The Pearl Brooch

by Logan, Katherine Lowry

  “Okay, Mommy. I’ll pray.” He made a steeple with his hands, held them under his chin, closed his eyes. “God, this is Blane Fraser. Please help my brother. And, God, if you have time, will you take care of Mommy, too? Amen.” He opened his eyes and gazed up at her, his shoulders squaring bravely. “When will we know?”

  She couldn’t take her eyes off Lawrence while he was being handled by a doctor. She couldn’t read the name on her white coat, but JL didn’t think she’d met the doctor before. “What, buddy?”

  “When will God answer? Right now, or tonight?”

  “Soon. I hope soon.”

  “I’ll help while I wait on Him.” He pushed her arms away and climbed down. “I’m not scared now, Mommy. Daddy takes care of me when I’m hurt. I’ll take care of you and my brother.”

  As if he’d aged years, he moved to stand next to Anne and watched closely while she pricked Lawrence’s heel with a lancet and squeezed blood into a tube while others checked connections and monitor readings. Blane grimaced, but didn’t move away. Then he clasped his hands behind his back, stood straight in his MacKlenna Corporation khakis and polo shirt, feet set slightly apart, like a soldier standing sentry.

  Kevin leaned over her chair, startling her. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  She shook her head, hoping a quick shake would relieve the sting in her eyeballs, and said in a tight voice, “Another event. He was fine, and then the alarm went off.”

  “What’s Blane doing? Isn’t he in the way?”

  “I guess not,” she said. In profile, Blane’s long, curling lashes, the angle of his cheekbone in the slant of the NICU lighting, were indelibly imprinted in her brain. She wanted her little boy back. But he’d disappeared into the role of protective older brother, just like Austin did after Blane’s birth.

  “Jesus.” Kevin made a move to go to Blane, but JL reached for his hand and squeezed it.

  Blane, standing still in place, turned his head ever so slowly and mouthed. “I got this.”

  JL clutched a crumpled tissue to her chest and watched the faces of Lawrence’s medical team for signs of worry or tension. They were there, but professionally held in check. A queasy feeling stirred the bottom of her belly. Her pulse fell into her fingertips thumping against Kevin’s fingers. He glanced down at her, then knelt and pulled her into his arms.

  “We have to keep praying. We won’t give up,” he whispered.

  When she looked at him, she saw something like fear, or perhaps even desperation, in his eyes. Lawrence let out the sharp cry she’d learned was his “I hurt,” cry, and JL shivered with a deep, convulsive shudder that challenged her faith.

  Blane’s little hand patted her shoulder, and her body slackened under his touch. “Don’t cry, Mommy. God’s taking care of him now.”

  23

  Paris (1789)—Sophia

  The morning after Sophia attended the opera with Jefferson, she awoke, determined to just do it—fallo e basta.

  She had three portraits to paint and multiple sittings for Monsieur David. The fastest she’d ever painted one portrait was seventy-two hours. If she did nothing else for the next eleven days except sleep a few hours each night, she’d still have to break her seventy-two-hour record to paint three portraits. Without student questions, studio walk-ins, finances, marketing, shopping, phone interruptions, and preparing food, it was doable, although it might kill her.

  The schedule meant no socializing or flirting with Jefferson, which had to stop anyway. She enjoyed it too much, and it would only lead to a broken heart—his, hers, or both. In the past few years he’d mourned the death of his wife, two daughters, and a relationship with Maria Cosway. And if Sophia’s memory of the Meacham audiobook was correct, fear that Sally would remain in Paris to live in freedom instead of returning to her enslaved life at Monticello would be another potential loss to grieve.

  Sophia didn’t want to cause him more sorrow nor did she want to be an aphrodisiac for his grief. So she cloistered herself in her studio with paint and brushes, and sent regrets to dozens of invitations to attend salons, including Adrienne de La Fayette’s. She also turned down Jefferson’s private dinner invitations but had joined the family and Mr. Short for meals in the dining room.

