The Pearl Brooch

by Logan, Katherine Lowry

  Twenty crimson chairs were arrayed along a long mahogany table with five place settings, two candelabra, and a large center arrangement of white roses, irises, and trailing ivy. The same theme appeared in a bouquet on the marble-top sideboard.

  The painting over the sideboard was possibly Joseph Wright’s unfinished portrait of Washington, completed by John Trumbull during a visit to Paris. Houdon’s bust of Voltaire sat atop a fluted marble column mounted on a massive pedestal. Both would be destroyed in the Library of Congress fire of 1851.

  She never knew what extras she’d include in a painting, and using unique pieces added vitality and glamour to a portrait. The bust of Voltaire and the column would immortalize those works of art lost to history.

  Jefferson stood next to the fireplace, his elbow on the mantel, his other hand at his hip, his attention focused on two animated teenage girls.

  “Ah. There’s Mademoiselle Orsini,” he said, smiling.

  The girls turned and acknowledged her with a slight bow, saying, “Mademoiselle,” in unison.

  “Papa said you were injured in front of our house and he had crutches made for you,” the younger child said.

  “Polly,” Jefferson said. “It’s polite to start with introductions. Mademoiselle, this is Maria. We call her Polly. And Martha. We call her Patsy.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Patsy said. “Papa says you’re an artist and you’re going to paint his garden.”

  Jefferson’s oldest child was tall and gangly like him, with his elongated face, coloring, and red hair. Polly, by contrast, was petite with dark hair, and the prettier of the two.

  Sophia crutched over to them. “He’s commissioned me to paint his garden, but I’d like to have him in the painting. What do you think?”

  “Why, it wouldn’t be at all dignified!” Patsy said in a snarky tone.

  Sophia had learned years ago to take snarky art critics in stride and let comments peel off easily without sticking to her. She leaned on the crutch shoulder rests and rearranged Polly’s dark ringlets loosely on her shoulders. With the tip of her forefinger, she gently turned the child’s head to the side. “You have a charming profile, and such luxurious hair. I would love to paint you.”

  Polly smiled, but Patsy’s face clouded. Sophia didn’t want to create any tension with the children which might add additional stress to Jefferson’s life, so she quickly turned her attention to the disgruntled young lady.

  “And you, sweetheart”—she used the same forefinger to study Patsy’s profile—“have rich, thick hair like your father, and the same intelligent blue eyes. I would like to paint both of you—separately, together, and with your father. Would you like that?”

  “What do you think, Papa?” Polly asked. “Would you like to have our portrait hanging in your cabinet?”

  Jefferson’s brows quirked as he glanced at Sophia with the same dissecting-a-bug look he’d given her before. “I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”

  Patsy continued to hold her chin exactly as Sophia had positioned it. “We’ve never posed for a portrait. Papa has, of course, but no one has ever asked to paint us.”

  The throbbing intensified in Sophia’s knee. She needed to sit. “As the children of Ambassador Jefferson, you should unquestionably sit for a portrait. Years from now people will wonder about you. As soon as I buy canvas and paint, we’ll start.”

  Polly’s face brightened. “Oh, what should we wear?”

  “Hmm. Let me think,” Sophia said.

  Jefferson went to the table and pulled out a chair. “Why don’t you sit, mademoiselle? I’m sure your knee is bothering you, and Mr. Petit has already positioned a stool under the table for your leg.”

  Sophia hobbled over to the chair and handed him the crutches. “Thank you.” She settled into the seat and rested her leg on the stool.

  Patsy repeated her sister’s question. “What should we wear, mademoiselle?”

  Both girls sat opposite Sophia, with Jefferson at the head of the table. He picked up a copy of the États-généraux newspaper and perused the first page.

  “Have you seen Vigée Le Brun’s painting of the queen wearing a white muslin gown and straw hat?”

  “I don’t think we have, Papa. Have we?” Patsy asked.

  “I heard it was a very controversial painting at the time. Madame Le Brun was asked to remove the painting from the Salon.” He set down the newspaper, folded it precisely, and picked up his coffee cup.

