The Pearl Brooch

by Logan, Katherine Lowry

  “You can take the crutches, Marguerite,” Polly said. “The mademoiselle can brace her hand on my shoulder for balance. Papa should see her without those ugly sticks.” Her eyes sparkled as she bounced from foot to foot. “I can’t wait to see his face.”

  Neither could Sophia. “Please stand still,” she said. “I’m already a little shaky.”

  Mr. Petit came to the salon, holding his hands together at his chest. “Vous êtes belle.”

  She winked at him, and his smile curled up the corners of his mouth.

  A minute later Jefferson entered the salon, his voice lifting into laughter, and then he stopped and stared at her hungrily. A little tic jumped at the side of his mouth. This might be a good time to feign an illness or faint theatrically and return to her room.

  “You look…extraordinary.”

  So did he, handsomely dressed in a rich blue coat, lavishly embroidered silk waistcoat, and a crimped, double-pleated jabot. His black breeches stopped at the knee above white stockings, his black-heeled shoes were polished to a shine, and a square silver buckle gleamed in the candlelight. Thankfully, his hair was unpowdered, with his queue neatly tied with a ribbon.

  “She’s pretty, Papa, isn’t she?” Patsy’s voice was rich, her eyes sparkling.

  Something vulnerable appeared in his expression, and time stopped for a moment, for just a heartbeat, and Sophia waited breathlessly for his answer.

  “Of course she is,” Polly said. “And we helped her dress. I wish I could draw so I would have a picture of the way she looks tonight.”

  A smile teased his eyes, which had widened into moons, as if he’d found something so marvelous he couldn’t believe his good fortune. “An act of superb achievement.” He cast his gaze about. “Where are your crutches, mademoiselle?”

  Marguerite stepped out of the shadows. “Here they are, sir.”

  He took a single step in Sophia’s direction, and his energy swept over her, prickling her skin, unnerving her for a moment.

  “Your gown is the color of the red wine in a glass of Clos de Vougeot.”

  His voice was as stirring as the way his eyes grazed the neckline of her décolleté gown. The intimate touch of his eyes made every muscle tighten in breathless anticipation of losing herself in his labyrinthine character on a rose-scented summer evening in Paris.

  21

  Paris (1789)—Sophia

  The Theatre de Monsieur was located in the Salle des Tuileries in the north wing of the Tuileries Palace. Even at this late hour, the night was thick with the effigy-carrying mob chanting “Vive le tiers état.” She flinched at every intersection, half believing the mob would storm the street and attack their carriage with picks and axes.

  Why did she agree to come out into this madness? She hated being afraid, but the events of the past two days had terrorized her, and venturing out again, even with Jefferson at her side, had her biting back the bitter tang of fear.

  “You’re safe with me, Sophia,” he said.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to. Even when you’re drawing you can argue with me. I’ve brought up several topics since we departed the Hôtel de Langeac, but you haven’t engaged with me about women or liberty. I can only surmise you’re afraid of the crowds. But you don’t have to be. I won’t let harm come to you.”

  “You can’t control that mob.” She closed her eyes, which made it worse because she heard the screams and chants more clearly.

  He tucked her arm around his, squeezing her hand. “Before you arrived in Paris, I monitored a street battle between the mob and the cavalry at the Place de Louis XV, and the cavalry was forced to quit the field to avoid being massacred. The people saw the withdrawal as a signal for universal insurrection. Now they’re roaming all night through parts of the city without any attainable objective. We are in the midst of tumult and violence, but we are not in danger.”

  “Two days ago, that mob tried to kill me. No one is safe in Paris. Without full use of my leg, I’m defenseless. After tonight, I’m not leaving the Hôtel de Langeac again until it’s time to leave France.”

  “Sophia, you are safe with me.”

  His confidence didn’t ease her shaking. She pressed her hand to her chest, as if that could somehow absorb her stress—poof, presto!—and evaporate through the skin of her palm. She was not safe with him on any number of levels—especially when his eyes bored into her, or his warm hand brushed against hers, as it was doing now.