  Jefferson often came into the studio at night to talk. Sometimes he had something specific on his mind, and other times he just wanted a companion. On those occasions, she’d set down her brush and share a glass of wine with him.

  Spending time with Patsy and Polly remained an important part of each day. While she worked, she answered their questions, gave advice, and taught Polly how to paint. Being with them was a balancing act. While she didn’t encourage an attachment to her, she couldn’t stop it from happening. Selfish, maybe. But she adored them.

  Their portraits were among her very best work. The girls looked splendid in their chemise gowns of pure white muslin and straw hats. Patsy’s copper ringlets draped her shoulders while Polly’s dark hair was partially tied back in a blue ribbon.

  Neither of them had wanted to smile. So Sophia used Leonardo’s technique for creating Mona Lisa smiles for them, and she absolutely loved the results. When she gazed at their portraits, both girls smiled back mysteriously without actually smiling. And each portrait captured their essence. For Patsy—intelligence and inner calm. And for Polly—strong will and a joyful spirit.

  Jefferson hadn’t seen the girls’ finished portraits. Nor had he seen his own, which wasn’t one of her best. It was the best work she’d ever done. She wasn’t sure he would like it, though, since it was so different from other portraits of him.

  Which was why she considered taking it home with her. It would sell for at least half a million dollars. But this painting would never be sold. Following her death, all her unsold paintings would go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, including the five in her secret collection, although the idea always distressed her. The appraisers and art historians would never be able to explain their existence. But the paintings had to be preserved. Sending them to the Met was the only way to ensure that would happen.

  The historians would never understand her Jefferson portrait either. The paints and support—the canvas, wood, or paper—would date the painting. The realism style and the age would contradict it.

  She looked down at her hand, at the faint glint of the brush held between her fingers. Had she ever felt like this before? That if she didn’t paint, she might dissolve and become like a rain puddle out in the garden…that if she didn’t paint, she might even stop breathing? Yes, she’d felt like this for decades. It was her absolute passion. And always, she looked at the world and the people in it as if preparing to celebrate them on canvas.

  She set aside brush and oval-shaped wooden palette and studied the painting before her. It was everything she wanted it to be—a man full of contradictions, a man she’d come to care for, far more than she ever intended.

  “Sophia.”

  She jerked, embarrassed to be caught so off guard by the man who consumed her thoughts. Swiveling on her high stool, she slowly faced Jefferson and tried to control the rapid thud of her heart.

  The dying sun flooded unchecked through the watery glass of one unopened French door. The perfume of the gardens filled the air. He stood there, leaning against the doorjamb, the ribbons of bright green shrubbery winding in every direction behind him.

  “What are you doing out there?” she asked.

  He levered himself away from the door, and, with his elastic stride, entered the room. “The hallway door was closed. I didn’t want to interrupt.” He paused and glanced around the studio before continuing, “I wouldn’t have said anything, but when you put down your brush, I took a chance, hoping you wouldn’t mind a visitor.”

  She wiped sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “I don’t mind. I could use a break.”

  He strolled over to the two portraits covered with sheets, his hands folded modestly behind his back. “Have you finished Patsy and Polly’s portra
its?”

  “They’re both signed.”

  “Does that mean your signature is the finishing touch?”

  “My John Hancock always appears on the lower right-hand corner.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her, his face shadowed and quizzical. “John Hancock?”

  Oops. Another slap-my-forehead moment.

  She gave him an innocent smile. “I heard after Hancock signed the Declaration of Independence with such a large, flamboyant signature, that his name became a synonym for signing your name. As in, ‘Put your John Hancock here.’”

  He shook his head, as if it would transform her nonsense into something comprehensible. “My name is not John Hancock. Why would I want to sign it as such?”

  “It’s an expression to add color to your language. Like adding a flock of bluebirds to a snowy winter plein air painting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A style of painting outside, where you depict the effects of natural light and atmosphere unlike what you find in the studio.”