  “Oh, no. What happened?” Patsy asked.

  A servant poured coffee into Sophia’s cup. She spooned in sugar and added a dollop of cream. Stirring the contents, she said, “The painting was condemned as inappropriate for a public portrayal of royalty, which is crazy. The dress was gorgeous in its simplicity and elegance, and was made from very expensive cotton fabric.”

  “I’ve seen some of Madame Le Brun’s paintings,” Jefferson said. “She’s quite talented. The incident you describe occurred prior to my arrival in Paris.”

  “Why did she paint her in such a dress?” Patsy asked. “It would be like you painting Papa in his garden. It’s not appropriate for people in their positions.”

  Sophia sipped from her china cup, her skin prickling under the weight of someone’s attention. She turned her head, right smack into Jefferson’s watchful stare. If she needed to defend or justify an artist’s interpretation of a portrait, she would without any qualms.

  “Some believe Madame Le Brun was imagining the queen’s desire not to be queen of France. Maybe not a wish to abdicate, but a desire to separate herself temporarily from the demands of the office.”

  “The queen might like to escape the demands of court, but I don’t believe she has any desire to be less than a queen.” Jefferson set down his cup a little too hard, and it clinked against the saucer.

  “Madame Le Brun’s paintings are visually stunning. There’s a delicacy to the way she handles fabrics, especially sheer fabrics like muslin.” She turned away from him and addressed the girls. “You both would look elegant in similar dresses, with straw hats and copious ribbons. With about eight meters of fabric, I could make the dresses fairly quickly.” It was the same style dress Sophia had intended to wear in her own portrait, and being reminded of her change in plans caused the briefest twinge of regret.

  “Did Madame Le Brun remove the portrait?” Polly asked.

  Another platter appeared, stacked high with bacon. “Yes, she did.” Sophia forked two pieces onto her plate. “Madame Le Brun repeated the pose of the first painting, but outfitted the queen in a classic blue-grey silk dress. Her portraits are distinctive for their colors, which are bright and bold and perfectly chosen.”

  Polly spooned eggs onto her plate. “Can we see the painting, Papa?”

  “I’m not sure where it is.”

  “Do you know, Mademoiselle Orsini?” Patsy asked.

  It’s in the National Gallery of Art, West Building, Ground Floor, Gallery 11.

  Sophia wiped her mouth with the napkin. “We can visit Madame Le Brun’s studio. Maybe she has it there. I heard she’s going to Rome, so we’ll need to go soon…if your father approves.”

  The sounds of boots on the hardwood floor and buckles clicking with every step reached the dining room seconds before the man wearing them. Sophia recognized the sound of William’s stride from yesterday and glanced up expectantly.

  He stopped short, his eyes wide. “Appears I’m late for breakfast. Please forgive me.”

  “Mademoiselle Orsini can’t stand because of her knee,” Patsy said, flashing a bright smile. “Papa insisted she sit, and we didn’t wish to be rude.”

  “I see,” William said. “And how is the mademoiselle’s knee this morning?”

  She hadn’t put any weight on it yet and didn’t dare try for another day or two. If she’d been at home, she’d lie on the couch all day. But a minor sprain wouldn’t keep her from taking advantage of every second she had in Paris. She had thirteen days left to paint Jefferson and
his daughters, and if she had any spare time, she’d sit for Jacques.

  “It’s not great, but tolerable. I can still manage a trip to the market for a few things.”

  Jefferson spooned a helping of grits onto his plate, pinging the silverware against the china. “Absolutely not.”

  Sophia swallowed her anger and exhaled calmly, trying to ensure her voice revealed nothing about her true state of mind, but doubted she could pull it off. Since her father threatened to disown her at seventeen, no one had ever used that tone with her. If she’d been able to walk, she would have left the table immediately, rude or not.

  “Mr. Ambassador, you might be my host, but you are neither my father nor my husband. If—”

  His jaw fell slack. He reached for his newspaper and flicked it back open. “As long as you’re injured, you’re my responsibility, and Parisians will be rioting again today.” The coolness in both his tone and his furtive glance irritated her more than his words. “You can make a list of items you need, and William can see to them.”

