The Pearl Brooch

by Logan, Katherine Lowry

  He pushed to his feet, grinning. “There is nothing foreordained about the American experiment. It has never been a set piece in a game of chess pitting an evil empire against a noble band of Americans. If the democracy survives twenty years, then the government should rewrite the constitution from scratch, and every twenty years thereafter.”

  “You’re kidding. Aren’t you? Look how long it’s taking to get it ratified by thirteen states. Can you imagine if there were fifty?”

  “Fifty?”

  “At least. And getting that many states to ratify a new constitution would never happen.” She set the sketch of him aside and returned to the portrait, but she was done with it for now. Her hand had a little shake to it anyway, and she’d only make a mess if she tinkered with it. “If legislators decided to rewrite the constitution, I hope, instead of giving the right to vote only to property-owning, taxpaying white males, they’ll give it to women and people of color as well.”

  “Even if it’s rewritten, Congress will never include women.”

  “Obviously, any forward-thinking conversation that includes women is a nonstarter for you, isn’t it?”

  “I’m wary of females influencing government, and I won’t change.”

  Of course not!

  She’d travelled to the fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth, nineteenth, and twentieth centuries, and now the eighteenth, and she’d never met such a womanizing misogynist. Trying to understand him was like viewing Monticello’s architectural details through Virginia’s early morning fog.

  In a word, she would never understand him. Well, she used more than one word, but who was counting? She had to stop projecting contemporary values back into a different era.

  “All right,” she sighed. “I won’t bring it up again.”

  He looked mildly shocked but pleased. “Mademoiselle, you’re so assured of your position, you will make your point again. You’re like a roof leaking in a rainstorm, a never-ending drip, drip, drip. That’s a perfect example of why women should confine their comments to home and hearth.”

  She gave him an exaggerated exhale. “Mr. Jefferson, I doubt you will find in me the modesty, beauty, and soft disposition of other women of your acquaintance. So, tell me this… Why leave the issue for future politicians to resolve? There are thousands of women in America. Why wait until there are millions marching in the street, like Parisians demanding their rights?”

  “If women can threaten a republican revolution in France, I fear what they might do in a country awakened to the rhetoric of equality.”

  “So if women are tied to home and hearth, they won’t be a threat or march in the streets and demand their rights?” she said, her voice quivering. “Good luck with that.”

  “If I tried to include women’s rights in the constitution, no one would sign it. It’s more important to get a working document ratified than to spend years arguing. In Article V there’s a process for amending the Constitution.”

  She mentally apologized to future suffragettes. I tried. “Now I know why you insisted that Lafayette include an amending convention in his Declaration of Rights.”

  Jefferson exhaled deeply before saying softly, and with an unusual amount of patience, “I am not without forethought, Sophia.”

  Their intense debate seemed to have exhausted them both. It was becoming a habit when they saw each other to debate first, wait for the tension to fizzle, then proceed with a normal conversation.

  Had debating become foreplay?

  Thankfully she had a ticket home in a few days. Leaving was a ten-foot wall standing between foreplay and the natural progression of physical attraction.

  She changed the subject. “What else happened at the Estates General meeting? Anything you can share?” Her voice had returned to its ordinary timbre, not quivering at all now.

  “General Lafayette was elected vice president of L’Assemblee, and he ordered the demolition of the Bastille.”

  “A wise move, I think. Don’t you? I heard its destruction has been debated in government circles for over a decade.”

  “It’s the symbol of the arbitrary detentions of the Old Regime, of the dreaded lettres de cachet. They should have demolished it years ago. Besides, it’s also an enormous expense.”

  She brushed chalk residue off her hands. “I’m taking a risk here, but I value your judgment. I’ll set aside my edict and ask if you have comments about the portrait.”

  He smiled. “When will you start painting?”