  The coachman pulled to the end of a line of carriages discharging passengers near the marquee. Patrons crowded the sidewalk to enter the theatre for a night of entertainment while less fortunate men and women roamed the streets demanding food and liberty. Sophia’s heart ached for the powerless and disenfranchised, which only added to the anxiety running rampant up and down her spine. She reclaimed her arm.

  As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop, a soldier hustled to the door, opened it, and lowered the step. “Good evening, Mr. Jefferson, Mademoiselle Orsini. General Lafayette has charged us with seeing you safely to the general’s box.”

  “Has he arrived?” Sophia asked.

  “Yes, mademoiselle.”

  “How do you intend to manage this?” Jefferson climbed down, then turned back to her, extending his hand.

  The man pointed to another soldier, who was standing next to an upholstered chair. “We intend to carry her, sir.”

  Jefferson’s face pinched in concern.

  Sophia quickly considered the chair, the two strapping soldiers, and the lively crowd. “Instead of using the chair, I’ll use the crutches, but I’d like you two,” she pointed at the soldiers, “to walk in front of us and clear a path. But don’t push people aside. Just ask politely if they’ll make room for the lady.”

  “Mademoiselle, are you sure? There are many steps to climb, and the floor of the theatre is already crowded.”

  “At least this crowd won’t be angry. I can manage.” Turning to Jefferson she went for levity, hoping to lighten her own mood. “You know, don’t you, that as soon as people see me using these crutches, there’ll be a demand for them. You’ll need an assembly line to handle all the orders, and you’ll make a fortune.”

  “What’s an assembly line?”

  He never let anything he didn’t understand slip by without asking for an explanation. On previous trips, men had given her puzzled looks when they didn’t understand her, and rarely, if ever, pursued an explanation. But not Jefferson. His quest for knowledge was endless, demanding, and at times annoying.

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “Allow me to carry you up the steps, mademoiselle,” the soldier said.

  It would at least keep her dress from picking up the yucky stuff in the street. “You have to promise not to drop me.”

  “You have no need to worry. I often carry my elderly mother, and I’ve never dropped her.”

  “Okay, let’s go.” With Jefferson standing nearby, arms outstretched, she stepped out on her good leg and eased into the soldier’s arms. She held her breath as the soldier carried her up the steps and gently set her down.

  Jefferson handed over the crutches. “When you’re ready…”

  She settled them under her arms, relieved she’d made it this far. Marguerite had reinforced the seams around the shoulders, the sleeves, and the sides of the dress, so if the soldiers kept the path clear and she didn’t have to hurry, she might last the night without any ripped seams.

  “Let’s go. But if I wobble, please hold on to me.” General Lafayette was in the house. With two of her rescuers at hand, surely she could handle the crowd. When the doors opened, her anxiety dipped but didn’t fade completely. Ballet dancers floated around the stage while a heavily-wigged male singer was being lowered on a cloud. The scenery was—compared to twenty-first century theatre—on the level of an elementary school set design.

  The horseshoe-shaped theatre had four grand tier private boxes immediately above the parterre, with four
more on the second level. The entire interior was decorated in red—walls, velvet curtains, and flocked wallpaper. If not for the crutches, she would have blended in with the décor and never been noticed by anyone.

  A time traveler should be invisible—her rules—leaving behind only fading footsteps, but the thump, thump, swing, swing of the crutches and the swish of her silk gown turned her into a spectacle as she crutched across the parterre. Out of curiosity, the crowd parted for her, as if she were following Moses through the Red Sea.

  Women whispered behind open fans, and men cocked their heads in amusement. None of these people had ever seen a person walk—head high, weight fully on the handgrips—with the aid of two crutches, and she was determined to make her three-point gait as graceful as possible.

  Jefferson, with his height, fair skin, and red hair, was recognized immediately with waves and nods. He might not have attained the nearly universal love and affection Benjamin Franklin enjoyed during his eight years as ambassador, but he managed to be an effective and competent representative of America, and he was well respected.

