All the wrangling in her mind was unsettling. If she was given the chance to go home today, how could she vanish? Poof! What explanation could she give Thomas?
And what about her? The thought of leaving was heart-wrenching, but she didn’t belong here. She had her students, her business, her friends, her life. And she was very much afraid that sooner or later she would royally screw up and change the course of history.
“Shall we go inside?” Mrs. Mallory suggested. “Your traveling trunks will be brought to your rooms.”
The general opened the door, and Mrs. Mallory swept through it gracefully, making a dramatic entrance into her own home. There was no way in the world Jack Mallory’s bride would enter a house with such a flourish. She wouldn’t even enter a stadium broadcasting box so dramatically. What would this Mrs. Mallory think of the current one? Sophia chuckled to herself. It would be fun to meet her. And didn’t Jack have a sister? Wasn’t she a doctor or something? Now that would be an even funnier comparison. She probably wasn’t a Southern belle—a steel magnolia—at all.
“I can stay with Sally in the servants’ quarters,” Marguerite whispered to Sophia.
Sophia shook her head to clear thoughts of people who occupied this mansion in the future, and said in a confidential voice. “You’re my companion. Not a servant. You’ll stay with me.”
Behind her the general said, “After you’ve refreshed yourself, Mr. Jefferson, come to my office. I have correspondence from President Washington addressed to you.”
“I won’t be long,” Thomas said. “Oh, by the by, do you know if Mr. MacKlenna or Mr. Digby are members of the delegation?”
“I know they are both attending Assembly meetings, but Mr. Henry selected the participants. I don’t know who he invited.”
“I haven’t heard anything about Mr. Henry in a good while,” Thomas said.
The general clasped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Henry intends to retire from public service next year and practice law. We are trying to dissuade him, of course.”
“If he can resist President Washington’s arm-twisting, he might be able to.”
Sophia turned and looked up at Thomas, sensing he was thinking of Washington’s fait accompli—appointing him secretary of state and having Senate approval before he even returned to America. Thomas seemed to force his features to relax, as if hoping to erase the traces of his growing annoyance over the appointment. She had learned to recognize the signs in his jaw, his neck, the intensity of his eyes, signs he tried now to hide.
He followed the general farther into the large foyer with its fabulous carved walnut, square-rigged, flying staircase. The staircase was included in the article accompanying Jack Mallory’s photo shoot. Since Thomas seemed to ignore the architectural wonder rising three stories without any visible means of support, he must have studied it on previous visits, because it would normally be too intriguing for him to pass up.
“I’ll send up your trunks,” the general said. “Come to my study when you’re ready. I’ll gather your mail.”
Thomas pursed his lips. “Mail? I was expecting only correspondence from the president.”
“There are several pieces posted from New York, along with one letter from Mrs. Eppes.”
Sophia turned her attention away from Thomas and the general and followed the girls up the stairs to the second floor. The only other interior shot of the house in Jack and Amy’s photo shoot was in the dining room. Amy, following a Mallory tradition of brides etching their initials in the window panes with their engagement rings, etched hers while a grinning Jack gazed at his bride. It was incredibly romantic.
Amy looked more like a Vogue model than an ESPN baseball analyst and former Olympic athlete, and Jack and Amy’s portrait would look amazing hanging over the fake fireplace in the entry that currently featured a poorly painted portrait of an ancestor. When it came to art, Sophia was as critical of other artists as she was of herself.
The second floor of the mansion mirrored the first, with a large hall and four bedrooms. Mrs. Mallory showed them to a room facing the James River which had a door leading out to the upper portico.
“The room is fabulous,” Sophia said. “And the view of the river and the willow oak is extraordinary. And the bright, natural light is perfect for painting.”
“Maybe this evening you can display your art while Miss Jefferson entertains us on the fortepiano. And it would be enchanting to hear Mr. Jefferson play his violin again,” Mrs. Mallory said.
“I would like that very much,” Patsy said. “But Papa doesn’t play his violin often since his wrist injury. I’ll ask him.”
“I didn’t hear about his injury. It must not be his writing hand. He’s still a prolific correspondent,” Mrs. Mallory said.
