What a terrifying thought. Sophia’s lineage could be traced back to the old count, but the genealogist would never find a link to her. Fortunately, with all the upheaval in the city, the possibility of being presented at Court was slim to nonexistent. But just to be on the safe side, she added a few weeks to her expected recovery, and instead of two to four, she said, “It’ll take six to twelve weeks before I can walk normally again.”
“So long? Mon Dieu.” The marquise waved her fan dramatically. “Then the genealogist can proceed with verifying your lineage so there’ll be no delay once you’ve recovered.” She patted Sophia’s lap. “And you’re too enchanting to be hobbling into a room. You should be waltzing in on Mr. Jefferson’s arm.” She set her opera glasses on a shelf built into the short wall overlooking the parterre. “I watched you from the moment you entered the theatre. I don’t know any woman who could have pulled off an entrance the way you did. Look at them down there.” She waved her fan, encompassing the crowd below. “They’re all abuzz about you. So tell me everything, before they’ve knitted a tale together that won’t have a nit’s worth of truth to it.”
The marquise was too sweet to lie to, but Sophia had to tell the same story she’d told Jefferson. Short and sweet. “I’m an artist.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been living in Italy.”
“I know that.”
“I’m returning to America.”
“I know that, too. I also know Mr. Jefferson has commissioned portraits of his daughters, and, since you are unable to walk, you’re residing at the Hôtel de Langeac. I also know my husband came to your rescue yesterday.”
“I was so frightened! I thought for sure the carriage was going to roll off the bridge into the Seine. If the general hadn’t arrived when he did, I might be at the bottom of the river right now.”
“How horrid.” The marquise shivered. “The marquis said you were extraordinarily brave. After watching your entrance tonight, I agree. You have charmed the marquis, my dear, as you have me and Ambassador Jefferson.”
Sophia didn’t know how to respond, especially to the part about charming the ambassador. She knew she had piqued his curiosity. But charmed him?
Her eyes met his for a moment, and the room went still and the candles stopped sputtering. She studied his smooth, too-handsome face, searching for a clue to his thoughts, his intentions. She closed her fan and lowered it across her cheek. But when his eyes widened, she panicked.
She glanced at the marquise, whose brow was pinched with worry. Her red lips parted and then squeezed back into a tense line. Sophia whispered, “Did I just say something to Mr. Jefferson with my fan?”
The marquise nodded. “I love you.”
Sophia rolled her eyes and groaned. “How do I say the signal was a mistake? Or I’m sorry?”
The marquise was trying her best to hold in a laugh, but the corners of her eyes creased with amusement. “Draw the closed fan slowly in front of your eyes.”
She did just as the marquise described, only she didn’t dare look at him. The last thing she wanted was to give the impression she had feelings for him. She liked him, enjoyed him, and she’d even had a fantasy or two about him. But love…? Heavens no.
“Mademoiselle Orsini,” the marquise said, “if you don’t gaze into his eyes, it won’t have the proper meaning. It’s all about the eyes, darling.”
Sophia turned toward him and drew the fan in front of her eyes again, but this time she gazed at him. He nodded slightly. She didn’t know what message she was sending or what he was receiving, but she decided to put the fan away before she accidentally propositioned him.
“Did I do it right?”
“Perfectly,” the marquise said. “Of course, he’ll wonder what you’re apologizing for.”
“Good grief.”
The marquise trilled a laugh, up the scale and down. Then, smiling, she picked up the opera glasses and scanned the crowd. Watching her, Sophia had a vision of Jefferson standing on the bow of a sailing ship, telescope in hand, searching the sea…
She shivered, and the image shattered into thousands of pieces.
“When you finish painting the ambassador’s daughters,” the marquise said, “I want to commission you to paint my portrait.” Once again, she set the glasses aside. “I’d like you to stay with us on the Rue de Bourbon if it’s convenient.”