  William heaped food onto his plate and attempted to defuse the tension by asking, “Did you remember Mademoiselle Bertin is calling on you this afternoon?”

  “Mademoiselle Bertin?” Polly asked. “The queen’s dressmaker is coming here? Can I meet her? What does she look like? Is she pretty?”

  “I’ve seen a tool engraving of her by Jean-François Janinet,” Sophia said. “And she’s both enchanting and very talented. As the queen’s modiste, she’s credited with bringing haute couture to Paris.”

  “Haute couture,” Polly said, imitating Sophia, not in a mocking way, just tasting the words on her tongue, and then she giggled. “Is she going to make clothes for you?”

  “I lost my bags during yesterday’s riot, and I need to replace my wardrobe. Marguerite intends to ask another lady’s chambermaid if they have something suitable to sell. I can alter used dresses, add lace and ribbons, and the gowns will look brand new. I don’t need much. Most of my time here will be spent painting, so all I really need is a simple dress and an apron.”

  “I met Marguerite this morning,” Patsy said, folding her arms. “Papa hired her to tend to you while you’re injured.”

  “I’m glad he did,” Polly said. “Taking care of us and Mademoiselle Orsini, too, would have been too much work for Sally. Right, Papa?”

  Jefferson exhaled, and his Adam’s apple jumped when he swallowed. “Attending to Mademoiselle Orsini’s special needs would have interfered with Sally’s attention to her own responsibilities.”

  Patsy looked up suddenly, as if sensing an underlying purpose for Marguerite’s employment. Then she quickly turned her attention back to Sophia. “How long will you require her services?” She managed a smile, but it was short-lived.

  Sophia leaned back in her chair, signaling she was through with breakfast. “Not more than a couple of weeks. And, so everyone is clear about this, I’m paying Marguerite’s salary, as well as other necessary expenses, including my art supplies.” Although her statement was a public declaration, it was directed toward her host.

  He gave her such a suspicious nod, she was tempted to return it with one of her own. One of her skills was the ability to solve delicate problems with bluntness, not nuance and finesse. At least with adults.

  Relationships with teenagers oftentimes had to be massaged. She’d taught students with diva complexes and others who were understated flowers. As a teacher, she had to find a way to calm the divas while encouraging the shrinking violets to blossom. Not an easy feat.

  As for the undercurrent at the table, she had to draw upon what she learned in Jon Meacham’s audiobook. There were two unresolved relationships in the Jefferson household. William and Patsy and Jefferson and Sally Hemings. If Sophia remembered correctly, at the time of Jefferson’s return from France, Sally was rumored to have been pregnant with the first of their four surviving children. And Patsy was or would soon be brokenhearted over William’s failure to propose marriage.

  Sophia absolutely could not interfere. Situations had to evolve as history recorded them, which meant her disapproval had to be contained.

  A servant removed Sophia’s plate, and at her request refilled her coffee cup. Then she straightened her jacket, mentally fortifying herself for the impending conversation. She dared a glance at Jefferson. “I know you’re concerned for my safety, Ambassador, but I intend to call on Monsieur David and Monsieur Watin, the color merchant, today. They were so kind to me yesterday. I know you’ve spoken to Monsieur David, but I still need to call on him.”

  He watched her in silence, and she was unsettled by his steely gaze.

  “I’d like to visit the color merchant with you,” Patsy said. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’d enjoy the company,” Sophia said. “We can discuss colors for your portrait, and Polly’s, too. I think we should accessorize with blue to match your eyes.”

  Patsy frowned in much the same way as her father did. “Accessorize?”

  “Add blue ribbons in your hair or pick a background with blue, or maybe a blue china cup or something. We’ll have to look around. Or, you know what? You play the fortepiano. I could paint you there with a large flower arrangement in the background.”

  “And Papa with his violin?” Patsy asked.

  “That would be perfect.” Sophia smiled at Patsy. “After our visit to the color merchant, if the streets are safe enough, we could make a quick trip to the Palais Royal for ribbons and such.”