“Unfortunately, it was, but he makes do,” Patsy said.
“I don’t want to embarrass him,” Mrs. Mallory said. “You’ll know best whether to ask him or not.” She glanced around the room, as if taking an inventory of what needed to be done. “I’ll have hot water sent up. You’ll have time before luncheon to wash and change out of your traveling clothes.”
She swished out of the room as eloquently as she had swished through the front door. Sophia rolled her eyes at Marguerite, who covered her mouth and giggled. “Your traveling dress is more elegant than her gown.”
“Then she’ll love your ideas for new ones.”
Polly plopped down on one of the two canopied beds curtained with damask drapes. “Which bed do you want, Miss Sophia?”
“You know me, sweetie. I’m so tired by the time my head hits the pillow, I don’t care where I sleep.”
Polly giggled. “Patsy, Sally, and I will sleep here, and you and Marguerite can have the other. This bed looks like it’s a little larger.”
Sophia tickled Polly, and they rolled together over the counterpane. “If you need a larger bed, you may have it.”
Polly laughed, begging, “Please don’t tickle me.”
Sophia sat and hugged Polly to her side. Her forehead and neck were warm. “You’re catching a cold. Why don’t I have a lunch tray sent up for you? Then you can stay in bed and rest. Okay?”
“Sally and I will stay with her,” Marguerite said. “I prefer not to eat with the delegation. Whoever they are.”
“Nonsense. If you don’t feel comfortable, you need to get over it, because from now on you’ll find yourself in all sorts of social situations. You’re charming and your French air gives you a certain appeal that American men find fascinating. If you don’t want to talk to anyone, say something in French, and smile. And that’s also my advice to Patsy. If you don’t like a man’s attention, speak to him in French. But don’t say anything ugly. He might understand you.”
The girls laughed. “Miss Sophia, you say the smartest things. I wish I was more like you,” Polly said.
Sophia wagged her finger back and forth like the pendulum of a metronome. “No you don’t, silly. You want to be yourself. You’re sweet and lovable, smart and witty, and I adore you.” She attacked Polly again with lots of tickles.
Polly wiggled around, trying to scoot out of reach while laughing hysterically. “Stop. Stop.”
As soon as Sophia stopped, they heard the jangling of harnesses and clomping of horses’ hooves, and they darted out into the hallway to stand by the window. Carriages and men on horseback were coming down the drive. She returned to the bedroom. “Looks like company has arrived. I need to change.”
Their trunks and pitchers of hot water were brought to the room, and within minutes they had stripped down to their chemises to wash. Marguerite helped her into a clean gown and dressed her hair.
“You look exquise,” Marguerite said.
“Papa won’t be able to take his eyes off you, Miss Sophia,” Polly said, so lamblike in her innocence.
“Your father will be so busy talking with his friends, he won’t even notice I’m in the room.” Sophia checked her appearance one last time. “Come downstairs when you’re ready
,” she said to Marguerite and Patsy.
On the way down, Sophia pinned the pearl brooch to the bodice of her light blue taffeta gown. It was the first time the jewelry had been out of her pocket since its miscalculation on July 14. As she made the turn to climb down the last flight of the flying stairs, Thomas and the general came through the front door behind several men who then entered the parlor. Instead of following them, Thomas and the general continued toward the rear of the house.
When Thomas saw her, he said, “I’m going to read President Washington’s letter. I won’t be long.”
The taffeta dress rustled around her ankles as she reached the bottom stair. “Is there any doubt what it says?”
“I’m sure he’s cordially inviting me to accept the place on his cabinet. I hope he gives me the choice to return to Paris if I prefer to do so.”
“I believe the president expects you to accept,” the general said.
“Have you decided what to tell him?” Sophia asked.
“I have the response dictated in my head,” he said. “Dear President Washington, I prefer to remain in the office I hold, the duties I know and feel equal to rather than undertake a place more difficult. But,” Thomas added dryly, “it’s not for me to choose my post. As president, you must marshal us for the public good. If, after learning my preference is to return to France, you still believe it is best to transfer me to New York, my inclination must be no obstacle to your plan. Signed Th. Jefferson.”