  “Who paints like that?”

  No one until mid-nineteenth century Paris.

  “I do, and I’ll show you.”

  “I’ll add that to the list of your expressions, opinions, predictions, and ideas such as assembly line and emergency exits that I keep in my journal.”

  “Sounds like a list of Orsinisms.”

  “What are those?”

  “Never mind. But please, don’t write them down. There’s no reason to keep a list.”

  “I don’t want to forget. Some actually have merit.”

  She skipped her hands down the limp fabric of her linen dress, as if ironing out the wrinkles could iron out her many time-traveling foibles. Her underarms prickled. There was no relief from the heat—inside, outside, or in the depths of his eyes. And no relief from the clock ticking down to her final minutes in Jefferson’s time.

  “Whether they do or not, whatever I’ve said has been for your ears only. Off the record. Not to be printed.” The thought of having so many futuristic references in his journal sent her stomach churning like an out of control merry-go-round. “You can’t write them down.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Because historians will pore over your journals and correspondence, and they won’t understand my comments when they’re taken out of context. Do them all a favor. Erase all mention of me.”

  “No one will be sifting through my writings, and why would I want to erase mention of you?”

  “To quote you, Mr. Jefferson, ‘Why on earth not?’ Don’t you pore over everything written by Locke, Newton, and Bacon?” A gust of guilt, anxiety, and stress blew through her chest in a fury, stealing even the breath she needed to calm herself. The more she talked, the deeper the hole she dug. But she wanted him to understand his place in history and how confused historians would be by her presence.

  “The man who wrote the Declaration of Independence and was ambassador to France will be of great interest to future generations. Scholars will study your work, just as you have studied scholars of the past. My predictions and opinions are irrelevant in the scheme of things.”

  “It’s too late, Sophia,” he said with a touch of his gaze, as if laying his hands on her face. “For the past thirteen days I’ve written down everything you’ve said. From your predictions, to your food and wine pairings, to your views on women, slavery, education, and voting. One day you might be proven right, and those same historians you mentioned will wonder why I was too stubborn to listen to such an enlightened artist.”

  She grinned. “Oh, that’s easy, Mr. Jefferson. Because I’m an enlightened female artist.”

  He smiled. “Clever point, Mademoiselle.”

  “The French have”—or will have— “a wonderful fencing word for making your point. It’s touché.”

  He tried out the word. “Touché.”

  “Anyway, when you reach your twilight years and decide to define and defend your legacy, go back through your journal and delete everything I said.”

  “Unless death sneaks up on me and I have no time to prepare, I’ll reread everything you told me and consider its relevance.”

  “I guess that’s the best I can ask.”

  “You are a unique woman, and I attribute your uniqueness to living on the continent during your impressionable years. I’m not sure how you’ll adjust to America after living abroad.”

  She got down off the high stool in front of his portrait, putting most of her weight on her good leg. “Are you suggesting I stay in Paris?”

  “No,” he said, a deep sigh electrifying his response. “However, you should be aware that opinionated women in America aren’t appreciated as they are here in France.”

  “We’ve had this conversation before. While I’d like to stay in Paris and live in a city that respects me as a woman, artist, and citizen, I don’t want to live through a rebellion. It’s going to be too violent for me to stay here.”

  “This revolt is inspired by the American Revolution. I anticipate a similar result. There’s hope France will become a liberal democracy along the lines of America, and the ideals of the republic will spread throughout the world.”

  Good luck with that.

  She wasn’t ready for him to see the portraits. But the discussion needed a new direction, and painting was usually a safe enough topic. Besides, his curious eyes kept circling the room and hovering around her.

  “Do you want to see the girls’ portraits?”

  “My curiosity has never been so piqued. Neither Patsy nor Polly would tell me a thing about them.”

  “They wanted to keep the paintings a secret so they could surprise you.”

