For the past three weeks they started every day with an hour routine that usually spilled into the next. The exercise delayed the start of his schedule of letter-writing, which normally began at sunrise and continued until one or two o’clock. So either he would add an hour or write fewer letters. Instead of twenty thousand letters in his lifetime, his enjoyment of Tai Chi might reduce the number of letters to eighteen thousand.
History could blame the unwritten ones on her.
The carte blanche she and Thomas had in Paris to travel around the city together, or sit in the garden late at night drinking wine, or dance the waltz she taught him while humming off-key, couldn’t continue once they left Paris.
And their relationship would change dramatically as soon as they set sail. Even though he cursed France’s mores, he enjoyed the freedoms it allowed. So did she.
Biting back a tear, she reentered the studio.
Lafayette’s signed portrait was still there. She wrote a brief note to him and attached it to the back of the painting next to the date and location. He was sending a courier later today to pick it up. Her painting of the marquise was delivered the prior week. They were hosting a salon tonight to showcase both portraits and had wanted to exhibit them while Sophia was still in Paris, but then she would have had to turn down dozens of commissions, so Lafayette agreed to postpone the exhibition until after she left. Having an exhibition with portraits of Thomas and Lafayette would have been the highlight of her career.
Her last conversation with Lafayette was cryptic. She warned him to be careful, but she didn’t come right out and tell him his future. How could she? He wouldn’t have believed that before the revolutionary storms subsided, he would be charged with treason, flee the madness, and languish more than five years in an Austrian dungeon.
As she stood in front of his painting now, goose bumps prickled the back of her exposed neck. The maturity in her art was a result of Jacques David’s instructions, but the visceral energy had come from experiencing eighteenth-century painting through his emotions, through his world view. Now she was a twenty-first century painter with an eighteenth-century perspective.
She circled around the room for the last time and turned back to gaze on a space that would be razed in the nineteenth century. So much had happened within the walls of the Hôtel de Langeac.
She yawned, recalling the last bottle of wine she and Thomas shared the night before. She stayed up late, listening to him wax philosophical about the revolutionary nature of the rights of man in Europe. By two o’clock she was so exhausted, it was hard to act as an affectionate check on his episodic flights of philosophy.
That was the role James Madison played with dexterity. But the Founding Father was in New York City, where she would soon be as well. With a proper introduction and a recommendation from Thomas, perhaps Madison would commission his portrait.
She was leaving the studio for the last time when Thomas met her in the hallway. He tugged her back inside the room and closed the door behind them. “I couldn’t leave here without kissing you one last time.”
She gazed up into his eyes. “We’re not saying goodbye.” Yet.
“We’ll have no privacy on the ship, and once we arrive in Virginia I’ll be set upon with correspondence and meetings.”
And with luck I’ll find a way home.
“We’ll still have our quiet walks at night,” she said. “We’re old enough to be grandparents. If we don’t flaunt it, surely your friends and associates will be glad you have a companion. Don’t you think?”
A breeze danced over them, and he gathered her close, molding her body to his, and she closed her eyes against the images of their moonlight walks flickering through her mind like a silent film. She brushed her lips across his face, feeling the contours of cheekbone and chin and brow, of the sensitive skin below his ear and along his jaw, seeking to know him to his bone and blood, to the brilliant mind that challenged her every heartbeat.
“My friends will be pleased for us when they see how happy we are,” he said.
She glided her hands along his chest to feel his heart pounding beneath his coat, his shirt, his skin. If she could only stop worrying about the upcoming trip and what might happen when they arrived in America, she could fully enjoy the time they had left.
“Marry me,” he mumbled against the skin of her neck.
Shock went straight to her heart, and she froze, temporarily unable to move or speak or even breathe.
He nibbled gently at her ear, whispering, “I adore you. Patsy and Polly adore you. Marry me, Sophia.”
She took a breath, a sharp inhale, but she couldn’t find her voice. She tried to force calm into her shaking body and curb her fluttering heart where it beat against her corset lining like a panicked moth against a pane of glass.
