Being a sparkling ornament wasn’t high on her list of accomplishments. Matter of fact, it wasn’t on her list at all. “If I lived anywhere else, I’d miss spending time with the Jefferson family.” She played with Polly’s curls, and the child smiled at her. “It’s an amazing opportunity to paint them.”
“Well,” Watin said. “After you paint their portraits, if you decide you want to relocate, I can introduce you to other Americans who are well-connected to the Salons.”
“I’m returning to America as soon as I can arrange transportation.”
Polly drew a surprised breath. “Before we leave?”
Honey, I’m leaving the end of next week, and I can’t change my ticket home.
“Maybe,” Sophia said with a remorseful sigh. “But I’ll finish your paintings before I leave. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried.” Polly jumped up and rushed over to Patsy. “Will you wait with me in the carriage?”
“How much longer will you be, mademoiselle?” Patsy asked.
“I’m almost finished,” Sophia said, unsure of what just happened.
William left with the girls, and Sophia reached for her crutches.
“Jacques wants you to sit for him.”
Her eyes snapped back to Watin’s. She owed Jacques her life, and hoped to plan time for him. If she didn’t have to sleep, she might be able to get everything done. “I’ll send him a note and explain. Maybe he can paint me painting.”
Watin framed a space in the air with his hands. “I see you sitting in a relaxed pose at your easel, holding a brush to a partially finished work. Slightly used brushes at the ready, a palette cradled in your arm. A white turban in your hair, a dark, free-flowing dress with a white, ruffled collar of the same fabric as your turban. A wide red ribbon for a belt.” He dropped his hands. “Magnifique oeuvre d’art.”
She smiled and lightly touched his hand. “Very descriptive. I can see the painting, and anything Monsieur David painted would be brilliant.”
“It’s not my description,” Watin said. “That’s how Jacques described his painting of you.”
“I’ll write to him immediately and invite him to come for a visit. We’ll talk and see what we can arrange.” She stood and settled onto the crutches. “I guess we’re done. Please bring your invoice tomorrow so I can pay you in full.”
“Thank you for your business.” Watin kissed one cheek and then the other. “When I see Jacques this evening, I’ll tell him to expect a letter from you. And I’ll see you again in the morning.”
He escorted her to the front of the atelier. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He hurried over to a table on the other side of the room. “You left this here yesterday. Jacques intended to have a wigmaker restore it for you.”
“I have a lady’s maid who seems to have a talent for arranging hair. I’m sure she can make it presentable again.”
She left the shop and quickly settled into the carriage next to Polly, but the child wouldn’t even look at her. “Polly,” Sophia said softly. “We have a lot to do in the next few days. We’ll have fun, and I’ll need your help. And you know what?”
Polly looked up at her, a tear slipping down her cheek. Sophia wiped it away. “We can set an easel up for you, and I’ll give you drawing lessons while I work. Would you like that?”
Polly sniffed and nodded. “Can I paint with a sable brush?”
Sophia chuckled. “You most certainly can.”
Polly gave her a slight smile and sat up straighter. “Do you think I can be an artist too?”
“You, my dear, are Thomas Jefferson’s daughter. You can do and be whatever you want. And so can Patsy.”
Patsy’s glance moved quickly to William and held his gaze for a long moment. Then she looked away and focused on something outside the carriage.
In the past five years, dozens of students had passed through Sophia’s studio, and while she didn’t always give her students what they wanted, she tried to always give them what they needed. And for these two motherless children, while she had a chance, she would give them time and attention, and try to boost their confidence. And God protect her heart, because there was no doubt when she returned home, a small part of them would go with her, as a small part of her would remain with them.
She leaned back in her seat and braced herself for the traumatic ride back to the Hôtel de Langeac. Within two blocks, they reached the mob—no longer contained within a few blocks of the square. Instead, the entire city seemed to swell with rioting peasants.
“Can we go around?” Sophia asked.
William knocked on the side of the carriage. “Take the Pont au Change and return to the legation by way of the south bank.”
The coachman turned around but the bridge, lined with houses, was also packed with rioters. “We can’t get through,” he yelled.
William stuck his head out the window. “Turn around. We’ll go north and circle back.”
The horses nickered and danced nervously in their traces. In a panicky voice, the coachman yelled, “I can’t go forward or backward. There are too many people.”
The peasants bumped the carriage and made threatening gestures as they passed by. Sophia hopped over to the opposite bench seat, where she sat between the girls and wrapped her arms around them. “We’ll be okay,” she said. “They don’t want to hurt us.”
“But yesterday—” Polly said.
“Shh,” Sophia said. “We’ll get through this.”
“There are so many rioters now.” Patsy covered her ears. “The noise is deafening.”
“Turn around,” William demanded. “Go through the Marais district.”
“I can’t,” the coachman yelled.
Sophia gave William a pleading look. His expression was one of fear and something else. Guilt at suggesting the bridge? It was gone before she could dissect it further.
The shouting, the people packed into such a narrow space, the stink from the city’s main slaughterhouse located in the nearby Chatelet district, had her temples throbbing and her stomach churning.
