The Pearl Brooch

by Logan, Katherine Lowry

  “I don’t know what to do either,” Kevin said. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll learn what we need to know.”

  “What’s wrong with me? I feel like my body’s been roused from a coma, but my brain is still asleep.”

  “You’ve been through hell. Things will get clearer as the drugs wear off.” He kissed her and when he lifted his face, his eyes were soft.

  The hustle and bustle, the white coats and blue- and pink-printed scrubs, the bubbling of Lawrence’s oxygen, the low voices—calm yet serious—all blurred together.

  Her own measured heartbeat thumped in her ear. But the other heartbeat she’d been aware of for months no longer fluttered unheard somewhere inside of her. The beat now pinged across the monitor over her son’s head.

  She broke out in a cold, shaking sweat. If this was her life now, knowing any minute her son could die, she would have to rely on others to get her through it. Regardless of what Kevin said, she didn’t have the strength. If Lawrence died, how could she go on? Her head rested weightless against Kevin as he sat next to her, gripping her hand. She felt weak and lightheaded and her breathing was all wrong.

  “I’m going to—”

  Her eyes rolled back in her head, and that was the last she knew.

  17

  Paris (1789)—Sophia

  When Sophia, the girls, and William arrived back at the Hôtel de Langeac, Jefferson wasn’t there. Thank God. Sophia was in too much pain to deal with him right now. And if he demanded she leave the house, she would go, but she didn’t know how she’d manage it physically.

  Marguerite helped her climb the stairs to her room. Halfway up Sophia stopped. “Give me a minute.” She broke out in a cold sweat. She was no stranger to injuries, but this was the worst ever. And having no competent medical care scared her, which intensified the pain.

  They finally made it to her room, but by then she’d given up on trying not to cry, and tears poured down her face. “I…hardly ever cry, but…my knee feels like it’s being hit…over and over with a hammer.”

  “Let me help you out of your dress. You’ll be more comfortable.”

  Sophia didn’t have the energy to care what happened. Somehow Marguerite stripped her down, sponged her off, and helped her into her Tai Chi shirt and trousers. On a one-to-ten scale, her pain was a fifteen, and she had a high threshold for pain. Finally clean and wearing unrestrictive clothing that allowed her to breathe easily, she crept into bed, groaning, hoping sleep would rescue her.

  The muscles in her arms, neck, shoulders, and lower back were tense and tight. She needed a massage. She doubted Jefferson would know a masseur, but maybe Monsieur Watin knew a physician or scientist who understood the benefits of massage.

  Or better yet, maybe she could teach Marguerite to identify trigger points and rub out the knots. She’d already proven to be resourceful and intelligent. She could probably do whatever Sophia asked her to do.

  “If you’ll fluff a few pillows behind my back and under my leg, I’ll try to sleep for a few hours.”

  Marguerite lifted Sophia’s leg, placed a pillow covered with towels beneath it, and packed ice around her knee. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

  “That’s not necessary, but will you check on me in a couple of hours and bring fresh ice and a cup of willow bark tea? The ice melts so quickly.”

  “Yes, milady. And I’ll clean your dress while you sleep.”

  “Thank you. Being tossed around the carriage this morning got me pretty dirty. Let me empty my pockets first.”

  Sophia removed the pouches with her money, jewelry, and supplies and surrendered her traveling outfit to Marguerite’s capable hands. Once she was satisfied Sophia was settled, Marguerite left and closed the door.

  After stashing the pouches behind the pillows at her back, Sophia drifted off to sleep, worried about her knee and Jefferson’s reaction to what happened during their morning outing.

  A few hours later, Marguerite’s sweet voice pulled Sophia out of a deep sleep. “Mademoiselle, do you wish to dine with the family?”

  Sophia opened one eye, noticed the room had darkened and her leg still ached, and quickly closed it again. Rest, ice, and ibuprofen had done little to improve her condition. “I don’t want to wake up. My knee hurts.”

  “What can I do?” Marguerite asked. “Do you want Monsieur Petit to send for the doctor?”