She pulled away from him, and her shock found its voice. “You don’t know what you’re asking. Patsy and Polly remember the promise you made to their mother. If you tell them you intend to remarry, they’ll be devastated.”
He gazed at her with intensity and focus, and it would be so easy to lose herself in his raw and powerful need. But she couldn’t. Not with so much uncertainty swirling about them.
“The children will accept my decision. Besides, Patsy will soon marry and have a home of her own. I want to tell them I’ve asked you.”
Until she met with Mr. Digby and Mr. MacKlenna, she couldn’t make any decisions. And even then, she would never give up hope that her brooch would work again.
“Don’t mention it to them, please,” she said. “We have much to talk about before we could ever consider marriage.” Her mind was working furiously but going nowhere, like a broken engine.
“What’s left to talk about? We’ve covered every conceivable topic during our late-night walks. There isn’t anything I don’t know about you that could change my mind.”
Well, Mr. Jefferson, I’m from the twenty-first century.
“The ship’s captain can marry us,” he said.
“You might have been thinking about this, but I haven’t. I need time to catch up to you.”
“Do you love someone else? Is that why you won’t agree to marry me?”
“No, that’s not it.” She fiddled with the chain to the watch key containing a braid of his late wife’s hair. “We’ll discuss this when we get to Virginia.”
He held out his hand. “I’m shaking with need for you.”
“I’m shaking as well.” Her desire was as intense as his, but this trip had messed up her cycle, and she wouldn’t risk going home pregnant with Thomas Jefferson’s baby. “I’ve known you for a little over two months, and I care for you, but I can’t marry you.”
His warm breath tickled her cheek. “I don’t understand why you’re refusing me. I know we have our disagreements, but those can be resolved—”
“Women’s rights and the end to slavery can be resolved? Seriously?”
“Not immediately.” He paused, then said, “I will wait until we arrive in Virginia. We can marry in Richmond.”
Surprise was hardly the word she would use. It was more like bowled over. “We’ll talk about next steps after I meet with Mr. Digby and Mr. MacKlenna. And until then we have expectations to discuss. I’m an artist, Thomas, and I intend to continue painting.”
“If you would like to paint family members, it can be arranged, but you’ll be so busy at Monticello you won’t have much time.”
“That is exactly what we need to talk about, because I won’t give up painting to manage Monticello, especially when you’re likely to accept a position in Washington’s cabinet and live in the capital.”
“I’m going to Monticello for a few months before returning to Paris to finish this assignment.”
She straightened her hair and pressed down the front of her dress, not because they needed it, but because her fingers itched, and she didn’t have a pencil or paintbrush to hold. “The men need to get in here to load these trunks. Let’s talk tonight over a glass of
wine.” She opened the door and escaped out into the hallway.
“I don’t like confrontation and disagreements,” he said.
“I know you don’t. And I know stress makes you physically ill and brings on a migraine. I don’t want that to happen, but we have a way of pressing each other’s hot buttons and tempers flare”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that.”
He squinted. “Hot buttons?”
“Issues of concern. You must come to terms with what kind of woman you really want, regardless of where you live. Do you want an American Angel, a domestically-oriented helpmate who believes her place is in the home attending the needs of her husband and children? Or do you want a European Amazon, a woman out in society, engaged in political thought?”
“I want a woman who knows her place, and allows a man to take the lead and make important decisions affecting their lives. Not a politically and socially assertive Amazon seeking self-fulfillment and challenging men in exclusively male domains.”
She shot him an irritated glance. “Then, Mr. Jefferson, you don’t want me. If I ever marry…again…I expect my husband to be my partner and confidante.”
He stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. “As soon as you arrive at Monticello, you’ll—”
“Thomas,” she interrupted gently. “An angel cannot be an Amazon, and an Amazon can’t change into an angel.”
