“Will you attend?”
“You just accused me of spying.”
“Patsy is a suspicious sort, yet she has fallen under your spell. I know you’re not a spy, but I also know you’re more than a painter.”
He was just as suspicious. So much so, she could almost reach out and grab a fistful of it, shake it up, and throw it out on the table like a handful of dice.
She needed to regroup and come at this from a different angle. The only way to make her time at the Hôtel de Langeac work was to mentally close all the Founding Father books and be as ignorant of the future as everyone else.
“Maybe it’s time for us to secure a strategic alliance so you can be assured of my loyalty,” she said.
Even from the other side of the room, the breath from his heavy sigh almost touched her face. “You are a woman of considerable strength, intellect, and talent, and, like my daughters, I have fallen under your spell. If you have bewitched them, then you have also bewitched me.” He acknowledged his truth with a twitch of his lips and a lowering of the eyebrow that had been in a continuing state of skepticism since he first peered into the room.
“If we enter a strategic alliance,” he continued, “may I request your presence at the dinner for the general? When I have a table full of guests speaking French, I struggle to understand them. I’d like you to sit next to me and translate.”
“After tonight, I’ll be painting every waking hour. However, if it’s what you want, and if Lafayette agrees, I’ll act as your translator. But Mr. Short’s French is excellent, and he can translate quite ably for you.”
“His French is considerably better than mine, but you have unique observational skills. When the meeting is over, I’d prefer to analyze the discussion with you.”
Jefferson’s deep-set eyes seemed to penetrate her soul, and although it was too intimate, she didn’t break eye contact. “Thomas,” she said softly, “I’m a painter, not an envoy. I’m leaving Paris soon. Don’t push William aside. You need him. I’ll be in my studio painting, and if you really want to hear my views, come talk to me after your company leaves.”
A smile lifted one side of his mouth. It was a conspiratorial smile, a kind of wink. “Something tells me I won’t have to tell you.”
“Do you still think I’m here to spy on you?”
“No, Sophia. I believe you’ll just read my mind.”
18
Paris (1789)—Sophia
The next morning Marguerite stood close by, wringing her hands while Sophia navigated the stairs and hobbled toward Jefferson’s reading room. During Sophia’s previous treks down the hallway, the door had been closed. Now, standing on the threshold and watching household servants roll up rugs and pack objets d’art, she visualized how she would convert the room into a studio. The natural light was perfect for painting. The best light to paint as the Old Masters required using one light source placed above, in front of, or to the right of the sitter.
Which means the easel has to go there… She pinpointed the spot.
The morning breeze—redolent of fresh flowers and damp earth—blew into the room, stirring the dust collected under the rugs and heavy furniture. Sophia blinked watery eyes and waved away the slow drift of dust sliding over the bare wooden floor like snowflakes.
“I thought he’d give me a corner to work in”—she coughed away the tickle in her throat—“not the entire room.” She crutched toward the open French doors.
“Monsieur Petit said the room wasn’t going to be packed until closer to the family’s departure,” Marguerite said. “But the ambassador ordered it done now so you can use it.”
Sophia coughed again. She didn’t want the household to be disrupted because of her, but she appreciated Jefferson’s willingness to let her use the room.
Now, how was she going to use the space as a background for the portraits?
She leaned on the crutches and considered her options. The white boiserie with flowery wallpaper inserts and a crystal vase of flowers sitting atop the mahogany fortepiano would highlight Patsy’s formality and musicality. But Polly’s personality required a more casual setting, something to show off her vivacious spirit.
Sophia’s attention continued to rove over the architectural details of the room. The white background and the abundance of sunlight would soften Jefferson’s portrait, making it distinctly different from other paintings of him. But before she could decide on a background, she had to determine the statement she intended to make. The background was almost as important as the subject.
Mather Brown painted a kit-cat style portrait of Jefferson wearing an elaborate wig and neck stock with a busy background, showing him less than half length. But Jefferson’s disengaged, haughty expression wasn’t the best way, in her opinion, to portray the founder of the modern democratic party.
Gilbert Stuart used a different approach and painted Jefferson with a blank background. When Sophia visited the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, DC, her impression of the painting was that Stuart intended to show the difference between the undisciplined past, as reflected in the Brown portrait, and an unwritten future, as expressed in his.
In her painting Sophia wanted to show, like John Trumbull did in his painting of Jefferson, the resolve and courage reflected in the tilt of his chin and the set of his mouth, and the intelligence conveyed by his clear eyes.
Her portrait needed to strike a balance among all Jefferson’s portraitists, yet show the enigmatic man full of contradictions. He was a champion of individual liberties who owned slaves all his life. He was a fiscal conservative who lived deeply in debt. And he was an agrarian who thrived in big cities. Since he was so hard to pin down, she had to keep in mind what was most important to him.
He’d left instructions for his headstone to be inscribed with “Author of the Declaration of American Independence and the Statute of Virginia for religious freedom and Father of the University of Virginia.” No mention of his years as ambassador to France, secretary of state, vice president, or president of the United States.