  Sophia shook her head. “No doctor.” After two days of being flung around like a beanbag, there wasn’t an inch of skin without a red or purple bruise.

  “I brought ice to repack your knee.”

  “Thank you. What time is it?”

  “Six-thirty. Dinner isn’t until nine, but I thought you’d want to bathe before you dress. If you don’t intend to go downstairs, I’ll bring food up to you.”

  “I can’t get up. My entire body aches. Would you ask Monsieur Petit for a glass of red wine and some cheese and bread? I might want dinner later, but for now a light snack is sufficient.”

  It had been more than six hours since she’d had any ibuprofen, and the high level of pain concerned her. Could she have torn her MCL? Those injuries could respond well without surgery, but she would need to wear a brace, keep icing, and continue taking ibuprofen. After the pain and swelling subsided, she could begin rehab to restore strength and range of motion. Then later, when she returned home, she’d see an orthopedist.

  While Marguerite packed ice around Sophia’s knee, she said, “Miss Patsy and Miss Polly would like to see you when you feel up to a visit.”

  Honestly, what Sophia wanted to do was drink a couple of glasses of wine in the privacy of her room and go back to sleep, but she was curious to find out what Jefferson had to say. “The girls are welcome to come in anytime. What about Mademoiselle Bertin? Did I sleep through her visit?”

  “The mademoiselle sent word saying the queen requested her appearance in Versailles. She said she would come another day.”

  “Oh good. I really need another dress.” She would have to borrow an apron and be careful mixing paints. She couldn’t afford to spill paint on her only dress.

  Marguerite smiled. “I visited my friend, a lady’s maid for the comtesse de Lameth. She had two dresses she was taking to the secondhand market to sell, and I brought them back to show Monsieur Petit. He said the asking price was reasonable, so he gave me money to buy them from the funds you deposited with Mr. Jefferson. After I clean and alter the gowns, they’ll look wonderful on you. They’ll match your eyes and blonde hair. The only problem is, you’re bigger”—she patted her chest—“than the madame. But I can add lace and ribbons, and the dresses will fit you perfectly. Even the Comtesse will not recognize her old gowns.”

  “How did I get so lucky? You are a blessing.”

  “No, milady, you are the blessing. My prior employer was moving his family to his estate in Normandy and closing his Paris home. The entire staff was discharged.”

  “How horrible. What about family? Do you have any in Paris?”

  “Everyone except my brother was killed three years ago in a fire.”

  Before Sophia returned to the future, she would secure a good position for Marguerite. And if possible, get her out of Paris. Thousands of people would lose their heads in the next few years, and the city was well on its way to becoming a terrifying place to live.

  “Can you read?” Sophia asked.

  Marguerite pressed a finger to her lips. “I’ve never told anyone, but my brother is a priest. He taught me to read and write, and I also studied mathematics, science, and languages. Besides French, I can speak English and Italian. If anyone knew he taught me, he would be severely disciplined.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  Her big brown eyes lit up her face. “I borrowed books from my last employer’s library late at night and returned them before the sun came up. But the glances I received from the monsieur led me to believe he knew I was borrowing them.”

  “I don’t know your last employer, but Mr
. Petit would certainly notice if you borrowed books from Mr. Jefferson. I’ll bring books up here so you can read them. Will that help?”

  “I’ve read one book by Voltaire and would like to read more.”

  “Voltaire? Impressive. I’m sure there’s a volume or two on the shelves in Mr. Jefferson’s cabinet. No library worthy of the name is complete without Voltaire. I’ll see what I can find.”

  The door rattled with a timid knock. “Come in.” An instant later it flung open and Patsy and Polly bounded in. “How’s your knee, mademoiselle?” they asked in unison.

  “If you don’t need anything else, I’ll go talk to Monsieur Petit while you visit with Miss Polly and Miss Patsy.” Marguerite gathered up the bucket of melting ice and left the room.

  “Mademoiselle, how do you feel?” Patsy asked.

  Sophia patted the edge of the bed. “Sit here and tell me what I’ve missed.”

