He smiled at Sophia, and she warmed all the way through to her toes.
“Her face beams with intelligence and sensibilities. You can see it in her eyes. She’s an animated storyteller, agreeable, and cordial, and beloved by everyone she meets.”
Sophia tilted her head and looked up at him. Curls around her temples had slipped from her kerchief, and he pushed away those wisps of sweaty hair. Then he nudged her chin up with his thumb, and her lips parted with a sharp intake of breath. He lowered his head and kissed her right in the middle of her waiting mouth. He tasted like honeyed tea, the same heated honey purling through her veins. Warm ripples of surprise thinned the air in her lungs. When he pulled back slightly, his eyes lingered on her mouth a moment before he kissed her again.
The kisses happened so quickly, she thought her imagination had taken over. She took in the vulnerability in his eyes, the fear in his face, and all she wanted to do was hold him, reassure him—but she couldn’t.
“We should”—she pointed over her shoulder in the direction of the painting—“get back to the um…painting.”
“I didn’t plan to do that.”
“If you hadn’t kissed me, I might have kissed you.”
“That would have surprised me.”
“Don’t you think a woman who believes she should have the right to vote would also believe she could kiss a man too stubborn to kiss her?”
His smile carved a dimple into one cheek, and then he laughed, a full and unexpected sound. “How could I not?”
“Well, then, I’m glad that’s settled,” she said, smiling. “Let’s finish with Patsy’s painting, and then I’ll show you Polly’s.”
He was standing right there, right there close beside her, softly breathing down the bridge of her nose with his ruddy lips, staring down to the marrow of her bones. After a moment he looked away, and then down at her again, quite calm and under control now, while she remained motionless, her thoughts rambling and intertwining like a vine, while the light glowed against his skin, casting him as a bronze god.
She murmured, blinked, and somehow unwound the spell. Because she had to. “Would you like to know about the sheet music? Why we decided to use Mozart?”
He pulled a gold watch key from a vest pocket and fiddled with the stem. Polly had told Sophia her papa carried a watch key with a braid of his late wife’s hair. Was he reminding himself of his promise to his wife? Did he have a tinge of guilt about the kiss? Sophia let it slide for now and turned her attention back to Patsy’s painting.
“Patsy selected the sheet music after I explained my vision for the portrait. Since Mozart wrote the piece in Prague while you were traveling around Europe, I thought it would be a nice reminder of your time here.”
He plucked at his lips, thinking. “Patsy’s smile is so mysterious. I wonder what’s on her mind?” He glanced away, then turned back, as if to reassure himself the smile was still there. “When I turn away, her smile lingers in my mind. She’s unforgettable.” He glanced over to the other painting covered by a sheet. “If Patsy’s painting is an example of your talent, you should be showing your paintings in the Salon.”
“If I was staying in Paris, I would try to do that.”
“I’d like to see Polly’s.”
Sophia removed the sheet, and the fluttering linen fell to the floor. Momentarily speechless, he braced his hands on the windowsill behind him and leaned against them. “Strong-willed, joyful nymph, dipping her toes in the lily pond.” He smiled. “I feel both the coolness from the tips of the trees that line the edges of the portrait, as well as the heat of the sunlight touching her cheek. You can trace the bird-like bones of her shoulder blades through the linen of her dress. So fragile, yet her strong will comes through in her eyes.”
“The fragility of her birdlike bones is in juxtaposition to her toes tickling the frogs in the lily pond,” Sophia said. “Polly and I wandered around the garden and talked about my vision. She decided on the lily pond. I suggested dipping her toes in the water. She loved the idea.”
Jefferson pushed off from the window and paced, going only about two or three paces in one direction, then reversed himself, all the while keeping his gaze on the portrait. “Her eyes watch me, no matter where I go in the room, as if by magic. If I stand in front of the painting, she’s staring at me. If I move from side to side, the stare still seems direct.”
“It’s because she’s painted gazing directly at the painter. It’s sometimes called the Mona Lisa effect.”
