“I think you and William have a special relationship, and it will probably last a very long time. But you belong in America. My advice is to tell William if he wants to marry you, he must fight for you now. Not in two weeks. Not next month. No one knows when your father’s leave-of-absence papers will arrive, granting him permission to leave France. If William won’t do as you ask, you have to let him go.”
Tears slipped down Patsy’s cheeks. She swiped them away with quick brushes of her finger, gritting her teeth. Sophia internalized Patsy’s anguish, which forced her to grapple with old regrets and the harsh sting of abandonment.
Patsy sniffled. “He won’t fight for me.”
Sophia exhaled slowly, a tight knot of muscle squeezing her chest. How many nights had she cried herself to sleep because Pete hadn’t fought for her? Nights? A decade’s worth of nights. “Pete didn’t fight for me either”—she barely got the words out—“and it hurt for a very long time.”
She had to stay positive. If Patsy thought she would one day turn forty and be as full of regrets as Sophia, it wouldn’t help her make the decisions she had to make now. “I know this doesn’t ease your heartache, but you’ll find a man to marry when you return home.”
“You didn’t find another man.”
“You’re right. I didn’t. But I found my passion in art, and I’m very happy. I take several commissions every year, and I also teach young women how to paint. It’s very fulfilling. Being a single woman is not your path, Patsy, but it is mine.”
“I’ll never love anyone else.”
“Oh, sweetheart…” Sophia pulled Patsy in for a hug. “I know the feeling so well. But I believe you will.”
The door blew open, and Polly made an elaborate entrance, grinning, her arms full of drawing paper and chalk stacked nearly to her chin. Patsy and Sophia pulled apart, and Polly glared at them. Her eagerness faded, and she made a moue of doubt. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” Patsy said, avoiding eye contact with her sister. “We’re talking about love and marriage.”
Polly rolled her eyes and dumped her armload of supplies at the side of the bed. “There were paints and brushes in the packages too. But I didn’t bring them. What are you going to draw?”
Sophia reached for a stack of paper. “I think I’ll start with sketching the two of you.”
“What do you want us to do? Sit straight in the chair?” Polly asked.
“Nooo,” Sophia said, dragging out the word. “I want you to sit on the bed and tell me funny stories. I’ll sketch while you talk. I want you to be animated and happy. I’m going to draw several sketches, so if you want to change places or walk around, go for it.”
“Polly, you sit on the bed. I’ll stay here in the chair,” Patsy said.
Marguerite returned with a tray of grapes, slices of cheese, chunks of bread, a carafe of wine, and glasses. Sophia patted an empty spot on the bed between her and the girls. “Will you put the food here, Marguerite, and the wine on the table where I can reach it?”
Polly’s big brown eyes opened wide in surprise. “Are we going to eat here?”
“We’re having a picnic in bed. I want you to eat and talk and laugh while I sketch. Tell me about school. Tell me about places you’ve been in Paris.”
Marguerite poured Sophia a glass of wine.
“Will you pour one for me, too?” Patsy asked.
Marguerite poured a second glass, then quietly left the room.
For the next hour or so, Patsy and Polly told stories about school, their friends, and visiting gardens and museums in Paris. They laughed until their sides hurt. Laughing was the best therapy for the emotional turmoil they’d experienced today, so Sophia kept encouraging them to tell just one more story while she sketched them making faces, tugging on their hair, and gently elbowing each other’s arms, the kinds of things close sisters did to one another…
The kinds of things Sophia did with Lisa and her other girlfriends until she’d been forced to leave New York… The kinds of things she encouraged her students to do with their classmates.
Drawings were soon scattered all over the floor, and she could see in the chaos what expressions she’d captured in their eyes and mouths, and what was still missing, especially around the line of their jaws. When the sun set and the sky grew dark, Marguerite brought extra candles into the room, and the flickering flames added a warm, glowing atmosphere that Sophia was able to capture in the sketches.
The door partially opened, and a sudden electrical spark sizzled through the room. Her head shot up, and her eyes immediately found Jefferson’s, which looked icy at first, but then quickly thawed. He lingered on the threshold, gazing at her as if locking her image in his mind, as she was locking in his.