  The orchestra was positioned in a semicircle in front of the stage. Each musician had a burning candle on their music stand, and several large crystal chandeliers with dozens of candles lit the center of the theatre. Sconces mounted on the walls and candelabra inside the boxes provided additional lighting.

  With all the burning candles, the wooden structure could quickly go up in flames, trapping everyone inside. The thought of a fire immediately reminded her of the Bastille. She stopped and stared at Jefferson.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I just need a minute to locate the exits. Do you know where they are?”

  “There may be one in the back, but the front entrance is the only one I’m aware of. Do you want to leave?”

  “No. I mean…I don’t know. But what if there’s a fire?” A lump of dread pinched her throat. Why weren’t these people worried? Didn’t they know how easy it would be to die in a stampede? “All these people couldn’t possibly get out through one exit.” She shot a hard look to the right, to the left. “Why aren’t there emergency exits?”

  His nose wrinkled. “Emergency exits?”

  This would never do. She couldn’t stay here.

  “Sophia, there’s no need to worry. Lafayette wouldn’t bring his best champagne if there was a possibility the theatre could go up in flames.”

  If Jefferson thought that would make her smile…he was right. She didn’t disappoint, nor did she stop worrying. “Are you sure?”

  “About the champagne?”

  She managed to laugh. “Right. The champagne.” She continued, swinging along behind the soldiers.

  “His wine cellar is remarkable.” Jefferson pointed ahead. “There he is now, leaning over the edge of the box. Do you see him?”

  She looked in the direction he was pointing. “No, I don’t. Is he wearing a uniform?”

  “Not tonight. He has on a black coat. His box is the one closest to the stage.”

  “Oh, I see him now. Who’s the woman?”

  “The marquise,” Jefferson said. “I thought Lafayette’s aunt, Madame de Tessé, might be here as well. She’s delightful, infinitely witty, and has been incredibly kind to Patsy.”

  “Lafayette has been a good friend to you.”

  “And to America. I was disoriented when I arrived here, but the disorientation produced clarity about myself and my native Virginia. I was constantly comparing the two—Europe and America. It was sometimes flattering, sometimes not. Europe might dazzle the traveler with its superior art, music, and architecture, but Americans are closer to nature, and thus to God.”

  She wasn’t about to touch that pronouncement, even with the proverbial ten-foot pole. Jefferson was a deist who believed in one God, the creator, but he denied the occurrence of biblical miracles, the Virgin birth, and he’d literally cut the resurrection out of his supernatural-sanitized Bible.

  She’d argue with him about the importance of rights for women and the enslaved from dawn to dusk, but never religion.

  Sophia kept up her three-gait crutch, smiling her best Mona Lisa at the gawkers who cleared a wide path for her. Their expressions of curiosity and awe were both amusing and paintworthy.

  “Mademoiselle Orsini,” a man yelled.

  She turned in the direction of the voice. Other than the Jefferson household, Lafayette, Watin, and David, she didn’t know anyone else in Paris. Orsini was not an uncommon name in the eighteenth century. The man must be calling out to someone else. If she met another Orsini, what would she say?

  “Mademoiselle Orsini,” he yelled again.

  Jefferson cast a glance around the theatre. “It’s Monsieur David. He’s up above. Do you see him?”

  She looked toward the upper level of boxes and couldn’t help grinning at the sight of his familiar face. All three of her rescuers were present, which somehow removed the heavy weight of worry from her mind.

  “I could try to get up there. He’s the most important painter in Paris. I should go to him,” she said.

  “The monsieur will find you during intermission. You’ll be in the general’s box, which always attracts a constant stream of visitors, Monsieur David among them.”

  “If you’re rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, you’ll miss most of the opera. I’ll tell you all about it on the way back to the Hôtel de Langeac.” The melodrama in her tone was unbecoming, and she immediately regretted it.

  “I won’t abandon you, if that’s what you meant to imply.”

  She relaxed her face and lightened her tone. “I know you won’t.”

  He and Lafayette could flirt with every woman in the theatre, but from her study of the Founding Fathers, she’d learned the open display of French licentiousness appalled Jefferson. But even though French mores appalled him, the culture allowed him the freedom to pursue married women.