“That’s da Vinci’s masterpiece. It’s hanging at the Palace of Versailles. When did you see it? You’ve refused to be presented at Court.”
“I saw a copy in Madrid.” And please don’t ask me about traveling to Spain.
“Madrid? Did da Vinci paint the copy?”
“It’s believed that it was painted by one of his assistants at the same time he painted the original.”
She turned to hobble back to the easel holding his portrait, but he stopped her. His thumb slid over the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, stopping at her mouth. It seemed as if time had stopped for a moment, for just a heartbeat or longer. And then he kissed her again. This was no slow, gentle kiss. Their mouths opened immediately, and she gripped the back of his neck, pulling them together. A low moan like a growl rose from her throat as she pressed her body against his, luxuriating in the anticipation of what could come next.
But reality hit, and she slowly pulled away. “If you keep this up, you’ll never see your painting.”
“I can wait,” he said.
She hobbled away, out of his reach. “Stay right there. I want you to see it from a distance.” She grabbed the edges of the easel and slowly tugged it around. “Close your eyes. I’ll tell you when to open them.” She glanced back over her shoulder to be sure his eyes were closed. “Don’t peek.” The easel slid easily over the hardwood floor. “Okay. Open your eyes.”
He did. And his eyes flashed, and he dropped onto the edge of the sofa. She’d had similar reactions from clients, but there was something in Jefferson’s face she’d never seen before. She couldn’t describe it or ascribe emotion to it.
“I wouldn’t have approved this painting if you’d described it to me,” he said.
A flash of defensive pride started to grow, but she stomped on it. “I painted the paradox that is Thomas Jefferson.”
“You captured a moment, cut it out, and glued it there.”
“I wanted to do realistic portraits, but to achieve that, I had to suspend the bounds of today’s strictures of realism. Portraiture is a vanity business. The girls didn’t want to be painted in casual poses, but I wanted to create paintings that would capture realism in the eighteenth century as well as the twenty-first century.”
“Why?” he asked.
He casually crossed his leg at the knee, drawing her eyes to the muscle of his calf flexed in stark relief beneath its white silk stocking.
“Patsy and Polly are your surviving daughters,” she said. “You are one of America’s Founding Fathers. What you’ve done for America already, and what you’ll continue to do over the course of your lifetime, will be remembered long after your daughters and their descendants pass away. When people in the future view this portrait, I want them to have a sense of the man I’ve come to know.” She rubbed her finger along her bottom lip, reminding herself that the man she’d come to know was also the man she just kissed.
A knock on the door swiftly pulled her from thoughts of Thomas. It wasn’t Patsy or Polly’s low-level tap near the center of the wood. It was Mr. Petit’s rap near the upper third of the door.
“Come in, Mr. Petit,” she said.
He pushed the door open and entered the room. “The Marquis de Lafayette has arrived, sir.”
How come I’m not surprised he knew Thomas was here with me?
“Thank you, Mr. Petit. Is he alone?” Thomas asked.
“Yes, sir. He said the others will arrive shortly.”
“Ask him
to come in here.” Thomas turned back to his portrait.
A few moments later the Marquis entered the room smoothly. “So this is the atelier du célèbre artiste Sophia Orsini. On my last several visits to the Hôtel de Langeac, I’ve found the door mysteriously closed.”
He accepted her hand, bowed slightly over it, and kissed her knuckles. When he released it, she glanced at the paint splatters, embarrassed that she’d been kissed by the charismatic Marquis de Lafayette with paint on her hand. It was almost as bad as being upside down in a carriage and not recognizing him.
“The marquise and I had hoped to entertain you, but alas, you have been cloistered here with the ambassador, and have deprived the rest of Paris of your beauty and talent.”
Jefferson extended his arm toward his painting. “Lafayette, tell me what you think of this portrait.”