“What’s happening in here?” He canted his body around the door to get a full view of the room. “I’ve never heard so much laughter except at the theatre.” He looked down at the sketches scattered on the floor. “Apparently another drawing frenzy has taken place at the legation.”
Polly’s prominent cheekbones lifted with a wide smile. “Come in, Papa. We’re having a picnic and sharing stories while Mademoiselle Orsini draws pictures. Look at them.” She spread her arms while her hands moved in mysterious circles, like an orchestra conductor. “They’re everywhere, and I’m having so much fun.”
He stroked his jaw absently. “I can tell. But this isn’t the proper setting for entertaining.”
Patsy gently touched Sophia’s lower leg and in a soft, sympathetic voice said, “Papa, the mademoiselle can’t walk. Where else should we be?”
“I’m sure the mademoiselle would prefer to rest,” Jefferson said.
Polly cocked her head slightly. “She is resting, Papa. She hasn’t moved an inch the entire time we’ve been here.”
He ambled into the room and picked up an empty wine glass, sniffed, set it down again. “Not only do you drink Chianti with dinner, but also as an aperitif.”
“You’ve got this whole wine drinking thing wrong, Mr. Ambassador. Good wine is to be enjoyed all the time, but especially with food, even a simple meal like grapes and cheese.”
“Would you like a glass, sir?” Marguerite asked.
Sophia looked up at him and, using only her eyes and eyebrows, repeated Marguerite’s question.
He returned to his chin stroking, his go-to evaluation gesture. “It’s not proper to be here. I’ll be in my cabinet.”
Patsy stood and sat on the end of the bed next to Polly, freeing up her chair. “This is your house, Papa. You make the rules. There’s nothing improper here. This is a sitting room, and we’re enjoying good conversation.”
Sophia picked up her glass and saluted with it. “And adult beverages.”
“So I see. Are you drinking out of two glasses, or is Patsy”—he looked down his nose at his daughter—“developing the habit of drinking wine with food?”
“It’s quite good, Papa. Mademoiselle Orsini gave me a wine-tasting lesson. And it’s true. The cheese and grapes bring out delicious flavors in the wine.”
Jefferson gave Sophia a confused look that almost made her laugh.
“It appears you’ve conscripted another recruit,” he said.
His reference to another recruit didn’t go unnoticed. As a scientist, she was certain he would conduct several experiments on volunteers to discover if, in fact, wine enhanced the flavor of food.
“Look at the sketches, Papa. Aren’t they wonderful?” Polly said.
Jefferson collected all the sketches, noticing a number at the top right-hand corner. He arranged them in numerical order and fanned them, eyes skimming each drawing. “I’ve never seen anything like this. They’re moving pictures.” He fanned the stack again and again, at different speeds, chuckling. “How’d you do it?”
After a glass and a half of wine without anything of substance to eat since breakfast, she wasn’t sure she could explain. “Decades of drawing what I see. Why don’t you sit and
listen to your daughters’ stories while I draw? They are compelling storytellers.”
“Come on, Papa,” Polly said. “Sit down, and we’ll tell you about the mouse in Patsy’s shoe.”
Jefferson settled his large frame uncomfortably on the small ladies’ chair. “A mouse?”
Patsy nodded. “In my shoe. I don’t know who squealed louder. The mouse or me.”
The mouse in Patsy’s shoe story soon had Jefferson chuckling. But it wasn’t until Polly told a story about a mouse who ate her French lesson that an unexpected, full-throttle laugh from Jefferson had them all howling except Sophia. She was focusing solely on her subjects, sketching him bowled over by his daughters’ hijinks. They made such a racket that Monsieur Petit stopped and peeked into the room, as did Sally.
“Come in, Sally,” Sophia said. “Pull up a chair and I’ll draw you, too.”
Sally fiddled with a silver heart looped on a ribbon tied around her neck. “I don’t want to be in a picture.”