She needed to protect the girls. The carriage couldn’t withstand the onslaught of hundreds of people coming over the bridge. Would the bridge even support the weight of the structures and all the stomping feet? If she could walk, she’d suggest they get out and join the mob as it advanced on the square.
Wait. Maybe she couldn’t get out, but the others could.
“William. Get out. Take the girls. Join the mob. As soon as you reach the Champs-Élysées, break away and hurry home.”
“No, we’re not leaving you behind,” he said.
“You have a duty to protect them. Go. Now.”
“No, mademoiselle. We won’t leave you behind,” Polly said, tears streaking down her face. “You can’t even walk.”
“I can if I have to. Please, go while you can. With any luck, the road will clear and I’ll be home before you.” She looked at William. “It’s safer outside than in here. Please, take the girls now, and don’t let go of their hands. The ambassador expects you to protect them. Not me.”
William nodded. Then he pushed on the door but could only partially open it. He squeezed through and leapt to the ground. “Come, Patsy.”
Patsy looked back at Sophia, and her expression nearly broke Sophia’s heart. “I’ll be okay. Go. Don’t let go of his hand, and remember, if you get separated, run straight home.”
Patsy climbed out, but Polly refused to leave. Remaining as calm as possible, Sophia said, “You have to go, darling. I’ll see you soon.” Sophia hugged her. “Remember, if you become separated, run home as fast as you can. You know how to get there. You can do this. And later I’ll teach you how to paint. But now you need to do what I ask you to do.”
Polly sniffed, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, go.”
William helped Polly down, and the three of them quickly disappeared into the crowd. The girls would be safe with him. If she handled this right, when they were all safely home, they could
laugh about what happened and treat it as a huge adventure.
She eased her leg down and attempted to stand, but the pressure on her knee was excruciating. She had two choices. Remain in the carriage or try to keep up with the crowd while hobbling on crutches. In her heart she knew she couldn’t manage it. She’d be knocked to the ground and stomped on.
The mob shook the carriage violently, trying to tip it over. Adrenaline crackled through her veins. She couldn’t stop the carriage, but if she tucked and rolled, maybe she could minimize the damage and prevent a serious injury. It would be hell on her knee, though.
And then a more horrible fear flashed through her brain. She could fall off the bridge into the stinking Seine, and the layers of her clothing would quickly drag her to the bottom.
“Stop! Stop!” she yelled, her fingers holding fast to the window, the seat, anything she could grip, her knuckles turning white.
The horses screeched and reared, shaking the carriage, then tipping it far back, then slamming it forward, then tipping it back again. She had to let go of her crimp grip before it broke her fingers. And when she did, she slid off the bench seat and banged her head.
14
Richmond, VA—JL
After being disconnected from all the hospital’s torture devices—except the IV, in case she needed a transfusion—JL’s doctor released her to her hospital suite and encouraged her to get out of bed, if only for a short walk to the bathroom. But she had more urgent things to do than a shuffle to brush her teeth. She was on her way to the NICU, and no one was going to stand in her way.
From her previous surgery, she was prepared for knife-stabbing pain when she tried to stand. She cranked the head of the bed—pushing the up arrow on the controls—as far as it would go, inch by agonizing inch, gritting her teeth.
Kevin emerged from the bathroom, soapy-scented and shaven, hair damp, dressed in a clean polo shirt and dark jeans instead of his regular khakis. The men in the family were so close in size they could easily wear each other’s clothes. The jeans and shirt belonged to Braham. He always kept a change of clothes in Charlotte’s office, and Kevin wasn’t the first member of the family to dig into Braham’s emergency bag.
She held her arms tightly to her belly. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and a cold sweat coated her body. “I’m liking the idea of having my bed rolled to the NICU now.”
“Too late. You have to get up and walk. Exercise opens your lungs and pumps blood up from your legs to your heart, which in turn reduces the chance of getting pneumonia or blood clots. And you don’t want either of those.” Kevin helped her slowly swing her legs over the side of the bed. “Sit still a minute before you put your feet down.”
“I’ve done this before. I know how to do it.”
“Okay, babe,” he said patiently. “But don’t grit your teeth or hold your breath. It makes the pain worse.”
“I know. I know. Don’t bug me.”
He held his hands up in surrender mode. “Just tell me what you need.”
“I don’t want to be a bad patient like Elliott.”
Kevin chuckled. “You’ve got a long way to go, before you reach his status.”
“I know you’re trying to help me, but please, just let me do this at my own pace. I don’t want to yell at you.”
He pulled the wheelchair closer to the bed and locked the brakes. “That alone sets you apart from Elliott. He never cared. He yelled, cussed, and threw things.”
She slowly rose up on shaky legs, Kevin standing close by with his arms outstretched. “It’s your own fault.” She growled at the pain, a little louder this time. “You enabled him.”
“What can I say? He was my role model.” Kevin helped her lower to the chair.
She was breathing heavily from the exertion. “What does that say about you? He was a drunken womanizer.”
Kevin slid her feet into slippers before positioning first one foot and then the other on the foot rests. “Aw, shucks. Elliott wasn’t that bad.” Kevin looked up at her and grinned. “Besides, trying to control the behaviors of other people is a form of arrogance.”