  They arrived at the stairs leading to the rear of the private box. She assured the soldiers she could climb up unassisted, mainly because she didn’t want to land on Lafayette’s doorstep in a predicament similar to the one he found her in the day before. A girl had her pride.

  The three stairs were narrow, with a short railing. She gave one crutch to Jefferson, who hovered again with arms outstretched, but she made it to the top without tumbling over. He reached in front of her and knocked on the door.

  Lafayette opened it, making a sweeping bow. “Mademoiselle Orsini, welcome.” He kissed her cheeks, shook hands with Jefferson. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Marie Adrienne Françoise de Noailles, Marquise de La Fayette.”

  Sophia didn’t know whether to curtsy, shake the woman’s hand, or just nod and smile. She went for a less than graceful curtsy-shake-nod-smile combination.

  “I watched your progress through the parterre. Even with crutches, you move with grace and beauty,” Lafayette said.

  The heat in his stare was enough to bring a hot flush to her cheeks. The general was openly flirting with her. “Thank you, General,” she managed to say.

  “I must have a set.”

  “Of my grace and beauty?” she asked.

  Lafayette looked puzzled, then he laughed. “Yes, by all means, mademoiselle.”

  She balanced on one foot, stacked the handles together, and gave them to him. “As soon as Mr. Jefferson applies for a patent, I’m sure he’ll make a pair for you. But you can examine these.”

  “I only made a small adjustment to your design,” Jefferson said.

  “But your small adjustment makes them easier to mass market, and I’m not sure a woman can apply for a patent in France or America.”

  “Come. Sit down, mademoiselle,” the marquise said.

  Clutching Jefferson’s hand, she hopped the short distance to a chair next to the marquise, the strength in his muscled arm steadying her. As his thumb slipped over her knuckle, she blinked up at him, unsure of what the half smile on his chiseled face meant. He whispered, “When we can spea
k privately, I’ll ask you to explain ‘mass market’ and ‘assembly line.’”

  “The concepts are related,” she murmured.

  Jefferson held her as she lowered to the seat.

  “Ambassador,” Lafayette said, “I don’t know if you’ve met the comte de Mirabeau.”

  “Excuse me.” Jefferson left her with the marquise and went to meet the newcomer.

  The marquise waved her fan, and the candles in the candelabra behind her sputtered. Sophia kept an eye on the erratic flames. “You have obviously met with misfortune. What happened?” she asked. “My husband said you were in an accident but didn’t elaborate.”

  Sophia opened the fan attached to her wrist by a ribbon, checked to make sure there wasn’t an open flame behind her, and fanned herself vigorously. Navigating the parterre and climbing the stairs, all the while carrying an extra twenty pounds in clothes, had been an exhausting workout.

  “I was so excited to meet the ambassador that I didn’t watch where I was going and stepped into a hole. I went forward, but my knee went left, and I landed on Mr. Jefferson’s chest and fell backwards. Only his quick reflexes kept me from landing in the dirt.”

  The marquise’s eyes brightened. She tilted back her head, exposing the pale column of her neck to the candlelight, and laughed throatily, accelerating the speed of her fan. “The ambassador is so gallant. I feel confident that he swept you into his arms and carried you into the Hôtel de Langeac, where he is keeping you all to himself, depriving the rest of Paris of your beauty and charm.” She paused and fanned herself while appraising Sophia with a speculative look. “I asked the marquis to demand your presence tonight so I could see you for myself.”

  “I wondered why Mr. Jefferson insisted I attend the opera tonight.”

  “The marquis can be very persistent,” the marquise said, her eyes twinkling. “As can I. Now tell me, when will you be able to walk? I want to introduce you at Court so you will be admitted everywhere in Versailles. The Court genealogist will research your lineage to verify your nobility, but Monsieur David has already informed me that you are of the Gravina line of Orsinis. Since their line dates back to the son of Count Carlo of Bracciano in the mid-fourteen-hundreds, you will be admitted, and I will serve as your presenting lady for that very occasion.”