“But I want you there,” Polly said. “Sit by me.”
Instead of sitting on the bed, Sally bent over to take her place on the floor, and as she did, her hands swept over her baby bump. Sophia shoved her moral outrage aside and added a bit of shading to emphasize the bump. She couldn’t condone Jefferson’s behavior with a sixteen-year-old enslaved woman, but neither could Sophia ignore it.
And that was the last sketch of the evening.
She enjoyed a satisfied, catlike stretch before setting the chalk aside and brushing her hands. “By my count I’ve done twenty drawings. You all look through them and decide which ones you want painted.”
Polly and Sally gathered the remaining sketches and handed them to Jefferson. He thumbed through the stack until he came to the last one Sophia drew. His eyebrows flashed, and his gaze remained steady on the sketch until he raised his head and glared at her. “I’ll consider all of these before I decide.” He stood to leave. “We should let the mademoiselle rest. We’ve exhausted her.”
Polly hugged Sophia. “Thank you. I can’t remember when I’ve laughed so much.”
Patsy hugged her too. “I don’t have to remember, because I know I never have. Thank you, mademoiselle.”
The girls, Sally, and Marguerite scurried out, giggling like the teenagers they were, leaving Jefferson with a glassy-eyed stare, shaking his head. “How’d you do that?”
Sophia smiled, remembering some of the young women who had studied painting with her, several with attitude issues. With the steady application of lots of attention, she never failed to bond with them. “I listen and provide a safe space where girls can be themselves without judgment. And your daughters are so sweet. I know you’re proud of them.”
She slid a linen napkin out from under the cutlery on the food tray and wiped the chalk residue off her fingers. Hours earlier Marguerite had washed dirt off her hands like a two-year-old child who had fallen in the mud.
Sophia’s mind picked just that moment to torture her with the memory of her most recent near-death experience. She pushed the memory aside and a reminder slipped in behind it. She had yet to apologize to Jefferson for putting his daughters at risk, and he was due one.
She finished cleaning her hands and dropped the napkin onto the tray. “I’m sorry about this morning. I never should have taken the girls out, knowing the rioters were still on the streets. It wasn’t smart. If you want me to leave, Monsieur Watin said he knows several Americans who would host me in their homes.”
“I’m not asking you to leave. I should have insisted you wait until I was available, but I didn’t. I share the blame. Patsy and Polly were distraught over what happened. They seem very attached to you. I had hoped you would be an influence on them, but after what I just witnessed, I can see the effect of your presence has far exceeded my expectations.” His long fingers tapped the papers in his hand. “I do wonder, though, how you draw so quickly. It takes me hours to do one architectural drawing.”
“I’ve been doing five-minute sketches since I was Patsy’s age. Only a few ever get painted, but it’s good practice. I draw freehand, and I don’t have to rely on rulers or straight edges. They’re not precise like your architectural drawings.”
“Patsy and Polly look real enough to jump off this page.” He held up one of the sketches, the paper drifting slightly in the breeze. “You’ve revealed Sally’s condition with only a few chalk marks.” His eyes deepened with something akin to regret, or maybe guilt.
“I draw what I see. But what you’re looking at is an optical illusion. A trick of the eye. A visual manipulation. Sally’s dress is cleverly shaded with darkened corners and shadows. You can see it two different ways. Look closely. Blink. Adjust the distance.”
He stared at the sketch, blinked, moved the paper closer and farther away, and after a moment he inhaled sharply. “It’s a flower design in the dress. It’s not—”
“Art is in the eye of the beholder, Ambassador. You see what your mind tells you. You happened to see the swell of her belly before you saw the flower.” She knew the baby was his, but there was no point letting him know his secret wasn’t a secret.
“Is this a trick?”
“Sort of, but it’s done with pen and ink, paint, chalk, whatever, and it teases the eye.”
He glanced at the sketch again. “Now I see only the flower.”
“You lose perspective.”
Mr. Petit came to the door and handed Jefferson a message, which he immediately opened and read. “I’ll respond shortly,” he said to Mr. Petit, who nodded and left the room.
