From the outermost edge of her peripheral vision, she watched Thomas fall into his default stance—arms folded. “Portraits, landscapes, architecture. Whatever the client commissions.”
Moving in closer, the comte de Lameth tugged her hand to his chest and gazed at her with what she’d call wicked eyes. “But you must have a preference.”
“Well, sir”—she gave him a demure, slant-eyed smile—“I never tire of painting handsome Frenchmen.”
He couldn’t hold back a rumble of a laugh. While he continued his contagious laughing, she reclaimed her hand.
“If you need a recommendation,” Lafayette said. “I’ve seen the mademoiselle’s paintings, and I’ve offered her commissions to paint the marquise and myself.”
“Then I must get in line this very evening,” the comte de Lameth said.
If only she had time to paint Lafayette, or any of them. She would never have a painting hanging in the National Gallery unless she painted one in the eighteenth century. Thomas’s painting had a chance, but not if she was whisked off to the future before it was finished. Outside, the sunset transformed the sky, pink and brilliantly gold, barely light enough to paint by, but here she was. Stuck. She couldn’t spend her last night in the eighteenth century with the French nobility planning a revolution. She had to make her excuses and get back to work.
“Maybe the mademoiselle will give us a private showing before we leave tonight,” the Marquis de Blacons said.
“The paintings belong to Mr. Jefferson,” she said. “They’re his to show.”
“Of course you may see them.” Thomas took her arm. “Shall we dine?”
He pulled a chair out for her, placing her to the right of his seat at the head of the table. Lafayette sat at the opposite end. Du Pont, Barnave and the comte de Lameth sat to Lafayette’s right. Marquis de Blacons, Jean Joseph Mounier, comte de la Tour-Maubourg, and Pierre Nicolas d’Agoult sat to his left.
If Lafayette and the three men on the right held one position and the other four men held another, it would be a long road to reaching an agreement—if their jutting chins and narrow eyes were any indication. But it would probably depend on the issues they intended to debate or what compromise they hoped to reach.
As soon as the beef roast, mashed potatoes, and fresh vegetables from the garden were served, the Frenchmen began an earnest conversation about the uprising and disturbances in the streets. The men conversed rapidly in French, and while she could follow the conversation, she knew Thomas couldn’t.
She whispered to him, “Do you want me to translate for you?”
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all, but what’s the problem? What are they hoping to reach consensus about tonight?”
Jefferson put down his fork. “How much do you know about the veto power in the American constitution?”
She sipped her madeira before answering. “If I remember correctly, any bill passed by Congress and vetoed by the president requires a two-thirds vote in the senate to override it.”
“Almost. I’m surprised you know that much. If you asked a citizen on the street, it’s unlikely they would know. The bill is returned to the Chamber where the bill was initiated. If there’s a two-thirds vote in that body, the bill then proceeds to the other Chamber.”
“You didn’t want it to be easy, did you?” The question was rhetorical, and he didn’t respond. She continued whispering in English while the men at the other end of the table were shouting at each other in animated French. “Is this what the National Assembly hopes to accomplish? To establish veto power like that available in the American Constitution?”
“The crucial dispute is that half of the Assembly wants the king’s power of the veto to remain absolute. The other half don’t.”
“What does Lafayette want?”
Thomas sighed. “A compromise that won’t tear the country apart. The Assembly is debating three types of vetoes. An absolute veto would not be subject to an override by the Assembly. The suspensive veto could in some form be overridden, and the negative veto would deny the king any role in legislation.”
Du Pont rose from the table, paced, then leaned over Lafayette’s shoulder, pointing an angry finger at Pierre Nicolas d’Agoult. She quickly sketched him, extended finger and all. He was average in every detail: average height, average round features, probably average colored brown hair beneath his powdered wig.
When she got the scene sketched out, she asked, “Why don’t they agree to the suspensive veto and go home? It sounds to me like a reasonable compromise.”