Only once had she accepted a commission from a patron who had never seen her work. A man she met at an art exhibit wanted a small painting of his wife standing on the Ponte Vecchio. He’d been so pleased with the painting that he requested a formal portrait and had even flown Sophia to London to paint it. On top of the commission, he gave her a thank-you gift—a ticket to see Hamilton.
“You haven’t even seen my work. You may decide I don’t have talent.”
“No, I haven’t. But now that I’ve met you, and based on Monsieur David’s observations, I have no doubt you are extraordinarily talented.”
“Your blind faith is astounding.”
The marquise’s dark brown eyes softened. “Isn’t that what faith is? Believing in what we cannot see.”
“Then thank you for your faith in me. I’m leaving Paris in another week or so to sail to America, but if I have time before I leave, I’d love to paint your portrait.”
“Surely not. You can’t even walk. You must wait until Mr. Jefferson leaves Paris and travel with his party. I’ll speak to him about those arrangements.”
“He doesn’t know when he’ll be permitted to leave, and I need to go home.”
Sophia didn’t know much about Lafayette’s wife other than she was a woman of extraordinary courage and was from one of the wealthiest families in France. Arguing with her was pointless. So she changed the subject. “Tell me about your children.”
And so she did…
After an animated conversation about children and other Americans the marquise had entertained in her salon, she ended with a question Sophia couldn’t answer. “How do you intend to paint Mr. Jefferson?” The marquise glanced over her shoulder. “As he is now, engrossed in the business of his country, or with symbols of his accomplishments?”
“An interesting question, indeed. I’d prefer to paint him surrounded by his passions—books, gardens, architecture, art, wine—but we haven’t reached an understanding regarding pose and elements.”
“Are you discussing my portrait?” Jefferson handed glasses of champagne to her and the marquise.
Sophia accepted the champagne flute. “I didn’t know you were paying attention to us.”
“You’ve had the full attention of my left ear, and the general the right.” He pulled up a chair beside her. “The performance is about to start.”
Lafayette sat down on the other side of his wife as the violins began to play.
“What do you know of the performance tonight?” she asked.
“A one-act arlequinade, or romantic farce in verse, entitled Les Deux Billets will be performed first, then the light opera Richard Coeur de Lion.”
Sophia tipped her glass, pinging it against his. “Thank you for insisting I come out with you, although it was very stressful getting here. Hopefully the trip home will be less so.”
“It should be quieter. But if it’s not, we’ll circle around to avoid the mob.”
She held the crystal up to appraise the color. “Clear, bright, pale yellow gold.” She stuck her nose in the glass. “Yellow fruits, apricots, peaches, and dried fruit.” Then she tried a sip. “Crisp. Apple. Dry. The acidity cuts right through to give the wine a great lift of freshness on the finish. I like it.”
“What would you pair it with?”
“This is a balanced, food-friendly champagne.” She sipped again. “I’d pair it with a simple grilled red meat without sauce, or crisp, cooked, and seasoned pan-fried vegetables.” She held it up again. “Is this a Bollinger?”
He shook his head, and when he started to speak, she pressed her fingers against his lips. The pre
vious owner of the Champagne House of Bollinger was Monsieur Dorsay’s small Aÿ-Vineyard. “I’m mistaken. It’s not a Bollinger. It’s Monsieur Dorsay’s Aÿ-Champagne. Right?”
He fixed her with a steely gaze. “How do you know?”
She couldn’t tell him she’d dated a wine broker—a one-trick pony. All he ever talked about was wine, and while she finally tired of him and his cheating, she never tired of wine tastings. “I paint. I listen.”
He hung his arm over the top of her chair, leaning closer. She inhaled deeply, picking up the musky scent of him just as the violins, graceful and elegant as swans on water, began to play. It was a head-spinning combination of delicious champagne, a handsome man, and violins.