He joined Jefferson in front of the easel and reached out to touch it. “This is incroyable. You’re sitting inside this painting. I’ve seen you at your desk dozens of times, always exactly like this, lounging on one hip, fingering your watch key, pen in the other hand. A stack of books nearby. But instead of being in your cabinet, you’re surrounded by your vineyards. There is a timeless quality about this portrait.”
He paced back and forth in front of the easel. “We love portraits because they’re human and emotional. They tell us about life rather than intellectual abstractions. Ambassador, this brilliant portrait is not art for art’s sake. It’s art for life’s sake.” Lafayette smiled at Sophia. “Please, accept my commission for a portrait of the marquise and myself.”
“If I have time, I would love to paint both of you. Having a commission from General Lafayette would guarantee my future.”
Mr. Petit returned to the door. “Your guests have arrived. They’re in the salon.”
Thomas collected her crutches. “Join us for dinner.”
“Thank you, but I need to work. Your painting isn’t finished, and I can’t quit for the day until it’s signed. I’d like to start painting the three of you, and”—she held out her hands—“I’m covered with paint.”
To Lafayette, Thomas said, “I’d like to speak privately with Mademoiselle Orsini. I’ll join you in a moment.”
Lafayette lifted Sophia’s hand to his lips again. “Your beauty will be a welcome addition at the table. The ambassador values your judgment. Your insights are perceptive, and your predictions would be illuminating.”
“You have misunderstood the ambassador, sir. My opinions are not highly valued. They contradict many of his beliefs, especially concerning the role of women and voting rights.”
“I do not have a habit of misunderstanding.” Lafayette drew up into a tight soldier’s stance. “You, mademoiselle, have misunderstood the ambassador. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go meet our guests. I’ll tell them to expect an enchanting, intelligent woman with unusual insight.”
Jefferson nodded to Lafayette as he left the room, then moved to stand before the fireplace, one arm slung on the mantel, his expression rather mysterious. “If I’ve given you the impression that I don’t value your opinions, it’s the wrong one. I might not agree with you, but I respect your right to have them.”
She returned to her stool and picked up a clean brush, something familiar to do with her hands, something easy, normal, and automatic, something to shake out the tingling in her fingers. “I’ve made comments to you that I never should have mentioned. I can’t risk saying something that upsets one of those men. If they leave here angry, they’ll talk to others about what happened here.”
Thomas’s brow creased, his large eyes narrowed into almond shapes with the corners tilting upward just a fraction—a look she’d sketched the night before.
“Lafayette assured me this meeting and the issues discussed would remain confidential.”
“If word gets back to the king that you were involved, he would feel betrayed and it could damage the relationship between France and America.”
“This meeting is too important, Sophia. I have to attend, and Lafayette has requested your attendance as well.”
Oh, God. What was she getting into? She drew a massive breath into her lungs, knowing she couldn’t refuse the invitation, nor could she advise them without hinting at the escalation of the violence to come. “Why’d you mention me to the general? I could have stayed here, worked, and talked to you afterwards.”
“Because your insight would benefit Lafayette.”
“I’m not dressed to attend dinner.”
He cradled her face, and before she could react to this unexpected caress, before she could even bring her own hands up to him, he slipped the kerchief off her head and anchored his fingers in her hair. “It doesn’t matter what you wear. The eye is drawn to you because of your intelligence and grace.” He held her and pressed her against his chest. Then he kissed her, less gently than before, cupping the curve of her skull with his hand. “And your occasional stubbornness.”
She backed away from him, from another imminent kiss, from the willing energy of his arms. This was her last night here, but she had to step aside. She switched tracks and let her brain turn to the one thing that would ground her—painting him, capturing his chiseled-jaw profile, the intensity of his eyes, the ruddiness of his complexion on canvas. Those details were preserved in the exact form, like candy in a glass jar. But the man, the gentleness of his hands, the softness of his kisses, would live only in her head and in her heart.
Only a few more hours, and this will all be a memory.
His brow wrinkled. “Have I overstepped, Sophia? I don’t want to take advantage, but you are on my mind constantly.”
