but I believe history will see you differently than you see yourself.”

  “We will never know, will we?” He tipped his goblet and sipped.

  Her mind snapped a picture of him, chin slightly tilted, flickering candlelight turning his hair crimson, his smile etching deep lines at the corners of his eyes. If she went without sleep for the next thirteen days, how many paintings could she complete? One that included every freckle on his face, or a manic thirteen.

  She looked at the glass of lemon-flavored water. Lemon killed a few of the nasty bacteria—not all, but some. Oh, well. She swallowed a few gulps before returning to the wine. She swished it in her mouth. “This Chianti tastes as rich and varied as the Tuscan landscape.”

  He continued her imagery saying, “The sundrenched slopes and gently rolling hills allow the Sangiovese grapes to flourish to full potential.”

  “Your description sounds like a marketing pitch.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Your syntax often confuses me. Your thoughts must be in a mix of languages, and your words and phrases reflect that.”

  While listening to all the Founding Father audiobooks, she had tried to read a letter Jefferson wrote, and found the odd capitalization, abbreviations, and long sentences made it impossible to get past the first paragraph. He would find hers equally perplexing.

  “A marketing pitch would be an advertisement to sell more wine. Your phrases—sundrenched slopes, gently rolling hills, flourish to full potential—all evoke pleasing imagery. If a buyer believes purchasing and savoring a certain wine will make him feel a particular way, then your advertisement has accomplished its goal.”

  “Marketing?”

  “Look at it this way. When you went to the Hague to appeal to private Dutch bankers for a loan to pay the interest on another loan, a bit of juggling to restore America’s credit, you were embarking on a marketing campaign. You successfully sold the bankers on the value of making an investment in America.”

  He looped one leg over the other and looked down his long nose at her. “Did you spend the afternoon reading my correspondence?”

  “Of course not.” I read your biography. “America’s debt is common knowledge.”

  “It presses on my mind like a mountain.” He stood, rubbing his forehead, as if all the worry was a weight pressing him down, a weight he couldn’t shake. He paced slowly, back and forth.

  She turned slightly in her chair and watched him pace, lofty and erect, with her heart thumping mildly against her chest, sensing the depth of his concern. She could ease it all by telling him his future. Although telling him he’d serve two terms as president might cause an instant heart attack. Instead, she brought up one of the men he was typically at odds with—Alexander Hamilton. They had profound differences in their political views and personalities. Jefferson was reserved and calculating. Hamilton was aggressive, direct, and ambitious.

  “Hamilton will figure it out.” She gave her words time to sink in and settle, unsure of how he would react. Jefferson stopped and faced her, his eyes bright and liquid blue in the candlelight, the mind behind the eyes quick and supple. She knew exactly how she would paint him—with shadow, light, and perspective. His eyes would give the illusion of following you, like the Mona Lisa, an optical illusion occurring only in art.

  “Hamilton? He believes he’s figured it out. He wants a national bank, but it would give the government too much power. He also wants the treasury to assume states’ debts. The Southern states will never agree.”

  “Have you heard of compromise?”

  “While Southerners will never agree to assume states’ debts, Northerners will never agree to relocate the national capital to the South.” He threw up his hands, exasperated, and said, “There is no compromise.”

  She steadied herself on the crutches, and moved closer to him, where she laid her hand on his arm, the linen of his shirt damp from the late evening air. “My grandmother explained this to me a long time ago. A compromise is the art of dividing a pie in such a way that all parties believe they’re getting the biggest piece. Your job, Mr. Ambassador, is to figure out how to slice it.”

  The animation in his eyes said he found something she said humorous. “Mademoiselle Orsini, might you have a pie-slicing knife I could use?”

  They walked toward the open French doors. “No, but I could paint one for you.”

  As they closed the doors behind them, she did a rapid calculation of the remaining hours she had before the brooch heated again. There wasn’t enough time to paint everything she had in mind, and there was too much time to spend in Jefferson’s presence for her to return home unaffected by his passion for art and wine and intellectual debate.

  10

  Richmond, VA—Kevin

  Within seconds of Kevin’s call for help, JL’s room flooded with nurses and other staff looming over her, reviewing the monitor’s printout, adjusting the monitor belt, checking the IV output. Within another minute the white-coated Dr. Winn hurried into the organized chaos.

  The sights and sounds hit Kevin hard, like a wake-up call from his past, especially since the monitors painted a less than positive picture. JL’s blood pressure sagged, and her heart rate bounced higher than normal.

  “What’s going on?” Dr. Winn asked, glancing around the room, quickly assessing her patient’s condition.

  Kevin kept his eyes on the monitor and JL while he said, “JL’s bleeding picked up. The abruption must have worsened. You’ve got to section her now.”

  Dr. Winn studied the monitor, then examined JL while blood cascaded from between her legs and saturated the blue pad beneath her. “Mrs. Fraser, the abruption is worse. We’ve got to deliver your baby right now.”

  JL opened her eyes, letting out a soulful cry
. She grimaced and squinted hard, trying to focus, but her eyes were cloudy and confused, and Kevin saw something else, something he’d only seen on her face once before—fear.

  “We have to move quickly,” Dr. Winn continued. “It’ll seem like a crazy, three-ring circus, but we do this all the time. It should be okay.” Dr. Winn squeezed JL’s hand.

  It should be okay. The words registered with Kevin, and he believed her, even though his son’s heart rate had dropped significantly. He wanted to hold JL and tell her everything would be all right, but he couldn’t lie to her, and there was a real possibility that it wouldn’t be.

  His heart lodged in his throat. Damn, he was scared, too. He shoved his shaking hands into the pockets of his jeans and backed out of the way.

  Dr. Winn moved away from the bed, waving her arms. “Let’s go.” She held the door open, and four members of the nursing staff pushed the bed and IV pole through the doorway and out into the hall.

  Kevin followed the entourage, but stopped in front of Dr. Winn, towering over her. “JL is scared. I have to go with her.”

  Dr. Winn lowered her voice so only Kevin could hear. “Remember you’re in street clothes. Wait right here. I’ll come and talk to you as soon as we’re done.”

  His urge to protect JL washed over him like a whitecap hitting a granite coast. “You’re not hearing me. My wife is terrified. I must stay with her. I can change in thirty seconds and be ready before you hit the operating room.”

  “Mr. Fraser.” Dr. Winn gave him a forced smile. “I understand you have EMT training. Your experience should tell you this is an emergency, and the last thing we need is an interfering family member. I don’t have time to argue. We’ll take care of your wife. Please, stay here.”

  There were no further words between them, and Dr. Winn trotted after the bed as it flew down the squeaky-clean corridor toward swinging doors…straight into the obstetric floor’s OR.

  Kevin stepped forward before the intruding voice of his PTSD therapist shouted in his brain, Put that damn Scottish temper aside. This is about JL and the baby. These people know what’s best for them. Listen. Kevin wanted to punch his therapist.