  “A safe question, and I’ll start painting tomorrow afternoon. While I wait for the varnish to dry, I’ll move inside and sketch individual drawings of the girls. Although I might paint Polly outside.” Sophia rested her cheek against her finger and thumb. “Not here in the garden. Maybe near the stables. If you’re not out riding, I might include your horse. We’ll see.”

  “I probably won’t ride until later in the day. The king’s coming to Paris tomorrow to meet with the Estates General.”

  “Will he come this way? I’d like to see him, but I don’t want to go anywhere near the crowd again, and I don’t think Patsy and Polly want to be out there either. We were all so scared.”

  As soon as Polly said the noise and crowd frightened her, Sophia should have insisted they all return to the legation immediately. Her failure to do so was a haunting reminder of a decision that could easily have gotten them killed. Life in the eighteenth century was more tenuous than in the twenty-first. For the next twelve days, she needed to keep the danger in mind and always take precautions.

  “You’ll be able to see the king and his entourage from the window in the salon. The streets will be overly crowded, and I don’t want Patsy and Polly out there again.” He looked directly at her. “Even with an escort.”

  “Then you expect trouble.”

  “The French love their monarch, but they’re rioting for lower taxes and representation in government. In this heated environment, anything could happen. A mob is unpredictable.”

  “Lafayette can guarantee his safety. I watched the crowd willingly move aside for him yesterday. If they love their king, they love Lafayette just as much.” She noticed a line in the portrait that bugged her, and she couldn’t leave it alone. She erased it, but didn’t like the new look either. “Has he said anything else about the dinner he wants you to host?”

  “Nothing about the dinner, but he extended an invitation to join him in his box to see the opera Richard Coeur de Lion.”

  Instead of fixing the line, she picked up another sheet of paper and started a sketch of Polly with her head bent over the rose bush, sniffing the flowers. “Will the Marquise de La Fayette or his mistress be with him?”

  Jefferson cleared his throat. “Did Patsy mention that situation to you?”

  “How would Patsy know?”

  “When she was away at school, she kept me apprised of the political tensions intruding into the convent’s matriarchal family, which included reporting on marital infidelities.”

  Sophia hiked an eyebrow. “Interesting. But no, the information didn’t come from her, and regardless of who accompanies Lafayette, you’ll have a splendid time. After all the recent chaos and danger, a night at the theatre will be a pleasant diversion.”

  Jefferson strolled around the courtyard, scratching at a spot behind his ear. He stopped and cast his gaze at her, clearing his throat. “He also invited you.”

  The invitation caught her by surprise. Her hands dropped to her lap. “I can’t go to the opera. If I fall again—”

  “You won’t fall,” he said quickly. “Lafayette was concerned about your mobility. So he promised to have soldiers there to assist you in and out of the carriage and up and down the stairs. I’ll be by your side, of course.”

  She shook her head. “I’d love to go, but I can’t risk it. I’ll stay here and paint. Why don’t you take the girls? They’d love it.”

  “Polly is too young to appreciate the opera.”

  “She loves music as much as Patsy. There’s
nothing comparable to the Paris Opera in America. And besides, the girls may never get to Paris again. It’ll be a wonderful memory for them.”

  Jefferson’s stroll turned into a slow back and forth, his head down in thought. “Patsy will stay in Virginia, but Polly will return with me. She’ll have other opportunities to see the opera.”

  “You’re too valuable to America to return to Paris. You might prefer your natural passion of study and tranquility at Monticello, but planting a new world with the seeds of a just government is too remarkable a pursuit for you to choose your passion over the well-being of mankind. President Washington will want you in his cabinet. And you won’t say no because politics provides a stage, and you’ll never leave the drama. You’re standing on the ramparts of history, Mr. Jefferson. What will you do to bend the world to your purposes?”

  He planted his feet and folded his arms in a pose she was beginning to find annoying. “I don’t know where your ideas come from. Pursuing my passion over laying my shoulder to the work of the day is not a choice to be made. I’ll complete my commitment as ambassador and retire.”