When she first looked for an audiobook about him, she found a review saying, “If Jefferson were a monument, he would be the sphinx. If he were a painting, he would be the Mona Lisa. If he were a character in a play, he would be Hamlet.” She chuckled to herself, wondering if she could convey those three images in one painting.
Probably not. For her portrait, she wanted to focus on two concepts: father and freedom. But how could she express them? She had to pull back and see Jefferson as he was, and as he would be remembered…among other things, as one of the most elegant and fastidious men of the Enlightenment. So, what was it to be—this portrait of hers—to truly portray this enigmatic man? If those who knew him best considered him a puzzle, who was she to solve it?
Sophia’s mind made a quick U-turn. Instead of considering the portrait, her statement, or the room’s architectural details, her thoughts turned toward the subject—Jefferson’s unbound hair and the ruddy skin of his sun-kissed cheeks.
“Sit over here, milady,” Marguerite said. “Monsieur Petit had the sofa moved from the salon. He said you might be able to sit here while you paint. Do you think it’ll work?”
“It depends on whether the easel’s height is adjustable.”
Sophia hobbled to the sofa, where she lowered herself to the cushion. Marguerite plumped pillows at her back and under her leg, fretting around her like a bumblebee, buzzing here, buzzing there. No one had ever waited on Sophia before, except her grandmother, who’d fed her comfort foods—bowls of penne ai quattro formaggi and gelato—while she cried out her broken heart.
She jerked her attention back to the room, back to the work going on around her. It was too painful to remember the people who were no longer in her life.
All the grunts and groans of the men moving furniture reminded her of last month’s art show and cocktail reception in Florence. She’d spent a hectic afternoon directing the hanging of her paintings. But this wasn’t going to b
e an art show. This was a twelve-day painting frenzy, and at the end of it she hoped to have a portrait which would end up on display at the National Portrait Gallery or the Met in two hundred fifty years.
Seriously? Was that what she wanted? If she intended to go home and paint several more portraits of Jefferson, it would be insane to have any of her paintings at the Gallery or at the Met whose provenance would confirm it was painted by S.F. Orsini, an American painter who visited Jefferson in Paris.
An auction-house appraiser, art historian, or curator would compare her twenty-first century paintings of Jefferson to the eighteenth-century Orsini painting. Would the results be good or bad? She couldn’t say. But it would be confusing. She’d never left a painting behind before. If she did this time, she could leave the painting unsigned and ask Jefferson not to mention her name in journals or correspondence, but an art historian would still find her name mentioned somewhere else.
Polly hurried into the room as fast as her skittering heels allowed, beaming. She reached for Sophia’s hand and crushed her wrists with the force of her glee. “Monsieur Watin is here. I’m so excited. Papa is helping him carry your purchases.” She then turned and skipped out of the studio as tiny dust motes circled her bouncing curls.
“She’s so precious. I’ve never seen such a happy child,” Sophia said to Marguerite, rubbing her wrists to get her blood circulating again. “I love her curls. I haven’t seen her hair fixed that way before.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Marguerite said. “She asked me for help this morning while you were doing your exercises. She wanted to look perfect for you.”
“For me?”
“In case you started her painting.”
“How sweet. Thank you for styling her hair so elegantly.” Sophia rested her elbow atop the back of the sofa and considered where she was going to paint the girls—inside, or out in the garden.
“What would you like me to do first?” Marguerite asked, pulling Sophia again from her deep well of thoughts.
“Fabric shopping, I think.” They had already discussed clothing needs, and Marguerite said she could sew anything Sophia needed. “White linen for dresses for the girls and me, straw hats, ribbon, printed silk for two more pairs of trousers and shirts, and while you’re looking around, find a fabric you like to make a dress for yourself.”
Marguerite stared, shocked. After a few beats, her shock passed, and her tone was cautious when she said, “I don’t need anything, milady. But you need new stockings.”
Sophia pulled money out of her pocket. She wasn’t going to push Marguerite this time, but if she didn’t have another dress, Sophia would insist Marguerite buy fabric for herself. “If you need help, hire a seamstress to assist you. I need a quick turnaround.”
Marguerite hid the money between her stomacher and stays. “I’ll get a bucket of ice before I go.”
“Mr. Petit will take care of it,” Sophia said. “Be careful when you go out. It’s dangerous. Better yet, ask Mr. Petit if the coachman can take you.”
“I won’t be alone. This is market day, and James is taking Sally and me with him.”
James?
The name didn’t click immediately, but then she remembered James Hemings was Sally’s brother and Jefferson’s chef. “Let me know when you return so I’ll stop worrying.”
Marguerite tugged on her lower lip with her teeth. “But why would you worry?”
“Because it’s dangerous on the streets, and I don’t want you to get hurt. I couldn’t manage without you.”
“I’ll be safe enough. No one will bother us.”
Marguerite was probably right. As a house servant, black or white, she was unlikely to be accosted, but Sophia would have nightmares for some time after what happened to her on the streets of Paris. On the way out of the room, Marguerite passed Jefferson and Monsieur Watin on their way in.
Sophia smiled. “Monsieur Watin.” She reached for her crutches to stand and welcome him, but he hurried to her before she could rise.