“Sounds like the perfect response.” He was taking the news much better than she’d expected. “Looks like we’ll both be going to New York City.”
Mrs. Mallory emerged from the dining room and signaled to her husband. “Luncheon is served. Would you inform our guests?”
“I’ll deal with the correspondence later. Let’s enjoy the meal,” Thomas said.
Sophia approached Mrs. Mallory. “Polly doesn’t feel well. She won’t be joining us. Could you have a luncheon tray sent up for her and her maid?”
Mrs. Mallory touched Sophia’s arm in an obvious show of concern. “Should I send for the doctor?”
Sophia patted her hand. “Not yet. I think what she needs right now, is rest. If she doesn’t feel better tomorrow, Mr. Jefferson might want the doctor to check on her.”
Thomas cupped Sophia’s elbow and guided her into the dining room. “Does she have a fever?”
“She’s warm, but if she stays in bed and out of the cold, she should feel better tomorrow.”
“Thank you for making those arrangements.” Then he leaned in and whispered, “Consider yourself well kissed.”
She smiled. “I thought it would be less distracting if I just took charge.”
Thomas stationed her at his side to welcome each member of the delegation as they entered the dining room. She tried to move away, but he held onto her arm. “I want to introduce you. Please stay.”
Was it a command or a request? Since he said please, she considered it a request, although his tone made it sound like a command. This was his day to be recognized and celebrated, so she would be careful not to complicate it…yet.
The first to enter was a handsome man just shy of Thomas’s height with a commanding presence. His hair was dark and curling. His features were classical, but more Greek than Roman. His deep-set hazel eyes were shaded, bright, piercing, and very expressive, and her fingers itched to sketch him, whoever he was.
“Mr. Henry, may I present Miss Orsini from New York?”
The man acknowledged her presence with a nod. “My pleasure.”
Sophia searched his face again, and then recognized him from an oil on canvas by Lawrence Sully owned by the Mead Art Museum of Amherst College. “I’m sorry, Mr. Henry. I didn’t recognize you at first. It’s an honor to meet you, sir, and to thank you for your rousing speeches.”
“You’re too kind, Miss Orsini,” Patrick Henry said.
Thomas continued the introductions as the men entered the room and moved toward the table. So far, no MacKlenna or Digby. By the time the last two men entered the room her hopes had faded.
The first of the two men was several inches shorter than Thomas, and on the lanky side, with a dark complexion and wavy blond hair.
“Mr. MacKlenna, thank you for coming.”
“Yer letter was serendipitous, Mr. Jefferson. Before yer invitation arrived, I was already elected to join the delegation to welcome ye home.”
Thomas nodded. “Indeed it was. I was writing on behalf of Miss Sophia Frances Orsini from New York.” He turned to Sophia. “May I introduce Mr. James MacKlenna? He was awarded a land grant of four hundred acres in what will become the new state of Kentucky. And we will lose a valuable member of the Virginia Assembly.”
“At least if I’m elected to the Kentucky legislature, I won’t have so far to travel.” Mr. MacKlenna held her hand, bowed slightly, and when his head came up, his eyes fastened on her brooch.
“When do you think it will happen?” she asked, more to fill the air than caring when Kentucky gained statehood.
“I hope soon.” Mr. MacKlenna’s eyes remained fixed on her jewelry until he finally stood aside for the last man entering the room.
It wasn’t until the man shook hands with Thomas that she pulled her gaze away from Mr. MacKlenna. The man’s nose was too big, his brows too rigid. His lips, though, were full, which softened him a little. If she painted him, she would soften his brows and nose as well. She didn’t do it often, but sometimes the sitter’s portrait needed tweaks.
“Seamus, it’s good to see you,” Thomas said.
Sophia flinched at the man’s name. It was the same as her grandfather’s.
“Was my letter to you also serendipitous?” Thomas asked.
“When I learned of the delegation, I informed Mr. Henry of yer request. He invited me to accompany the group.” Seamus clasped Sophia’s hand between his large ones, and, without waiting for an introduction, he said, “Miss Orsini, I’m Seamus Digby. That is an unusual piece of Celtic jewelry. I wonder if ye might allow me to examine it more closely after lunch?”