  She slipped her foot off the stool and reached for her crutches. Until Jefferson received the new appointment from President Washington, he would continue to deny the obvious. “Enjoy your last few weeks in Paris with your daughters.” She set the crutches under her arms. “I’m going inside. There’s not enough light to continue working out here.”

  “I’ll carry the portrait.”

  “Thank you, but Mr. Petit said he would have everything moved inside when I finished for the day.” She hobbled toward the stairs, a little more agile with the crutches now. “On second thought, do you mind bringing the canvas? I’d hate for a strong breeze to come through the garden and knock it over. I haven’t read a weather report in days.”

  “Where do you read weather reports?”

  Oops. Did it again.

  She made her way up the stairs while working through a possible answer. Conversing daily with Jefferson presented unique problems. During her other trips, conversations had always been about art, not this wide range of topics that constantly tripped her up.

  “I met a man in Florence who for many years tracked the weather daily.” She reached the door, and he moved quickly to open it. “He liked to make forecasts based on his records.”

  “What did he discover? This man…in Florence?”

  The way he said, this man, he was obviously suspicious of her constant references to men in Florence. The crutches clicked rhythmically along the hardwood floor as she crossed the room to the sofa. “I don’t know if there were patterns or not. I’m sure he projected his forecasts based on prior years’ weather. I’m a painter, not a scientist. What do I know?”

  “Did he write an almanac?”

  “I guess so.”

  He held up the canvas. “Where do you want this?”

  “On the easel.”

  Mr. Petit, right on cue, entered the room. “Mademoiselle, shall we bring the easel in from outside?”

  The maître d’hôtel had to have spies all over the house to be so up-to-date on her comings and goings. “Thank you, yes, Mr. Petit. Have you seen Marguerite?”

  “She’s in the sewing room. Shall I fetch her?”

  “No, don’t bother her. I was just curious. What about Patsy and Polly?” Sophia reached the sofa and stretched out her leg.

  “They’re with Marguerite.”

  Sophia gazed over at Jefferson, who had taken a position in front of the easel, studying the portrait. When Mr. Petit brought in the chair and stool, Jefferson sat and leaned back. The delicate wood seemed too small for him. The room seemed too small for him. His shoulders strained against his jacket. He was too full of life and muscle to be contained by even the fine brown wool.

  “The girls need time to dress if you’re taking them to the opera,” she said.

  “The general will be disappointed.”

  “I hope you’ll explain why I couldn’t go out tonight.”

  He leaned forward in the chair, and after a few moments of exasperated silence he said, “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll ask Patsy.”

  If Jefferson was exasperated, so was she. Not since she’d been attacked years earlier had she been afraid to go out, but she was now. Down deep, her hesitation was about more than a fear of falling and additional injury.

  She was afraid to go out with him, afraid to enjoy a night of music and companionship, and afraid of what he’d write in his journal. If he mentioned taking her to the opera, what would Jeffersonophiles think of her? Despite all their disagreements, she thoroughly enjoyed his company. He made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t felt for years.

  “I’d love to go, but I don’t want to get caught in another crowd. I can’t take the risk.”

  Mr. Petit reentered from the courtyard, carrying the tray of empty dishes. “Is there anything else I can get for you, mademoiselle?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “Mr. Petit, would you ask Patsy to come to my reading room?” Jefferson waved his hand to encompass the room. “What used to be my reading room. Never mind. Ask her to meet me in the salon.”

  “Certainly. When dinner is prepared, mademoiselle, I’ll set a table here for you. In the meantime, I’ll have fresh ice brought out.”

  “I’ll join the mademoiselle for dinner,” Jefferson said, turning toward her. “I believe we discussed this earlier.”

  “We did. And you said the wine du jour was a Goutte d’Or de Meursault.” To Mr. Petit she said, “Mr. Jefferson and I will dine in the dining room.” The studio was too small, too intimate for her to safely share a candlelight dinner with him.