“No, you haven’t, but you have a houseful of guests. Can we continue this conversation later?” Later? When midnight arrived, the brooch would heat up and it would be time to go. She couldn’t leave him without an explanation. He could handle the truth more easily than he could handle a simple disappearance.
“Yes, until later this evening.” He drew her arm into his elbow.
She leaned on him. “I need to wash my hands and gather paper and chalk. I’ll want to sketch the men at the table.”
Minutes later, armed with the tools of her trade, she was escorted by Thomas into the dining room, and into history. She mentally wrote a rap song about the dinner meeting based on information from the audiobooks.
A group of Frenchmen / Looking for a solution / Discussed the revolution / And Thomas guided them / Toward a solution / For transforming a nation / From despotism to a…well…republic.
“Thank you for joining us,” he whispered, absently rubbing the corner of his mouth with his thumb, drawing attention to the last place her lips had touched.
“You’re welcome, but I don’t suppose you’d consider serving wine with dinner.”
“No, my dear. The meal will end in the American fashion, with wine served on a bare table.”
Her pulse was off and running again, with each beat plucking a staccato rhythm against her skin. There was a good chance he might not thank her later.
A group of Frenchmen / Looking for a solution / Might not appreciate / A woman’s interference.
24
Paris (1789)—Sophia
Eight men swiveled in unison when Thomas escorted Sophia into the dining room, a room already thick with tension. All but Lafayette, who was in uniform, were wearing lace cuffs, knee breeches, frockcoats, and big wigs—the flamboyant Macaroni style of dress. Their clothes reminded her of walking onto the set of Hamilton following the show, and a line of lyrics popped into her mind:
He knows nothing of loyalty / Smells like new money, dresses like fake royalty.
Dressing like fake royalty was preferable to dressing like a starving artist. How did she let herself get talked into this? With paint stains on her dress, and oh, my God… She caught her reflection in the mirror.
Too late now. So let’s get this party over with quickly.
She would socialize, eat, and before the gathering got
down to business in the American fashion, she would excuse herself. There was a painting to finish, and the clock was ticking toward the Cinderella hour—midnight. The brooch was in her pocket, and soon it would turn up the heat.
Leaving Thomas would be harder than it had been when she left sweet, talented Leonardo.
But leaving Pete had been a hundred times harder. Oh, Pete. The man was never far from her thoughts. Maybe this time, this year, when she returned home, she’d look him up. Even if he was happily married with a slew of kids, it was time to know for sure, and permanently let him go.
Thomas stood over her protectively while Lafayette introduced her to Pierre Samuel du Pont de Nemours; Antoine-Pierre-Joseph-Marie Barnave; Alexandre-Théodore-Victor, comte de Lameth; Henri François Lucretius d’Armand de Forest, Marquis de Blacons; Jean Joseph Mounier; Marie-Charles-César de Faÿ, comte de la Tour-Maubourg; and Pierre Nicolas d’Agoult.
They all kissed her hand and smiled flirtatiously.
“Excuse my appearance,” she said, smoothing down the front of her dress. “I’ve been in my studio since early this morning. When the general extended an invitation to join you for dinner, I had only a moment to wash off the paint.”
Monsieur du Pont clasped her hand again. “Even with paint, you would be the most extraordinary woman at my salon. I hope you’ll accept an invitation to dine at your convenience.”
“I’d be delighted. Thank you.” She’d heard the monsieur’s name mentioned in some context recently and wondered if he was the du Pont who emigrated to America and started the Du Pont dynasty. As for the other men, none of their names were familiar, except comte de Lameth.
Didn’t Marguerite buy used dresses from the comtesse de Lameth’s maid? Good thing Sophia wasn’t wearing one of the secondhand gowns, although not even the comtesse would recognize them after Marguerite’s skillful alterations.
The comte de Lameth slipped her hand out of du Pont’s grasp, asking, “What do you paint, mademoiselle?”
The Pearl Brooch Page 32