“You grew up in America. You might temporarily believe you’re an Amazon, but you’re not. Once you return, you’ll remember your place again. Our discussions over wine are always enlightening. I look forward to continuing this debate.” He lifted her hand and kissed it, and then sauntered away, whistling.
Sophia rarely used profanity, but the only thought she had was, “I’ll be damned.” Thomas Jefferson, Founding Father and future President of the United States, had asked her to marry him, expecting her to turn into a sweet, domestic angel and be at his beck and call.
Was she crazy, or was he?
She was a lot of things, but crazy wasn’t one of them. She belonged in the twenty-first century, where a woman could be whatever she wanted to be—angel or Amazon or anywhere else along the spectrum. She followed him down the hallway. But she didn’t whistle.
It was September 25, 1789, and she was returning to America.
30
Normandy, France (1789)—Sophia
There was nothing easy or comfortable about traveling in the eighteenth century, and Sophia dreaded what was to come.
They traveled by carriage over heavily rutted roads that often left her bruised. God only knew what her body would look like after several days of a cross-country trip to the coast in a carriage without springs.
Traveling back in time had only taken Sophia a few whirlwind seconds, but going from Paris to Norfolk without planes, trains, and automobiles would take several weeks. And, depending on weather delays, it could take months.
Waiting in airports for delayed flights drove her nuts. How was she going to handle waiting for the weather to clear so a ship could sail? Probably not well. But then again, she’d be with Thomas. If they didn’t argue, and he didn’t pressure her for an answer, it might be… What? Enjoyable? What could possibly be enjoyable about sailing the high seas in a wooden boat? She didn’t even like cruise ships.
But since it was the only way she could meet MacKlenna and Digby, she’d suck it up. The option to strike out on her own and go to Scotland to search for MacKlennas and Digbys was still available. She considered the option at least once a day, but always rolled back around to the one big question: Where did she ultimately want to end up if she had to stay for a while, like a year or two or longer? Not on the continent. And not in the UK.
Her knowledge of American history between the end of the Founding Fathers’ era and the start of World War II was rather thin, but she didn’t think there was a war in America until the 1800s. She couldn’t say the same for Europe.
If Mr. MacKlenna or Mr. Digby didn’t have a brooch able to open the time portal, maybe they’d have some insight into the stone’s peculiarities, like why it worked one day and not the next. It was almost like Barbara Eden of I Dream of Jeannie was inside the stone, one minute happily granting wishes, then getting ticked off and ignoring all human requests.
Sophia emerged from the Hôtel de Langeac to find Mr. Petit overseeing the loading of trunks from her studio into the last of six full wagons. The maître d’hôtel would travel with them as far as Le Havre, where he would supervise offloading the baggage, then he’d return with the vehicles and horses to Paris.
Thomas assisted Sophia into the carriage, where she joined Marguerite, Patsy, Polly, and Sally. Their carriage was the first vehicle in the small caravan. At least as the first vehicle in the caravan, they wouldn’t be eating dust or mud splatter.
“Will you be riding ahead or alongside us?” Sophia asked him, taking her seat next to Marguerite.
“James and I will be close by if you need anything.”
She sat back and gazed one last time at the Hôtel de Langeac, wondering if anyone would have the forethought to save the painting in the dome when the mansion was razed.
“Do you know the distance to Le Havre?” Polly asked. “I don’t remember much of my trip here, but it seemed as if we rode in a carriage for a month.”
Sophia patted Polly’s knee. “It’s a hundred forty miles and will take four days.”
Patsy grimaced. “Is it really that far?”
“I’m afraid so,” Sophia said, “but I know a few car games to play.”
Patsy gave her a questioning look. “Car?”
“Did I say car? I meant carriage. The first game is called I Spy. I’ll look out the window and find something interesting. Then I’ll tell you what letter it starts with.”
“In English or French?” Patsy asked.
“Let’s use English. Okay. Ready? I spy something with my own eyes, and it starts with the letter…G.”