“And what does that say about Elliott? He tries to control everybody around him. God knows what he’s going to do to the NICU staff. They might have to blacklist him from the hospital.”
Kevin wheeled her out into the hallway. “Not this time. He’ll sweet-talk them into doing whatever he wants by buying them off. If they need cameras for every baby, he’ll buy cameras. If they want additional space, he’ll make a large donation. If they need more personnel, he’ll endow new faculty positions. Then when he asks for more access to his grandson, they’ll be in his debt and have to find a way to give him what he wants.”
“What am I supposed to do?” JL asked. “I can’t fight him. If I don’t want him there, he’ll refuse to leave.”
“The whole family is there for you. No one is coming up here until you’re ready for company.”
“But that doesn’t include Elliott. I bet he’s up there right now.”
Kevin pushed the elevator call button, and when it arrived, he wheeled JL inside for the ride to the NICU floor. “I sent Elliott home.”
JL glared over her shoulder. “See? What’d I tell you? He’s been there with Lawrence before I’ve had a chance to see him.”
“Only while I was with you. I knew you wouldn’t want Lawrence to be up there without a family member to act as his advocate. If Elliott believes his grandson isn’t getting the best possible care, he’ll insist we fly Lawrence to Philadelphia, Boston, Cincinnati, or somewhere else.”
“Which would be even more disruptive for Blane. At least in Virginia he gets to go to Uncle Matt’s school and play with his cousins. He’s happy here.”
The elevator stopped, and Kevin wheeled her up to the parents’ entrance to the NICU. He swiped his ID card under the reader, the lock clicked, and the door swung slowly open.
“Looks like you know your way around,” JL said.
“Pod D will be our home away from home for a while.”
“How long will he be here?”
“Probably till the end of the year.”
Kevin wheeled her into the unit. Her heart lodged in her throat, and she licked her chapped lips. While she’d seen photos of Lawrence, she knew from experience pictures never truly prepared anyone for the reality of a serious situation.
Kevin pushed her down a long corridor until they reached Pod D. As he wheeled her in, he massaged her shoulder. “It’ll be okay, babe.”
They were met immediately by a woman in scrubs who extended her hand to JL. “I’m Anne, your son’s primary care nurse on this shift. I met your husband earlier. Lawrence is doing great, and I know you’re anxious to see him.” Anne had a sweet, trusting face with blue eyes, a long blonde ponytail, and a natural smile.
Another woman in scrubs approached them. “Mrs. Fraser, I’m Kelly Peterson, your son’s respiratory therapist. Your little guy is doing well. We had an incident a little bit ago—”
Kevin’s face blanched. “What happened?”
“His oxygen saturation dropped, and he started turning blue. We adjusted his endotracheal tube and he pinked right up. Dr. Fraser was here at the time. He immediately stood aside and watched over his grandson while we worked on him. He’s a real prayer warrior, that one. You’re lucky to have him.”
“You know he’s not a medical doctor, don’t you?” JL said.
“He did mention his babies normally weigh a hundred pounds or more when they’re born. I grew up on a farm, so I figured out right away that he was a veterinarian.”
It was hard to think of Elliott as a prayer warrior. He was private about very few things. The entire family talked about his PSA results, his off-color language, the number of drinks he consumed, his intense love for his wife, and the number of cigars he smoked behind her back, but no one talked about his faith.
“By the way,” Anne said, “I think your son definitely resembles his father and grandfather.”
“Scotsman! Absolutely. And that only adds to his charm. Dr. Fraser is already a legend up here. We have an intern who’s volunteered to be president of his fan club.”
“Good grief,” JL said.
Anne stopped next to an incubator. “Here’s your little guy. You can slide your hands through the open portholes and touch him. If we don’t have any more problems today, then the day after tomorrow you should be able to do kangaroo care. I’ll help you manage all the tubes and cords.”
“How long will I be able to hold him? A few minutes?”
“If he’s doing okay, we try to limit it to four hours. We recommend you pump your breasts and use the restroom beforehand.”
The sight of her newborn attached to all the tubes and cords shredded JL’s insides. She pressed a hand against her chest to slow the terrified hammering of her heart.
Kevin knelt beside the wheelchair and gazed at her. “He’s our miracle, babe. Our love will keep him alive. Give me your hand, and let’s touch him together.”
She raised her hand, but she was so scared it froze in midair. Kevin touched her wrist and guided her hand to the porthole, but she resisted. “I can’t. I’ll hurt him.”
“No you won’t.” He sanitized their hands before inching hers into one porthole and his in the other. “Touch his hand. We’ll hold his hand together.”
“Look at his little foot. It was kicking me for months.” JL smiled through her tears. “I have complained, haven’t I? I’m sorry, little guy. I’d give anything if you were kicking me right now. Can I touch the rest of him?”
“For now, just his hand. We want him to learn that when someone holds his hand it’s a soothing, caring touch. That the hand or finger is there to comfort him. Not to poke or tug on him.”
“He’s perfectly formed, isn’t he?”
The Pearl Brooch Page 19