“Non. Don’t get up.” He kissed her cheeks. “I heard you had another dreadful day after you left my atelier. And now your injury is much worse.”
Jefferson dropped packages onto the table and gazed at her, a glint in his eyes. “She should consult a physician, but she refuses.”
“If it doesn’t improve in a couple of days, I’ll reconsider.” Which was a big fat lie. Seeking medical attention, even if it would alleviate Jefferson’s concern, was out of the question. She turned her attention back to Watin. “Did you hear General Lafayette rescued us?”
Watin carried his packages over to the long table where Jefferson had placed his. “The ambassador just told me what happened.”
“Thanks to the general, we got home safely. And the girls are so eager to sit for their portraits. Were you able to get everything I ordered?”
“Everything has now been delivered.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting at the Hôtel de Ville. If you need anything, ask Mr. Petit.”
“Thank you, Ambassador,” Sophia said. “I appreciate you giving up your reading room. We can start on your portrait later this afternoon if you have free time on your calendar.”
“We’ll discuss it when I return.” Jefferson bowed slightly before heading toward the door, dodging packing crates. He paused there and turned back. “Mademoiselle, if you have an opening on your calendar, I’d like you to dine with me this evening.”
She smiled and teasingly asked, “What’s the wine du jour?”
“Goutte d’Or de Meursault.”
“A white wine from Burgundy.”
He looked momentarily surprised, but then nodded, as though verifying something to himself. “You’re familiar with this varietal as well?”
“It’s a pale yellow chardonnay with a touch of fresh hazelnut and white peach. On the palate, the wine offers fresh almond aromas with a lively finish.”
“And what would you pair with it?”
“Veal or freshwater pike.”
He gave her the look again, the one that said he still doubted the whole food-pairing concept. “The dinner menu is rice soup, round of beef, turkey, loin of veal, fried eggs, fried beef, a pie of macaroni.”
“And ice cream?” she asked.
“Always ice cream, mademoiselle.” He laughed with an easy contentment, and his eyes were so blue, reflecting the color of his jacket, they verged on indigo. He slapped the doorframe as he strolled out.
Watin sat at the end of the sofa, tugging on his chin.
“What?” she asked. “You have something on your mind. What is it?”
“Nothing,” he said, glancing around the room. “What can I do to help you? Where would you like to set up the easels?”
A breeze slipped in through the half-opened window behind her and ruffled the sketching paper Watin had stacked on the table. “You can help by telling me what’s on your mind. I don’t know you well at all, but I’m observant. You frowned at the ambassador. Why? What did you see or hear that caused you concern?”
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them while Watin continued to peruse the room. Finally, he said, “After what you’ve experienced in the past few days, I don’t want to see you hurt again. Monsieur David and I feel responsible for you. The ambassador has been widowed for several years, and he seems discontent with his situation. He enjoys la vie Parisien, especially the company of intelligent, artistic women.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
“Mademoiselle, you were nearly set on fire at the Bastille, then you stepped into a hole and wrenched your knee. Yesterday you almost fell into the Seine, and now you can’t walk without assistance. It is our opinion, Monsieur David and I, that you require protection. And we do not wish to see your heart broken. The ambassador isn’t a libertine, but he’s lonely, and you are an ingénue.”
“I assure you, I’m no ingénue, Monsieur Watin. I’m only interested in painting authentica
lly, which requires an understanding of my subjects.”
“And that can be acquired during an intimate dinner?” The pitch of his tone rose considerably, as did the lift of his brow.
“I’m not interested in painting windmills, or a checkerboard floor, or a tulip, or a guttering candle.” She paused a moment to collect herself. Why was it necessary to explain? Because Watin now considered himself her protector.
“Some artists never need to leave home to paint,” she said. “That’s not me. I need to experience the world. If I can gain artistic insight while dining with Ambassador Jefferson, why would I not dine with him?”
Watin gave her an incredulous stare. “You are an ingénue. In Paris, an intimate dinner is not for an artist to gain insight, it’s a prelude to more…intimacy. I assure you, the way the ambassador looks at you shows what’s on his mind, and it’s not art. I don’t want you to be the mademoiselle du jour.”
“Thank you for your concern, but you don’t have to treat me like a Fabergé egg.”
“What is a Fabergé egg?”
“A reference to something fragile.” She patted his arm. “I have no intention of becoming the ‘mademoiselle du jour.’ And besides, I’m leaving at the end of next week.”
Watin stared at her, wide-eyed. “Next week? Why? You purchased enough supplies to last three months.”
She avoided his question about leaving and went straight to his statement about the supplies. “When I paint, I don’t like to run out of anything. It makes me grumpy.”
One of the workmen who had been moving furniture returned carrying an easel. “Where does this go, monsieur?”
Watin jumped to his feet. “There, I think.” He pointed to a spot near the French doors. “No, put it there.” He paced the room, his expression dour, he turned in circles. “Ah,” he sighed. “The green drapery needs to come down. It blocks too much light. Don’t you think, mademoiselle?”
The Pearl Brooch Page 23