“Certainly,” she said, as graciously as possible, but barely able to contain her excitement. Both men recognized her brooch. She could almost smell the paint in her Florence studio.
Thomas guided her toward an empty chair, placing her between him and Patrick Henry.
Just then Marguerite entered the room carrying the leather satchel. Mrs. Mallory indicated a place between MacKlenna and Digby on the opposite side of the table, but before Marguerite sat down, she walked around and handed the satchel to Sophia.
“I thought you’d want to sketch the delegation.”
“You’re so thoughtful. Thank you. Where is Patsy?”
“She wanted to stay with Polly, but I think she’s very tired and preferred to rest.”
“Please let Mrs. Mallory know she won’t be joining us.”
On the way back to her seat, Marguerite whispered to Mrs. Mallory who then instructed a servant to remove the extra place setting.
“Is Patsy also ill,” Thomas whispered.
“The trip has exhausted them. They didn’t feel up to dressing and socializing this afternoon. Mrs. Mallory asked Patsy if she would play the fortepiano tonight. Maybe they’ll feel better later.”
Thomas squeezed her hand and smiled. Across the table, Mr. MacKlenna also smiled. She nodded smartly before turning her attention to gathering supplies from her satchel. Mr. MacKlenna obviously knew why she wanted to talk to him, but his smile said so much more. Like he knew something she didn’t. Well, that would all change as soon as she had five minutes alone with him.
She removed several sheets of paper and pencils and placed them on the table next to her plate.
“Do you intend to draw during luncheon?” Mr. Henry asked.
“While we were in Paris, I attended several meetings of the assembly with Mr. Jefferson so I could sketch pictures of the speakers. He included them in his correspondence to Mr. Jay and Mr. Madison.”
/> Recognition flitted across Mr. Henry’s face, then his smiled widened. “So you’re the artist?” He leaned forward, glanced at Thomas, shook his head, then leaned back again. “Mr. Jefferson kept your identity a secret from Mr. Jay. I heard he asked Mr. Jefferson the identity of S.F. Orsini, and Mr. Jefferson replied, ‘An artist in residence.’ We, of course, assumed you to be a male artist.”
“As you can see, I am not.”
He regarded her for a moment, and then something curious, almost serpentine, glimmered behind his carefully veiled eyes. Then, in a snap, the glimmer disappeared, replaced by a dreamy detachment he must habitually wear, since it suited his face so naturally.
“How did you become his artist in residence?” Mr. Henry asked.
“It’s a long story,” she said.
“I’d like to hear it.”
“Just as long as you don’t use it in one of your famous oratories.”
“Famous? I’m not sure they should be called ‘famous.’”
“‘Give me liberty or give me death’ will be remembered long after you’re gone.” He gave a modest shrug, and she continued. “I arrived in Paris the day the citizens stormed the Bastille.” Now his eyes widened with curiosity. “After escaping a dangerous situation, I ran down the Champs-Élysées and found myself at the Hôtel de Langeac.”
“Mr. Jefferson’s residence.” By his inflection, Mr. Henry was aware of the occupants of the Hôtel de Langeac.
“When I saw the ambassador, I hurried toward him, stepped into a hole, twisted my knee, and fell splat”—she clapped her hands lightly but still drew Thomas’s attention. He leaned forward in his seat—“against his chest, bounced back, and, if not for his quick reflexes, I would have fallen to the ground.”
Mr. Henry’s lips twitched. “How gallant of our Mr. Jefferson.”
Thomas smiled and sat back. Although he was conversing with General Mallory and another delegate, she could tell from the angle of his chin that he was listening to her. With his left ear, no doubt.
“Very much so,” she smiled. “Then he swooped me up and carried me into his home. He felt responsible for my injury and insisted, since I made no housing arrangements in advance, that I would be his artist in residence while I healed. The real reason he invited me to stay at the Hôtel de Langeac, though, was his hope that I’d be an influence on his daughters, to help them acclimate to living in America again. France is different in so many ways from America, especially Virginia.”
The Pearl Brooch Page 45