Jefferson shoved the note into his waistcoat pocket. “General Lafayette wants to use my house as a secret meeting place for him and six others who are attempting to forge a coalition. He believes it’s the only way to prevent a total dissolution and civil war.”
“So he’s asking you to host a secret dinner that could compromise you and change your involvement from spectator to participant. Are you sure it’s what you want?”
“You’re perceptive, mademoiselle. First you read my mail, and now you read my mind.”
“I didn’t read your mail or your mind. I’m just”—What? A time traveler? A scryer? She settled on “…politically adept, and looking at this as an outsider. An ambassador is supposed to be a neutral party. Right? Wouldn’t the king see hosting a dinner as taking sides?”
“I can’t decline Lafayette’s request.”
“It’s only natural for you to be involved, if only as a facilitator. Politics is your consuming passion, and Lafayette and his deputies need to sort out their differences before the situation deteriorates. But here’s a thought to keep in mind: change happens when the voices of the powerless intersect with the voices of the powerful.”
“Who said that?”
“A historian named Jon Meacham.”
“I haven’t heard of him. What has he written?”
Your biography. “I heard him speak recently.” She tucked the pieces of chalk back into their box and set it aside, trying to decide what to say next. “I know you’re anxious about your vulnerable republic, knowing any hour could bring devastating news.”
For a long moment they existed in a vacuum—Thomas Jefferson and her, a woman from the future who knew his innermost thoughts because he left a detailed historical record—staring at each other, unable to breathe, and his eyebrow raised, giving her a skeptical look.
“How do you know so much?”
For a moment, she couldn’t think. Something messy had spilled in her brain—a cup of coffee, a glass of wine—short-circuiting the orderly hum of her logical thinking.
Even her palms were wet. And she was a dry-palms kind of person, rarely stressed or uneasy. But after the past two days everything was out of kilter, and while her knee pain continued, out of kilter would be her new normal.
But what she wanted to know right now was, had she gone too far? Had her knowledge of history pushed him to the edge? Was she swaggering into judgment of him without all the facts?
No one knew for sure what his relationship with Sally was behind closed doors. And it was none of Sophia’s business anyway.
He continued to stare, his eyes examining her, the odd clothes, the ice-wrapped knee, probably even the tenor of her thoughts. Now who was mind reading?
“You’ve come into my house to spy on me.”
“I’ve been here less than forty-eight hours. And you invited me to stay, remember? In fact, I advised you against it. I’m not here to hurt you, betray you, or gossip about you. I’m only here to paint. As I’ve told you several times, when I paint, people talk. They love to gossip, and house servants talk to other servants. Whatever happens in one house is known in the neighbor’s house.”
“Did the new chambermaid Mr. Petit hired share such gossip with you?”
“No.”
“If your listening skills are so attuned, you’d be an asset to any government, but now I’m leery of discussing anything of significance with you. And I regret informing you of General Lafayette’s plans.”
The air around them seemed to be crackling into pieces, preparing to shatter.
“Thomas, why would I want to betray my country or you? Why would I want to harm Patsy or Polly? I don’t. When I finish my paintings, I’ll leave. And that will be the end of it. But you need to know, secrets are impossible to keep.”
He paced for a moment, then came to a dramatic stop in front of the window. The candlelight illuminated the glass in front of him and cast an odd glow about the fringes of his sandy colored hair. He was quiet for some time. When he spoke, he did so without turning. “It isn’t clear to me or to Lafayette and his deputies whether progressive or reactionary forces will prevail in France. Since you know so much”—he turned slowly to face her—“is it clear to you, mademoiselle?”
The intensity in his penetrating eyes made her shiver. The information she’d gleaned from Meacham’s book was, at least for her, either a blessing or a curse. “After the last two days, not much is clear. You’ll only be here another few weeks. Your advice to Lafayette will go a long way toward progressive success. Whatever happens in France now will become its history. The part you play or don’t play will be remembered. Host the dinner. Lafayette needs your advice. He needs to know he can count on you.”
The Pearl Brooch Page 22