“Gate,” Polly said.
“Yes!” Sophia clapped. “That was an easy one. Now it’s your turn.”
Thomas presented his two passports, one from the king and the other from Lafayette, at the gate. The documents allowed the American Minister, his family, servants, baggage, and carriages to leave France. Technically, she wasn’t family or a servant, but she doubted anyone would stop them.
The I Spy game continued while they rode out of Paris and crossed the Seine, and they were laughing so hard, Thomas rode up and looked in Sophia’s window. “What’s so funny?”
“Mademoiselle’s game, Papa. It’s so much fun. Do you want to play?”
He turned in his saddle and smiled at Sophia. “No, Polly. I’d rather listen to the laughter.”
Sophia couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was a bold, fearless rider, and the master of his horse. When he sat in a chair, he lounged, but on horseback he sat squarely in his seat with good hand position. She might not know much about horseback riding, but she knew what looked good. And he did.
“It’s your turn, Mademoiselle,” Polly said.
Sophia turned back to the girls. “Okay, but I have a request. Since we’re leaving Paris, and since I’m an American, would you all please call me Sophia?”
“Oh, no, Mademoiselle. We can’t call you by your Christian name,” Polly said. “Papa wouldn’t approve.”
“Then how about Miss Sophia?”
Patsy and Polly looked at each other, nodded. “Unless Papa disagrees, we’d like to call you Miss Sophia,” Patsy said.
Sophia squeezed Marguerite’s hand. “That goes for you, too, sweetie.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.”
“You and Sally may both call me Miss Sophia. I won’t answer to anything else. So there. Now, back to the game. I spy something with my own eyes, and it starts with the letter…B.”
Thomas led the entourage from Paris, and as the day progressed they traveled through Normandy’s rolling hills and green countryside, passing churches and small villages. Accor
ding to Patsy, this was the same path they followed when she and her father first arrived in France. Sophia once drove through Normandy from Paris, and had toured the American Museum and the five D-Day beaches, but they were traveling north of the famous World War II sites.
On the first night they lodged at an ancient Norman town along the Seine with the spectacular Collegiate Church Notre-Dame at its heart.
As Thomas assisted her from the carriage she said, “There’s a famous painting in that church, the Melun Diptych, painted by the French court painter Jean Fouquet. I’d love to see it.”
“I was told the church needed money and the panels were sold a decade ago,” Thomas said. “One panel went to Germany and the other to Antwerp.”
She already knew the panels had been sold and where they were. She just didn’t know the date of the sale other than the eighteenth century. “What a shame. I would have loved to see them together.”
“If you want to visit the church, we can see where the panels hung for three hundred years.”
She let out an exaggerated sigh. “I guess I could solemnly stare at the empty space and leave a bouquet of flowers.”
He smoothed a nonexistent mustache, but he couldn’t hide his teasing smile. “The paintings weren’t stolen, darling. They were sold.”
“Stolen or sold, the diptych isn’t there anymore and the panels are separated, which is even more tragic.”
“If you decide you want to go after dinner, I’ll escort you.”
But after dinner Sophia was too tired to go sightseeing, and there was no reason to stand looking at an empty wall unless she wanted time alone with Thomas. And while the thought was enticing, a bath was calling her name.
The next day the party proceeded to Bolbec, a thriving market town in the arrondissement of Le Havre. Since it was a wine-growing region, Thomas couldn’t pass through without inspecting the vineyards. Sophia sent him on his way while she shopped with the girls. She found a pair of toile cushions with a charming print of a man in a blue suit and striped stockings with a bird in his hand and a dog by his side. Since there were two more days of riding in the carriage, her butt and back would thank her. Marguerite found several pieces of linen that would make elegant gowns, so Sophia bought enough for four, and Marguerite assured her she would have the new dresses made before they arrived in Virginia. Sewing would give Marguerite and Sally something to do on the ship, but what about Patsy and Polly?
The Pearl Brooch Page 39