  “Papa said the shops there have very high prices,” Polly said.

  “Since I’m on crutches, it will be easier for me to shop away from the chaos and the noisy, dirty streets.”

  Jefferson scoffed. “It appears you’re going to disregard my warning. If you insist, I’ll escort you.”

  “I’m available to escort them,” William said. “But I recommend going to the Palais Royal first and then to Monsieur David’s atelier.”

  Patsy patted her father’s arm. “I’m sure you’re busy, Papa. Mr. Short can take us.”

  William’s offer seemed to have the opposite of its intended effect on Jefferson. He squared his shoulders, a determined glint flashed in his eyes. “After what happened to the mademoiselle yesterday, extra caution is needed.” An edge of impatience seeped into his tone.

  “You intended to catch up with your correspondence this morning.” William’s glance flashed to Jefferson, and it appeared to an outsider—as Sophia was—to be an instance of William flexing his muscle at his boss.

  The one-two word punch almost set Jefferson back on his heels. In profile, his strong, carved jaw was clenched tight and his eyes were fixed beneath a swath of ginger hair. “I’m charged with protecting Americans and making reports to America about the happenings overseas. To make my reports, I need to see firsthand how Parisians are reacting to yesterday’s events.”

  “Can’t you and Mr. Short both take us?” Polly asked.

  The men could decide between themselves who was going and who was staying behind to work. Sophia finished her coffee and smiled at the girls. “Shall we get ready to go? Your father and Mr. Short can review their schedules to see who has available time.”

  “When will you be ready to leave?” Jefferson asked.

  “I need to ice my knee first.”

  He pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “We’ll leave at ten o’clock.”

  Mr. Petit entered the room and passed a note to Jefferson before addressing Sophia. “Is the mademoiselle ready for ice chips?”

  Sophia was convinced Mr. Petit not only had eyes in the back of his head but ears fine-tuned as a bat’s. “Do you mind bringing the ice bucket to the salon? I’ll ice my knee there.”

  Jefferson read the note while tapping a rapid arpeggio on the table. In the silence of the room each tap had the intensity of a hammer blow. “I regret I cannot escort you this morning. General Lafayette will be here shortly.”

  “Mr. Short will protect us, Papa,” Patsy said.r />
  “I have every confidence he will.” Jefferson stood and clasped William’s shoulder. “Bring them back immediately if you encounter any violence.” He then left the room, his shoulders stooped with the weight of responsibility.

  12

  Richmond, VA—JL

  JL slowly returned to consciousness for the second or third time. Although her awakening could be the fifth, for all she knew, or could remember. And every time it had seemed surreal, more like coming out of a long-term, reversible coma.

  Her heavy eyelids cracked open a sliver, not far, just enough to see her surroundings—cold, sterile, dark, and beeping. She had no sense of time. Her head rolled left to see a quietly beeping monitor, IV pole, curtained wall, then rolled right to see a chair and more curtains.

  A small pillow and crumpled-up blanket lay abandoned on the seat of the recliner. Kevin would have tried to sleep, but did he? Her motto had always been to sleep whenever you could. If a crisis happened, you needed to be rested to deal with it effectively.

  Somewhere beyond the curtains, thin wedges of bright fluorescent lighting—cold and inhospitable—filtered into her cubicle. The irony didn’t escape her. Two or three disembodied voices, all speaking in low tones, either so they wouldn’t wake her or to protect her from bad news, filtered in with the light.

  One of the voices—the deep, smoky one—belonged to her husband. How long had it been since she first heard his voice in the Welcome Center hallway at Montgomery Winery? Seven years, two time-travel adventures, and the birth of their son. No. The births of their sons.

  Her long-term memory was functioning, but she couldn’t say the same for her short-term. The voices in the hall laughed out loud. What was so funny? What could Kevin possibly find to laugh about?

  When she first heard his rich baritone all those years ago, her cousin—a hundred times removed—told her Kevin came with a warning label: “Heartbreaker. Proceed with caution.”