It’s a different time. I can’t judge him by twenty-first century standards.
It was crazy, though. Thank God she was leaving. But she couldn’t up and leave without an explanation. And she couldn’t tell him the truth.
Could she answer a few of his most confounding questions? No. Could she tell him how future generations would immortalize him despite his contradictions: a slave owner who believed in the fundamental right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? Maybe.
“Erggg.” She wasn’t cut out for this time-traveling life. No. Wait a minute. That wasn’t true. The brooch screwed up the date for some reason. On her other adventures, it had always taken her where she wanted to go. If she’d followed the plan and sought out Vigée Le Brun when she first arrived, even though she appeared three years later, the adventure would have gone swimmingly. The Bastille would still have been stormed, and her involvement in the event wouldn’t have changed, but Monsieur David would have directed her to Le Brun’s atelier instead of suggesting she seek out the American ambassador.
Next year she would stick to the plan. What could happen in 1900 Vienna? Two weeks with Gustav Klimt and the dizzying Viennese Waltz would have her world turning upside down. She smiled, imagining the art, the dresses, and the dancing. Then she groaned. Another adventure? No way.
The clock on the mantel chimed the half hour. She had ninety minutes to finish Jefferson’s painting and write farewell notes before the brooch heated.
After mixing paint, she returned to the canvas. As she sat on her stool critiquing the portrait again, she had to agree with her previous assessment. It was her very best work. The portrait was a tangible vision of who Thomas was—both sides of him—his intelligence and his passion. While his literary skills had poetically pitted the contradictory parts against each other in his famous “Head and Heart” letter, she had accomplished the same on canvas.
She chuckled, thinking of a comment she had read about his famous missive. Thomas had said in a four-thousand-word letter to Maria Cosway what Alfred, Lord Tennyson had said in fourteen words sixty years later: Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Sophia wasn’t sure if she agreed or not.
But what would become of this painting? Would it hang at Monticello? Would Thomas give it away? Would he store it in a closet, to be ruined by moisture and mold? It would break her heart if it was destroyed. When she returned home, she’d research the painting. If it didn’t exist, she’d paint it again, and the second one would probably surpass the first one, although it would never be considered a life painting. She’d have more time to make it perfect, to make his lips…perfect.
Her heart resettled its rhythm into her painting pace. She dipped the brush into the paint and added highlights to his brow bone, upper and lower lids, and cheekbones, to show the direction of the sunlight falling on his face. Then she added a dot of white on the lower lids where they met the irises, giving the eyes a touch of moisture, bringing them to life. She groaned as the virile man steamed up the painting. Now that she was looking at him, she realized she’d never be able to recreate this portrait. There would never be any doubt that it was a life painting. She’d captured the powerful connection between subject and artist. But it was a transferrable emotion. Anyone looking at the painting would believe Thomas was looking at them with the same desire.
When she glanced at the clock, she gasped. An hour had passed. In thirty minutes the brooch would heat and the door to the future would open.
She signed her name on the front of the painting, dated it, and added the location—Hôtel de Langeac, Paris on the back. But the A in Paris was capitalized instead of the P. No one would think anything about it, at least not for another hundred years.
Satisfied with her work, she moved the easels to set the three paintings side by side, with Thomas in the middle. It was an impressive collection, and would stand as a centerpiece for an art show in any venue in twenty-first century Paris.
If only she had a camera. She formed a rectangle with her fingers, looked through a pretend viewfinder, and squeezed her finger. “Click. Click.” She had individual sketches, and they would have to do.
A light knock on the door startled her. Her hands dropped, her fingers still in the shape of a camera. She flicked her fingers, dissolving the image.
“Come in.”
Thomas partially opened the door but kept his hand on the knob as he idled in the doorway. “Am I intruding?”
She glanced at the clock—eleven-forty-five. “No. Come in.” She smiled when a bottle of Lafite magically appeared. “You brought wine.” Our last glass together. “How sweet.” She stretched to look behind him. “Where’s Lafayette?”
“He went to a salon.” Thomas set the glasses on the worktable, poured wine into one, and handed it to her.
She took a quick sip then set the glass aside. The paintbrushes needed to be cleaned and the paints stored away. Hopefully, Polly would continue to paint, and Sophia wanted to leave the studio clean and organized. “Why didn’t Lafayette invite you to go with him?”
“He assumed I had other plans.”
“Oh. Well, how did the meeting end?”
He filled his glass and sipped. “They came to a logical accord, agreeing that the king should have a suspensive veto, and that there will be no hereditary legislators. France will be governed by a constitutional king and one legislative body, the latter elected by the people. The liberal party will present a solid front to the aristocrats and control the Revolution.”
“As long as it’s controllable,” she said, cleaning the brushes.
“I’m concerned, though, about the possibility that my position has been violated. In the morning I intend to confess to the Minister of Foreign Affairs and explain the circumstances.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” she said. “He’ll probably be pleased to learn the men had the benefit of your moderating influence.”