  Polly sat on the bed and Patsy pulled up a chair. “I was afraid Papa was going to terminate Mr. Short on the spot,” Patsy said. “He said you never should have been left behind, and if that’s how Mr. Short was going to protect those in his charge then he should look for other employment.”

  Patsy blew out an exasperated breath. “I stood up to Papa and told him Mr. Short had to make a decision quickly, and he concurred with your assessment that Polly and I had to be his top priority.”

  “And what did he say?”

  Patsy sighed again. “He was terribly upset, but he finally had to agree that Mr. Short made the right decision under the circumstances. Then he blamed himself for allowing us to go out when he knew rioters still controlled the streets.”

  “The blame is mine,” Sophia said. “I insisted on going out. I was wrong. Someone could have found Monsieur Watin and sent him a message to come to me, and none of this would have happened. I endangered all our lives.”

  Polly hugged Sophia. “Let’s not talk about what happened. It makes my stomach hurt. Let’s talk about what we’re going to do tomorrow. But…I have a question.”

  “What is it?”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Polly, how rude,” Patsy said.

  Polly picked at the bottom of Sophia’s shirt, rubbing the red print fabric between her fingers. “I’ve never seen women’s clothes like this before. You’re wearing trousers.”

  “And they’re very comfortable. I wear them to practice Tai Chi.”

  “Tai Chi?” Patsy asked. “What is that?”

  “A graceful form of exercise to improve your quality of life and restore your energy. I’ve been practicing it for years. But to do it properly you need to be able to move freely, which isn’t possible in my other clothing.”

  “Don’t let Papa see you.” Polly giggled. “He might faint.” She rolled her head to the side, went limp, mouth open, playacting what her father would look like if he fainted.

  Sophia couldn’t stifle a twinkle of a laugh. “Well, last night I snuck downstairs to get a bite to eat and he caught me. He was…shocked. But he got over it when I told him walking with crutches is easier when dressed like this, and I also reminded him that he wouldn’t want me to fall again, especially in the middle of the night.”

  Patsy fingered the shirtsleeve. “He wouldn’t want you to fall again. But what do they feel like? The pants, I mean.”

  “Very comfortable. I’ll let you try them on.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Polly said. “Monsieur Watin sent over several packages, and Monsieur Petit carried them to Papa’s reading room.”

  Having painting supplies to work with reenergized Sophia. “Already? What did he send?”

  “We didn’t open them,” Patsy said, sounding mildly indignant. “They’re your packages.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have minded at all. You could have organized them. Did he send paper and charcoal? If he did, I could do some sketches. Do you want to go look?”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Polly asked. When Sophia shook her head, Polly hurried out of the room.

  Patsy walked over to the door and closed it. “Mademoiselle, may I ask you a question? I don’t want to impose while you’re bedridden, but I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

  “Sounds serious. You can ask me anything, and I’ll give you my best advice, although you don’t have to take it.”

  Patsy returned to the chair. “If you give me advice, I’ll certainly consider it.”

  “Okay, so what’s up?”

  “It’s about Mr. Short.” A pink tinge crawled up Patsy’s neck to her cheeks. “What’s your opinion of him?”

  Sophia wasn’t at all surprised by the question. Patsy’s affection for Mr. Short was mentioned in Meacham’s book. His fabulous audiobook narrator had a talent for reading with clarity, making it easy for her to remember so many small details. Jefferson didn’t approve of Mr. Short’s intentions and discouraged a marriage proposal. So how should Sophia handle this? There was only one way. With honesty.

  “I think he’s an honorable, intelligent man, and it’s obvious you care for him.”

  Patsy nodded. “If I return to America with Papa, Mr. Short won’t propose. He wants me to stay here.”

  “But you can’t. Can you?”

  Patsy knotted her hands together in her lap and stared at them for a long moment, obviously gathering her thoughts. Finally, she said, “Papa would be so disappointed if I stayed here. He depends on me.”