Thomas picked at the corner of the sheet of paper she was drawing on. It wasn’t to get her attention. It was, she suspected, a substitute for touching her hand or her face. “Lafayette has to find a way to make it palatable to the members who want the king to retain absolute power.”
“Isn’t the threat of total dissolution and civil war enough of an incentive?”
“They don’t want to be threatened.”
“No one does,” she said.
“Lafayette is a well-informed politician and a good judge of men. He understands the ground of liberty is to be gained by inches, and that we must be content to secure what we can get from time to time,” Thomas said.
“So the suspensive veto is sufficient for Lafayette?”
“We must press forward for what we can get. There will always be limits of politics, imperfections of government, and the realities of human nature.”
She had to think about it for a moment. “Do you mean that because people and governments are so imperfect, we have to accept what we can get?”
“And work toward a compromise.”
“We’ve already had this discussion, too,” she said.
As the debate continued, she studied the men at the table, picking up on their individual idiosyncrasies, deciding how to sketch them. Who had the shortest temper, the most patience? Whose faces turned red while arguing? Who gestured? Who was the easiest to rile? Who was the easiest to placate? By the time dinner was finished, she had most of them figured out, and had already sketched several drawings.
The cloth was removed, the wine dispensed. She had intended to return to her studio after dinner, but unless they asked her to leave, she decided to stay for a while.
“What are we drinking?” she asked.
“Four Bordeaux wines: Lafite, Latour, Margaux, and Haut-Brion. Are you familiar with them?”
It continued to amaze her that the wines Thomas drank in 1789 were available in the twenty-first century, although they didn’t taste the same. Matter of fact, a handblown, dark green glass bottle capped with a nubby seal of thick black wax, no label, but with the year 1787 and the words Lafite and the letters Th.J etched into the glass in a spindly hand was discovered behind a bricked-up cellar wall in Paris and auctioned in the 1980s for over a hundred thousand dollars. She never saw a picture of the auctioned bottle, but the one in his hand matched its description.
“The Lafite is known for its silky softness on the palate and its charming perfume,” she said. “The Latour has a fuller body and a considerable aroma that begs for the softness of the Lafite. The Château Margaux is lighter and possesses all the delicate qualities of the Lafite, except it doesn’t have as high a flavor. And the Haut-Brion has more spirit and body, but it’s rough when new. I’ll start with the Lafite.”
He filled her glass. “I hope someday you’ll explain how your wine knowledge is so extensive.”
She swirled, sniffed, sipped. There was more than a subtle difference between this and the varietal wines of the future, but this one was pretty good. “I like wine and make notes when I find a label I’m especially pleased with. But what about you? Your knowledge is more extensive than mine.”
His eyes brightened in a definite lightbulb moment. “Tomorrow, let’s travel to the vineyards of Châteauneuf-du-Pape between Orange and Avignon. Except for the tower, little remains of the castle. But there’s a sweeping vista of the surrounding countryside with its vin
eyards, silver olive groves, and russet villages. You can paint, and we can sample the wines produced there.”
“That’s in the south of France, Thomas. It will take days to travel there. You can’t leave Paris right now. Lafayette needs you.” She reached under the table, and for only a moment, placed her hand on his knee, and the kneecap alone was so large her palm couldn’t quite cover it. “And it would be improper, even by Parisian standards, for us to travel together.”
He sat back in his chair, but then leaned forward again. “Then we’ll go to the Château de Madrid. It borders the Bois de Boulogne. The rainbows of Marly were created by the famous hydraulic machine constructed during the time of Louis XIV to carry water from the Seine to the gardens of Versailles and Château Marly. From the terrace of the royal chateau at St. Germain you can see Paris. It would be a perfect place to paint. We’ll bring your supplies and a picnic basket.”
Her heart dropped into her stomach. What was she going to do? She couldn’t vanish from his life while he planned an extraordinary outing. “Let’s talk about it later.”