“I know too well the duties I owe to the king, to France, and to the United States, to meddle with the internal affairs of the country.” Thomas carried his wine across the room, where he stood in front of the paintings.
“You are a rare talent, Sophia. My daughters are alive in these portraits. They look like they could step out of them. I’m dazzled by their evocative poses and expressions.” He sipped his wine, studying the paintings. “The shadows of male portraitists have obscured female contemporaries, but you are the exception.”
She dried the brushes then inserted them in a canvas sleeve with individual pockets. “I don’t believe gender plays a role in the ability to create a compelling painting. As for being an exception, it’s not me. It’s Vigée Le Brun. She’s the much-needed chink in the chain of male painters who have built the canon of figurative painting.”
“I disagree.”
“Well, as they say, ‘Art is in the eye of the beholder.’”
“If art is in the eye of the beholder, then everyone will have their own interpretation.”
“Exactly,” she said. “My goal with every portrait is to create an inspiring figurative painting that speaks to the present and offers glimpses into the future.” She watched Thomas move about the room, studying the portraits from different angles and distances.
He circled around the back of the portraits. “You made quite an impression tonight.”
“I said more than I intended.”
“You answered their questions.”
She carried her glass to the sofa, where she leaned back and stretched out her legs. Comfortable at last, after a long day of sitting on her stool. “The next few years will be difficult ones in France. You’re returning to America just in time.”
“What will it be like when I return?”
The flat-out tell-me-the-future question surprised the heck out of her. “Are you asking me to consult my Tarot cards to foretell your future in America, or France?”
“You speak with such authority that I believe you truly do know the future.”
“I have no genuine supernatural prophetic abilities.” She swirled the glass before taking another sip.
“Then what do you have?” he asked.
“An active imagination. I see things and interpret their meanings—all completely subjective, by the way. France’s problems didn’t occur overnight, and won’t be solved overnight. The situation will get worse before it gets better, and it doesn’t take a seer to predict that.”
He set his glass down and clasped his hands behind his back. He’d let his guard down, and his expression was soft, and for a minute he just gazed out the window into the darkness.
“What’s on your mind, Thomas? I know it’s not my lack of prophetic abilities.”
He turned, and there was a curious mixture of yearning and desire in his eyes. “I’m a man of honor, and my behavior, I hope, has never been circumspect. But earlier this evening my actions were abominable.”
“I don’t remember you doing or saying anything abominable.”
He paced for a minute, ten paces in one direction, and ten paces back. “When I invited you to stay at the Hôtel de Langeac you were concerned for my reputation. Not your own. I assured you other artists had resided here and that it was appropriate to open my home to Americans. But I failed to protect you from my advances. And for that, you have my deepest apologies.”
He picked up his glass and took a substantial swallow. “Lafayette asked if I’d taken advantage of you. When I didn’t answer, he asked me to extend an invitation to you to be his guest during the remainder of your visit in Paris.”
“Hmmm. I guess since he saved my life, he believes he should protect my honor as well. How gallant. He needn’t worry. You and I are both single adults. What we do in private is no one’s business.”
“Our behavior wouldn’t be condoned in Virginia.”
“Lucky for us, we’re not in Virginia. The way I see it, you’re delighted by my openness and my ability to move around the world freely. You find my witty repartee interesting, but I’m not the type of woman you want in your domestic realm.”
“You’re not like the French women at all.” He removed his jacket, hung it over the back of a chair, and sat next to her. “Patsy and Polly are very fond of you. Having you as a companion during our trip to America would ease the adjustment they’ll have to make.”
“And might create a scandal.”
“There would be nothing untoward if you accompanied Patsy and Polly. When we reach Norfolk, I’ll arrange a carriage to carry the three of you to Monticello, and I’ll ride ahead on horseback.”
“But I’m going to New York City.”
He clasped his hands and circled his thumbs. “Come to Monticello. When my neighbors see these paintings, they’ll be as impressed as I am, and they’ll commission portraits of their family members. You’ll have enough work to last through spring. In six months, when it’s time for me to return to Paris, Polly and I will travel with you to New York.”
There was no reason to argue with him. She wasn’t going to America, and this discussion was upsetting them both. “Let’s talk about it later.”
Thomas lounged in the chair and glanced longingly around the room. “When I return, I won’t use this room.”
“Oh, but the light is perfect in here, and when you open the French doors the garden comes inside. Why not return it to its original purpose?”
“Your studio has become the center of life at the Hôtel de Langeac. The echoes of your laughter, Polly’s giggling, and Patsy’s humorous stories will live on long after you’re gone. I couldn’t bear the loneliness of its emptiness.”
She twirled the stem of the wine glass, watching the wine swirl inside the bowl. “I kept shushing the girls. I was afraid we were disturbing you.”
“My concentration was interrupted, but I didn’t mind. I often laid down my pen and listened to the conversation. Patsy and Polly not only learned art history from you, but botany, science, astronomy, mathematics, literature, and poetry as well, all under the guise of painting. I couldn’t understand why they would have an interest in astronomy.”