  “My opinion, for what it’s worth, is that parents should never place limits on their children because of their own needs. When I was your age, I was very much in love with a young man. He was handsome and funny, and he loved me very much. The problem was my parents disapproved of him. They didn’t believe he could meet their standards as a provider for their daughter.”

  “What happened?”

  “They sent me to Italy to live with my grandmother, and she encouraged me to study art. I believe if I’d stayed in America, I wouldn’t have become the painter I am today.”

  “What happened to the young man?”

  “I don’t know,” Sophia said with a slight lift of her shoulders. “I never saw him again.”

  “How sad.”

  Sophia’s heart snagged on the soft, wistful way Patsy said it. “I agree. It is very sad.”

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to marry?”

  “I’ve never met another man who measured up to him. If I ever do, I’d consider it.”

  “Mama made Papa promise he would never marry again.”

  A curious mix of emotions played in Patsy’s eyes, and Sophia automatically reached for a pencil to draw the expression…but she didn’t have one.

  Often, when faced with a mysterious expression, its true meaning was more easily revealed in a drawing. In lieu of a pencil, she’d use a camera. In lieu of both, she pressed her brain’s imaginary pause button and used her eyes to draw Patsy’s face. Was Patsy seeing herself in her mother? Was she subconsciously wanting William to wait for her and not commit to another woman?

  “What do you think of the request your mother made?”

  “I don’t have an opinion.”

  Buzz. Wrong answer.

  “Sure you do,” Sophia said. “Do you think your mother wanted him to spend the rest of his life alone?”

  “He’s not alone. He has us.”

  Buzz. Second wrong answer.

  “By alone I meant without an adult companion. An adult of the opposite sex.”

  “You’re not as old as Papa, and you don’t have a companion.”

  Buzz. Too close to home.

  “I’m not single because someone asked me to stay that way. I’m single by choice. And your Papa is still a young man,” Sophia said. “He’s handsome, intelligent, honorable, witty, and he deserves to be happy. You’re old enough to remember your mother, right? You’re not going to forget her, and you can share your memories of her with Polly. I think your mother didn’t want her children to forget her. She didn’t want another woman to take her place
in your heart, in Polly’s heart. If your father falls in love with someone else, it doesn’t mean he didn’t love your mother. In fact, it means he had such a wonderful marriage that he wants to recreate his happiness, which is a compliment to your mother. It’s not dishonoring her.”

  Patsy had an unfocused gaze, seeming to look inside instead of outward. After a few moments she said, with some hesitation, “Do…do you like him? I noticed the way he looked at you this morning at breakfast. Like you were the only person in the room. Mr. Short has gazed at me like that before. It’s why I noticed it.”

  Sophia knew where Patsy’s thoughts were going, and she had to redirect them. “I do like him. But Patsy, I’m just here temporarily.”

  “But you’re going back to America. Aren’t you?”

  Sophia hated lying, but she’d come this far with her story and had to continue with it. “I am, but I’m going back to New York City. I’m a painter and that’s what I intend to continue doing when I return. My life’s not in Virginia.”

  “Mr. Short said Papa will be offered a position in Mr. Washington’s cabinet. If that happens, and he accepts, he’ll live in New York City, too.”

  This was a double uh-oh moment. Sophia wasn’t sure how to give Patsy a satisfactory answer. She couldn’t tell her the truth, that she was returning to the twenty-first century, so it was time to dodge. “I thought this conversation was about you and Mr. Short.”

  “It started that way, but I’m curious about your feelings for Papa.”

  “Then let me ease your mind. There’s a very real possibility that the government won’t stay in New York City. So your father and I would only live in the same place a few months. And, more important, I’m almost forty years old—”

  “You’re forty? Impossible. I knew you were…older. But not that old.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate the compliment, but yes, I am that old, which means I’m too old to have children. If your father remarries, he will want a son. But why don’t we talk about what you’re going to do instead?”

  But how could Sophia advise Patsy when she knew her future, knew she would marry her third cousin Thomas Randolph and have eleven children—and William would not fight for her. Sophia’s advice had to guide Patsy in the right direction.