While discussions continued, Sophia translated for Thomas and sketched the men as they huddled, paced, drank, yelled, and loomed threateningly over the table. Finally, as it neared the sixth hour of debate, Lafayette succeeded in developing a centralist coalition to support the suspensive veto.
With that issue resolved, they touched on whether the fundamental law of the French constitution could be revised, and if so how. Should it be changed at stated, periodic times, or as the need arose? If it was made difficult or impossible to alter, then the past would lay heavily over future generations.
“It should be difficult to alter, but possible,” Sophia said in French.
The men turned toward her, their mouths, moments ago compressed in concentration, opened in surprise.
“I mentioned this to the ambassador recently. The American constitution required two-thirds of the states to amend the constitution. Currently there are thirteen states. It wouldn’t be so difficult to get nine states to agree. But what if in a hundred years there are fifty states, and thirty-three states are needed to change the constitution? That wouldn’t be easy to do. It could take years.”
“Do you think they made the wrong decision?” Lafayette asked.
“Who am I to second-guess the brilliant men who wrote the document? With a few exceptions, I think they got it right.”
Lafayette propped his elbows on the table, clasped his hands. “What didn’t they get right?”
“They should have settled the slavery issue,” she said. “I understand it was more important to get the document passed than deal with an issue that could have ripped the states apart. But a solution needs to be found in the next twenty to thirty years. And it’s not going to get any easier. I also believe in a woman’s right to vote. Both issues have been left for future generations to resolve.”
There was an immediate reaction to her position that women be allowed to vote. The law permitted only the clergy, nobility, and the third estate (commoners) to vote.
“But there is at least a process in place to do that,” Lafayette said.
“Mademoiselle Orsini,” Monsieur du Pont said. “You have unusual insight into American politics as well as those of France. What are your predictions?”
“For France, or for America?”
“Both,” Lafayette said.
She stood, pushed her chair to the table. “These are just predictions, gentlemen. Each of you could make your own. But here are mine, and then I must get back to my studio. For America, my prediction is that the framers created a document that will survive centuries with a few amendments. And slavery will tear the country apart, but will not destroy it.”
She reached for her glass of wine and sipped. “As for France, your financial crisis has led to state bankruptcy, loss of confidence in the monarchy, and political destabilization. You are heading into a long civil war, where thousands will die, and none of you will be safe.”
Every man quieted in stunned silence. “What’s the answer, Mademoiselle?” the comte de la Tour-Maubourg asked in a shaky voice.
“Compromise. As you have done here. Feed the people. Don’t put all the burden on their backs. Give the middle-class equal representation. This rebellion can sweep away the monarchy, the aristocracy, and the power of the church.”
“The church has an important role in the life of all Frenchmen,” Lafayette said.
“Separation of church and state is paraphrased in the First Amendment to the United States Constitution,” Sophia said. “And the ambassador believes strongly in a wall of separation between them. I recommend you read the amendment.”
“You paint a tragic picture, Mademoiselle. I’m reluctant to ask if there is anything else,” Monsieur du Pont said.
She swirled the wine in her glass, watching the legs. Maybe she could pretend to be scrying. Her eyes were wide open, staring at the faraway window, and her heart was about to beat right out of her chest.
“One more thing, and this is strictly my opinion. Ask the king and queen to abdicate.”
The Frenchmen’s gasps sucked the air from the room.
“You asked for my predictions. You didn’t say, ‘Tell me only those I can stomach.’ They are only predictions based on what I see. Won’t you agree that the king is depicted as a weak man, and the people are unhappy with the queen over her excessive spending? France needs a strong monarchy or none at all.”
She looked back at Thomas. “Wasn’t it you, Mr. Jefferson, who said, ‘We are not to be expected to be translated from despotism to liberty in a featherbed?’”
“He said it to me recently.” Lafayette sighed, gripping the back of his neck, and shook his head. “But how could you know?”