  “I’ll act surprised.”

  Giving him a preview was selfish on her part, but she decided to unveil them for one reason. If he didn’t like the portraits, his disappointment would crush the girls. This way, she could at least try to minimize the damage. Give him time to adjust before he viewed the paintings in his daughters’ presence.

  “In less than two weeks you’ve created three portraits. That’s unheard of.”

  “In two weeks, you wrote the Declaration of Independence. That’s unheard of.”

  “Seventeen days.” His lashes swept guardedly down over his eyes, as if silently re-counting each day, and how long he spent away from his family.

  She left her crutches against the wall, and, hobbling on the ball of her foot, limped over to the paintings. On a scale of one to ten, the pain level was about a four. Her knee was improving, but it would probably take another two to three weeks before she’d be able to walk without favoring the leg.

  He watched her closely. “Why aren’t you using the crutches?”

  “It’s easier to get around in here if I hobble.”

  “But it still pains you?”

  “Not as much, but it’s taking longer to heal than I thought it would.”

  Her fingers curled around the edge of the canvas as she stood beside him, just close enough to feel him without touching him. Then she slowly reached for the top corner of the sheet. “Are you ready?”

  He raised his hands in front of his chest, palms out, and gave her an anxious smile. “Wait. First, tell me. Are you pleased?”

  She pressed a hand to her breasts, as if she could contain her pleased heart, which was thumping louder and faster with excitement. She gazed at him, and with all the sincerity she could muster said, “It’s some of the best work I’ve ever done.”

  He nodded, a signal to let go of the sheet. A quick tug, and it swirled, white and gauzy, shimmering down over the painting, revealing her masterpiece inch by inch until the sheet puddled on the floor beneath the easel. He stood there in stunned silence.

  The ticking mantel clock was the only indication of time passing. She wasn’t sure he was even breathing. There was no eye flicker or facial tick. Nothing. She gulped.

  “Say something. Please.”

  “Your sense of color, perspective, and composition
is extraordinary. Patsy’s fingers appear to move over the keyboard.” He leaned in and sniffed. “I expected to smell the sweetness of the roses arranged in the vase. You can almost feel the velvety petals, the music vibrating through the instrument.”

  “How does the painting make you feel emotionally?” she asked tentatively.

  He cocked his head, as if puzzled by the question. He crossed one arm over his chest and held his elbow in the palm of his hand. His fingers teased the point of his chin. “The roses are such a lovely shade of yellow. Each petal is poised in dewy perfection, and in different stages of blooming, much like Patsy during her years in Paris.”

  He stepped back a few feet, gazed at the canvas, then moved closer again. Sunset was maybe a half hour away, and the daytime radiance was gone. He was viewing the portrait in subdued light, but it didn’t detract from the painting.

  “I’ve heard of a hybrid yellow rose growing in the Afghan Empire, but I’ve never seen one. Have you?”

  She tipped her head toward the painting. “Unlike a horticulturist, I can make roses any color I want. They’re captivating, aren’t they?”

  He pulled out a small notebook and pencil. “It’s the color of lemons, but I’ve heard the yellow rose has an unpleasant odor.”

  “What a shame,” Sophia said. “The color is superb.”

  He pointed with his pencil. “The sheet of music on the fortepiano is the Overture to Mozart’s Don Giovanni.”

  “What do you know of it?” she asked.

  “The piece builds to a long, extended, controlled crescendo, and you listen with expectation.” He paused a moment while he tucked away his notebook and pencil. “As I’ve watched Patsy the past few years, she, too, has been moving, growing in her role. She’ll be ready to marry when she returns to Virginia.”

  Sophia rested her hand on his arm, on the warm cotton of his jacket. “But that’s not how you feel. That’s what you see and experience. What do you feel in your heart, in your soul? What emotions are stirred?”

  He stepped back and she dropped her arm. But he continued staring at the painting. “Loss of her childhood, but a grand hope for her future.”