She turned her attention to the stage as the violins turned urgent, then slowed to serene again, an astonishing transition as if the swans took flight. She emptied her glass and, without asking, the general refilled it, clinking the bottle against the flute.
“You and the marquise were talking as old friends,” Jefferson said, also accepting a refill from the general.
“Conversations about children are timeless.”
There was something shocking in his expression, in his eyes: an intensity of purpose hard and clean as polished steel. “I didn’t know you had children.”
“No, I’ve never—” She caught herself before saying she’d never been married. “My art has filled my life in place of marriage and children.”
“I haven’t seen an Orsini painting yet, but I find it impossible to imagine art to be more satisfying for a woman than serving her husband and giving him heirs.”
She looked at him over the rim of her glass. Hadn’t he heard anything she’d said about women’s rights? If he’d been listening, he wouldn’t have asked. Instead of repeating herself, she said, “If you must know, my parents didn’t approve of my choice. Instead of marrying someone I didn’t love, I became an artist.”
“Do you regret it?”
“I’ve had a good life, Thomas. But when I see couples who love each other and have shared a lifetime together, I’m jealous. I know you had a good marriage. Usually men who’ve had a happy marriage end sadly want to remarry.”
He sat back in his chair. “I promised Martha on her deathbed that I wouldn’t remarry.”
“I’m sure at the time it was the right thing to say. But you’re a handsome, loving man, and you deserve a partner. You’re in your mid-forties, and could live another forty years. Do you want to spend the rest of your life alone?”
“Do you?”
She smiled. “I’m not in my mid-forties yet.”
Lafayette returned to his chair, and the opera began immediately, as if the performers had been waiting for him to take his seat. At intermission, Jefferson and Lafayette stood to talk with a constant flow of visitors. Sophia watched the people moving in and out of the box, looking for Monsieur David. If he couldn’t come to her, she would go to him.
The marquise patted Sophia’s arm to get her attention. “Look. There’s Monsieur David.”
The artist sidled up to their box, and, while standing on the floor, reached up, clasped the marquise’s hand, and kissed her fingers. He then reached for Sophia’s and kissed hers.
“Madonna, I heard about your accident. How is your knee?”
“Better.”
“I spoke to Monsieur Watin this evening, and he told me everything. I’m jealous he’s spent so much time with you. When will you sit for me? I know you intend to leave Paris soon. Will tomorrow be convenient?”
It would push back her other projects, but she couldn’t say no. “I’m scheduled to start painting Mr. Jefferson’s daughters in the morning. What time and where?”
“The general said carriages won’t be allowed on the streets, and you’re in no position to ride on horseback. I will come to the Hôtel de Langeac midafternoon.” He kissed their hands again, and off he went.
“To meet Monsieur David, Ambassador Jefferson, and General Lafayette in two days is remarkable,” the marquise said.
“And all three have come to my rescue.” Sophia would rather have skipped the trauma, not met any of them, and proceeded with her plan to sit for Vigée Le Brun. She would have returned home with a portrait and no heartbreak. Now all bets were off.
“I didn’t recognize the general tonight without his uniform, but he is just as handsome in his black coat.”
“I’m fortunate that my husband stays fit when so many let themselves go, allowing marital contentment to expand them like big, round balloons. Even if Mr. Jefferson were married, I don’t believe it would be the case with him. I heard he’s a firm believer in physical exercise and walks four miles a day.”
“It ensures bodily health and mental health, as well,” Jefferson said.
“Oh, was your left ear listening again?” Sophia teased.
The orchestra began to warm up, and Jefferson returned to his chair. “You’ve had my full attention all evening.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “I doubt that, but if I’ve had your left ear, that’s sufficient.” She fiddled with the gold and platinum necklace dangling at her décolletage.
“And why is that?”
“Because it’s closest to your heart.” Her fluttering fingers drew his eyes to her cleavage. She withdrew her hand immediately, and it joined the other, gripping her glass.