“I hear things when I paint. But I’m now out of predictions and insights. Feel free to pitch them aside as the rantings of a crazy woman. I wish you the best as you go forth. But please, if you do nothing else, feed the starving people.”
She reached in her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the brooch. “I’m sorry if I distressed you. But if you don’t get this right, it could get very ugly in a couple of years.”
The moon had come out long ago, a friendly half-moon, not too bright, but light enough to find her way home. She limped from the room as a buzz of voices rose to a fever pitch.
It was time to go home.
25
Richmond, VA—JL
JL and Kevin huddled on a sofa in the NICU’s brightly painted waiting room with their sleeping child between them. Blane’s head nestled in her lap, his feet in Kevin’s. She replayed the latest emergency—a bowel perforation—and wondered how much more Lawrence’s little body could endure.
All parents had been ushered out of the pod during Lawrence’s surgery. Thank goodness the unit was fully equipped to handle emergencies instead of losing valuable time transporting preemies to the OR.
Kevin pocketed his phone. “It’s been an hour. I’m going down to the pod to see what I can find out.”
“Anne said it could take up to two hours. But I’m surprised none of the family is here. Did you send a group message?” JL repositioned herself to relieve the pressure of Blane’s head without disturbing him. Between the soreness in her belly and the stiffness in her neck and shoulders, she was a mess. She rolled her head side to side, a signal Kevin picked up on immediately, and he reached over to massage up and down her neck, kneading the knots.
“I didn’t tell them. I thought I’d wait…”
He let the sentence drop. JL knew what lay heavy on his mind, because it was a boulder pressing on hers. Would their tiny son pull through this emergency, too?
She skated her fingers along the back of Blane’s hand, the smooth skin, the chubby fingers. But even in its smallness, he had a giant’s hand compared to Lawrence’s. And Austin’s dwarfed them all. He could comfortably palm a basketball.
She leaned into the pressure of Kevin’s thumbs. “I’m glad you didn
’t. I wouldn’t want to sit here having to look into dozens of worried eyes. Yours are scary enough.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean—”
“It’s okay, Kev. We’re both scared shitless. I don’t know… I don’t know how I could get through it if we lost him.”
“Shh…”
He pulled her to him and nuzzled the side of her face. His whiskers scratched, but she didn’t care. At least she wasn’t totally numb.
“Shh… He’s a fighter. And he’s got an incredible medical team. We have to trust them.” Kevin’s phone dinged with a message. He straightened and read it. “Meredith and Elliott are coming up to sit with Lawrence for a while.”
“I complained about Elliott and smarted off, but since then he’s stayed in his lane. No telling what he’s doing when we’re not here, but the staff hasn’t complained about him.”
“Excuse me.”
JL glanced up to find a woman she’d seen earlier in the pod walking toward her with the grace of a dancer. Five-nine, one-twenty, blonde hair pulled up in a messy bun, wearing a chic summer cotton dress with strappy sandals. Without a doubt, her most striking feature was her denim-blue eyes. Unlike JL, she didn’t have a post-partum baby bump. As a former cop, JL noticed things. And there was something about this woman that drew JL to her.
The man beside her was six-two, athletic, also blond and blue-eyed, wearing wrinkled khakis shorts and a polo-styled shirt with a Hampden Sydney College logo. They looked like two people who normally had everything in life figured out, but had been dealt a bad hand and didn’t yet know how to cope. Not that JL and Kevin could claim they were masters.
“Hi,” the woman said. “I don’t want to impose, so I’ll just take a minute. I’m Lisa Harrison. This is my husband Robert. Our daughter was born a few hours ago. We just got here and were asked to leave the pod because they were going to operate on your baby.”
“Yeah, they kicked everybody out on our account. Sorry,” JL said.
“Don’t worry about it. Next time it could be us.” Lisa dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a tissue. “I hope your baby will be okay.”
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