“If you make education relatable, even the boring topics become interesting,” she said. “Not everyone wants to study astronomy. But if you explain how light changes in the studio over the course of the year based on the position of the sun, then students become aware of how light and the changing seasons impact art. Everyone has a thirst for knowledge, Thomas. Even women. Even African Am… Everyone.”
He straightened his back. “I appreciate what you’ve taught them, but Patsy and Polly mustn’t neglect learning the skills they need to run a household.”
“God forbid they learn multiplication tables.” She picked up several sheets of paper and chalk from a basket on the floor and sketched him sitting there in his neatly tied stock and embroidered silk waistcoat with pearl buttons.
He refilled her glass then his own. “Since you’ve finished these paintings, I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d paint the marquise’s portrait next.”
“I’ll send her a note tomorrow.”
He leaned forward, holding the bowl of the glass between his hands. “It’s not only the echoes I’ll miss, Sophia. I can’t imagine being here without you, without your off-key whistling.”
Her face heated. “I don’t whistle off-key,” she said defensively.
He laughed, and the musical quality of his voice reminded her there was nothing musical about her own. She could paint the embodiment of music using fingers positioned on instruments and joy-filled faces. But making actual music eluded her, and she’d been told enough times to believe it.
“You whistle and sing off-key, but it’s not horrible.” He let his smile show in his voice, softening his critique.
“Oh, you’re cruel. When have you heard me sing?” She sipped her wine, smiling at him above the rim. When she lowered the glass, he slipped it gently out of her hand, and set it on the table.
His smile grew. “Yesterday you were singing a little ditty about Jack and Diane—two American kids growing up in the heartland. Where is that? The heartland?”
“It was just a ditty. It didn’t mean anything.” She swallowed, hoping to conceal the flutter in her voice.
He moved effortlessly from the chair to the edge of the sofa, and his nearness accelerated the racing of her heart. He cupped a hand round her cheek, softly tracing her cheekbones, her jaw, her forehead with his thumb. “I apologized for my earlier behavior, and I apologize for what I’m about to do now.”
He eased her head back and kissed her. This was no slow, gentle kiss. Their mouths opened immediately. A low moan like a growl rose from her throat as she pressed her body against his. It didn’t take much for one kiss to slide into the next, for the familiar pressure of his hands, first upon her shoulders, then sliding down her back, reducing their resolve to shambles.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in tight, seeking the warmth of his mouth to quell her hunger. He drew her into a world where his touch and the pressure of his body filled her mind, spirit—all of her. A world of no thoughts, no words.
His fingers curled into her hair, taking hold, pulling her head gently back. He freed her mouth and began a slow descent down her neck to the hollow where her throat met her collarbone, and then another kiss, an inch farther down, and then another, right at the neckline of her dress. His hand lay upon her thigh, gathering the soft linen of her skirt between his fingers, his thumb crawling upward, exposing her skin.
He pressed her backwards onto the pillows as she furiously untied his stock.
Suddenly a haze of panic clouded her vision.
Was this what she wanted?
Yes.
Then a resounding no plowed through her brain like a bouncing pinball. She pressed her hands on his chest. She couldn’t do this and then disappear from his life. It wasn’t fair to either of them.
“This…isn’t right. We…can’t do this,” she said.
His moan vibrated against
her, a husky sound of need.
But he didn’t need to be told a second time. He sat up, lowered her skirts, and straightened his own clothes before plowing his fingers through his beribboned hair.
“Thoughts of you consume my waking hours and haunt my sleep.”
She had a pretty good idea what those thoughts were, because hers were probably similar. But he didn’t need to know. Besides, they weren’t in love with each other. Attracted? Yes. And in the eighteenth century, it was more than enough.
But not for her. She had the whole kit and kaboodle once before, and a partial kit and kaboodle a couple of other times, but this situation was different. She wouldn’t give in to short-term pleasure with long-term consequences.
Heaving a deep sigh, she rose from the sofa and limped over to the open French doors, blotting at the sweat trickling between her breasts.
She tried soothing her rising panic with thoughts of home—massage, hot shower, air conditioning. But it didn’t work.
The warm, rose-scented breeze washed over her as she glanced up into a night sky so bright it looked wet. But blocks away the mild roar and flickering torches of the rioters were a constant reminder of the violence building in the city, and how the brooch had screwed up her holiday.
Thomas’s slow steps toward her were marked by the old wooden boards creaking. She could feel the weight of him standing beside her, close enough to detect the whispering of the fine linen of his shirt as he breathed, close enough to feel her small stature compared to his. She wove her fingers with his and tipped her head back against the doorframe. Leaves hissed in the breeze, creating random patterns of shifting shapes against the inky sky.
“I can’t keep my hands or my thoughts off you. If you hadn’t stopped me, I would have taken you right there. And I’m not in the habit of deflowering virgins on a silk upholstered sofa.”
She wasn’t about to correct his assumption. “You’re attracted to artistic, intelligent women. That combination of qualities is your Achilles heel.”
“Achilles heel?” he asked.
“The one weakness you can’t resist.”
The Pearl Brooch Page 35