  Mr. Petit left the room, humming a little ditty she’d heard before, but she didn’t know the title or the words. He had been so kind and thoughtful to her from the moment she entered the house, and she wanted to do something special for him before she left. A bonus, maybe.

  “How much longer will you continue to ice your knee?” Jefferson asked.

  “I’m forty-eight hours, plus some, from the original injury and twenty-four, plus some, from the second. I’ll probably continue to ice for another twenty-four hours.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll start stretching without weight-bearing for another twenty-four. If the swelling continues to go down, I’ll try to walk on it and see what happens.”

  He stood, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “I’ll go speak to Patsy now, and I’ll see you at dinner.” He walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  Except for the brief time between the girls leaving the courtyard and Jefferson arriving, she’d had almost no time alone, and she needed a quiet spell to regroup.

  But when she tried to clear her mind, thoughts of Jefferson were always there, keeping her unsettled. She gathered the crutches and hobbled over to the table stacked with supplies. All she wanted was a sheet of paper and pencil. She had a sketch of him in mind.

  “Sophia.”

  Her head shot up to find him standing in the doorway. Her cheeks warmed, as if he could read her mind and knew she’d been thinking of him.

  “I just asked Patsy to attend the theatre tonight, but she and Polly are preparing for their portraits and don’t want to go out.” He walked over to stand directly beside her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body through his clothing and hers, and his scent wafted in the air. It was a pleasing fragrance, like soap and wood and leather and fresh air and flowers. The tip of his chin was within an inch of the crown of her head. “She and Polly said I should take you. You can’t refuse me now.”

  “But I’ll be on crutches.”

  “You can demonstrate them for Lafayette. Since he first saw them in the carriage, he’s been very interested in learning how they work.”

  “He can stop by here, and I’ll give him a demonstration.” Her refusal was only half-hearted at this point. “I don’t have anything to wear except wh
at I have on.”

  “You could wear your Tai Chi pants and you’d still be the most beautiful woman there. Although I don’t recommend you wear them. I’m afraid you’d cause a scandal. But to relieve your mind, Marguerite told me she just purchased a dress that needs only minor alterations to fit you perfectly.”

  Polly skipped into the room. “Mademoiselle. It’s time to dress for the opera.” She placed her hand on Sophia’s back to hurry her along. “Wait until you see what Marguerite and her seamstress are making for you. You’ll look so elegant and fashionable.”

  Jefferson folded his arms, smiling. “You have three hours.”

  As excited as Polly was, Sophia would rather risk another injury than disappoint her. “Would you ask Mr. Petit to send my dinner upstairs? I’ll eat while I get ready.”

  While dining in her bedroom was cringeworthy, and her nonna wouldn’t approve, in this situation it was necessary. She’d take little bites and pretend it was only a snack. Three hours wasn’t enough time to finish the fitting, take a bath, get dressed, have her hair done up in an elaborate whorl, and then sit down to a meal. If she was going to survive the ordeal, she had to eat.

  After three hours of tightening and stitching, several frustrated sighs, a few oohs and ahhs, and one big wow from her, the girls and Marguerite held Sophia’s skirts as she descended the stairs and entered the salon.

  “Stay right here,” Patsy said. “I’m going to get Papa.” She turned to go, but stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “He’s going to be so surprised.”

  Shrouded in the yellow light of the candles and pale moonlight shining in through the salon’s French doors, Sophia waited, a little wobbly, on one foot. She tugged on the sleeves of the chintz robe à l’anglaise, tight from the shoulder to the elbows and ending with flared lace.

  A dainty pair of heels decorated with ribbons fit her feet perfectly, but she could only walk on one. Marguerite had also repaired her wig and adorned it with a few cleverly placed blue irises to complement her eyes’ natural violet hue. For jewelry, she’d debated wearing the brooch, but in the end settled for the gold and platinum necklace with pearls and gemstones and matching earbobs. She pinned the brooch to the inside of her chemise. She didn’t want to wear it, but she didn’t want to leave it behind either.