“Is it?” he asked, his gaze lifting. “I thought it was centered in your chest.”
“It tilts left.” Her face heated, and her blood rose under the sizzle of his attention. She raised her glass to her lips for a sip that turned into a gulp. “You missed Monsieur David, but you can see him tomorrow afternoon when he comes to the Hôtel de Langeac.”
“I saw him during the intermission and asked him to stop by the box since you couldn’t go to him. I look forward to welcoming him to the Hôtel de Langeac. But if you’re going to sit for him, you’ll have to postpone your departure. You’ve committed to painting Patsy, Polly, and the marquise—”
“And you,” she said softly.
“If you sit for him, you won’t have time to finish those paintings.”
“It’ll require several long days, but I believe I can manage.”
Jefferson turned toward her, lounging on one hip, and hung his arm on the back of her chair. “I’ve consulted both Nathaniel Cutting, an American living in Le Havre, and Mr. Trumbull in London, to search for passage to America. The accommodations I’ve requested allow room for an additional passenger.”
While considering a response, she slowly turned the stem of the crystal goblet. If she said yes, he would include her in his plans. If she said no, he would continue to pressure her. “You’re going to Monticello. I’m going to New York City.”
He was sitting in shadow, making it hard to see his full expression. “When we arrive in Norfolk, I’ll hire a carriage to carry us to Richmond. We’ll spend a few days at Mallory Plantation while I meet with legislators. Then we’ll continue on to Monticello.”
Mallory Plantation? It had to be the same estate owned by New York Times best-selling author Jack Mallory. She’d seen online pictures of his wedding, which was held in an expansive yard near a three-hundred-fifty-year-old willow oak on the banks of the James River. At the time she’d thought what a fabulous portrait it would have made, and even considered soliciting a commission.
Instead she listened to Mallory’s audiobooks. The action and drama in his Civil War story pulled her to the edge of her seat and wouldn’t let go, as his characters raced through Richmond the night it burned. His follow-up book about finding the Confederate gold was equally mesmerizing. The intensity of his vivid writing had her believing she was in the story, feeling the heat from the burning buildings. Now she wondered if he’d been there—on the streets of Richmond, at Ford’s Theatre, and later in the cave where the treasure was found. Was Jack Mallory a time-traveler? She knew three other brooches existed. Someone had them. Why not him?
She tucked thoughts of Mallory i
nto her mental file cabinet and considered Thomas’s proposal, which was completely out of the question.
“I can’t tour Virginia. I have to go to New York,” she said.
“The first of the year, I’ll take you there and stay to see you settled.” His voice was the same—formal, yet soft and easy at the same time, rumbling naturally from his throat. She adored his voice, and she couldn’t deny that listening to him, debating with him, even drinking wine together, made her dizzy with the newness of infatuation.
The actors appeared, and Sophia turned her attention to the action onstage, which saved her from giving him an answer or pondering the possibility of other travelers. She tried to concentrate but failed miserably, because different scenarios played and replayed in her mind. Could she stay longer? Could she travel to America with him?
No. Even if the brooch allowed it, what was the point? This wasn’t her time or place. Like it or not, that’s the way it was.
22
Richmond, VA—JL
JL spoke softly to Lawrence. “I’m going to hold your hand, sweetheart.”
Most of the touching her preemie received was from the medical team, who pricked his foot, fed him, or adjusted his tubes, always tugging and pulling, stressing his tiny body. So for now, she and Kevin only held his hand or let him grasp their finger. JL’s arms twitched with her desperation to hold her baby, but he was still too small, his skin too sensitive.
Lawrence had been through so much in the past four days. What would today bring? His lung event set him back, but since then he was doing well and had gained several grams.
JL had adapted to the cords, attachments, and quiet beeps, and was learning more about him every hour…the way he moved or cried out in his preemie whimper. Whenever an alarm sounded, her heart rate shot up like a puck in a game of strike-the-bell.
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