America's First Daughter: A Novel (9 page)

What a wretched sister I was!

And, poor Polly. Just six years old and she’d already lost her mother and sister to death’s grip. And here we were, so far away. The sob finally broke free. My mother bade me to watch over my father, but what of my sisters? I was to watch after them, too, to protect the little family that Mama so loved, and I was stunned by my failure.

Papa made a quick farewell to Lafayette, all but shutting the door in his face. Then he leaned against the wall, shuddering with grief. He thumped his fist on the wood to punctuate each moan and sob. I fell against him, hugging his waist, pressing my face against his rib cage where his heart thudded. His body muffled my wails, and his shirt absorbed my tears. He clutched at me and I clutched at him as if we were wrestling. Perhaps we were.

We were wrestling the pain, thrashing against it, drowning in it, until we were insensible to all else.

And I knew that no one could ever see us like this.

W
E MUST HAVE
P
OLLY
, I decided. We must have my remaining sister here in France where we could care for her and hold her close. For months, Papa resisted the idea, worrying that the seas were too unsafe for one so young to travel alone. For pirates, privateers, and warships abounded across the Atlantic.

But I couldn’t be content without her. There was only one way to honor the losses of my mother and baby sister, and that was to bring our family together again.

Our conversations on the matter were often frustratingly disagreeable, even when I pressed Papa
calmly
—if also frequently—to reunite our family once and for all. Meanwhile, I dared not trouble Papa in any other way for even the smallest thing; I even drew my allowance from the
maître d’hôtel
rather than go to my grieving father.

Our house was in mourning, and our French friends were effusive with their sympathy. Lafayette seemed haunted by having delivered us the news and sent bouquets to brighten the house. The pretty young Duchess de La Rochefoucauld brought sweets for our table and bade me to call her Rosalie. In truth, the very Frenchwomen Mrs. Adams and my father sometimes spoke of so disparagingly for their bold manners were tender and kind to us.

By contrast, some of our American friends and other guests seemed insensible to our loss. Charles Williamos, a Swiss-born adventurer who often dined with us, said my father should simply remarry and make another baby to heal his broken heart.

At hearing this, Papa excused himself from the table, no doubt to wrestle with his grief in private. But I had not Papa’s good manners. Williamos’s heartless advice reminded me of Colonel Randolph’s suggestion that Papa remarry. Were the affections of these men so shallow they believed a lost life, a lost love, could simply be replaced?

From that moment, I despised Mr. Williamos.

And it must have showed. Mr. Short looked up from the meal, caught a glimpse of the enmity on my face, and said, “Patsy, shouldn’t you be abed? Better still, back at the convent?” He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin and stood up. “I’ll carry you there myself.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t leave Papa when he was so upset. In fact, I wanted to sneak up to my father’s room and lie beside him as I did when my mother died. But Mr. Short prevented me. “You’re forgotten here in the glumness, Patsy. You’ll be better cared for at the convent, and your well-being will weigh less upon your father’s mind.”

With that, Mr. Short reached for his coat with a stance that brooked no argument.

For a young man of such good humor, there was a hard strength in William Short. And I remembered how, when we were hiding from the British, he went off into the wilderness by himself, against all advice. When he made up his mind, he was as firm in it as my father could be. Maybe even firmer. And so I had no choice but to do as he said.

But I glanced back over my shoulder at Charles Williamos with a promise to myself that I would see the obnoxious man gone from my father’s house, somehow. . . .

Paris, 11 May 1785

From Thomas Jefferson to Francis Eppes

My appointment will keep me somewhat longer. I must have Polly.

D
UE TO THE SLOWNESS OF THE POST
, we received a letter from Aunt Elizabeth telling us of Lucy’s death, seven months after it had been written. Reading the details cut us open all over again. And Papa finally wrote a letter to Uncle Frank commanding him to send Polly to us as soon as he could.

She couldn’t arrive soon enough. Knowing that I’d never see baby Lucy again, I longed for Polly. I was fond of Marie and my friends at the convent, but I began to dream of Polly and her angelic blue eyes, which made me sad upon awakening to find myself still without her.

Papa and I were still dispirited the next week when the Adams family came for a farewell dinner. Mr. Adams had been assigned to London, so we’d soon lose them across the narrow channel, which saddened me, too, because they’d been good friends. And Papa confessed their departure would leave him in the dumps.

“Oh, my poor dears,” Mrs. Adams exclaimed. “How you must mourn your little Lucy!” But it was hard to remember our sadness when Mrs. Adams swept into the house and expressed a lively opinion about every new thing she saw. She approved of Papa’s window coverings, saying they must have set him back his whole salary. She also approved of the pie we served, which delighted me, because I had helped Jimmy crimp the crust before it was put into the oven.

The only thing to spoil the farewell dinner was Charles Williamos, who dined with us again. I watched his fork flick the crust, as if he found it not to his liking. I suppose that was fair, because
he
was not to my liking either, and not merely because he suggested my father take a new wife and make a new baby to replace the dead one.

He was the sort of man who never spoke to me directly, referring to me only when forced as
the girl
. Otherwise, he didn’t seem to notice me at all. But I noticed
him
and the shrewd way he directed the dinner conversation, pushing the men to speak of politics in front of the ladies with a relentlessness that bordered on the unmannerly.

I’d have happily listened to Mrs. Adams decry the morals of Frenchwomen, or whispered gossip with her daughter Nabby, but always, Charles Williamos turned the topic to finance. How much could America borrow? How many loans had the envoys secured? And whenever a question was put to him about his own affairs, he answered it with a question of his own.

Since my mother died, I’d come to understand silences better than most. Perhaps that’s why I found something strangely suspect in the things Mr. Williamos chose
not
to say.

Later, when I crossed paths with Mr. Short in the hall, I asked, “How did my father come to be in company with Charles Williamos?”

Mr. Short rubbed his cheek in thought. “I can’t say I am entirely sure, Patsy, but why do you ask? He’s always eager to fetch whatever your father needs. He’s made himself a useful friend.”

The hollowness in my gut insisted Williamos was no friend at all. “I have no fondness for him.”

It was an unladylike thing to say and I wished I could call it back when Mr. Short raised a brow. “Why ever not?” Mr. Short shot a ferocious look in the direction of the dining room, as if he intended to be my champion against some unseen foe. “Has Charles Williamos said something to you?” he asked sharply, eyes narrowed. Then, more darkly, “Has he
done
something untoward?”

Mr. Short’s fierceness unleashed a tingle in my hollow belly and helped me voice my suspicions. “It is only that he listens differently than other men at the table. Have you not observed it? He always holds his tongue when he might offer an opinion, and is uninterested in the opinions of others unless they’re made with great specificity. He’s trying to learn something of us without allowing us to learn anything of him.”

Mr. Short appraised me, his gaze running over my face. “You noticed this just sitting at dinner, behaving yourself like a little lady?”

My head bobbed with eager agreement, sensing that it pleased him. “Should I tell Papa?”

He paused a long moment, studying me with an intensity that caused my heart to beat faster. “No. What is there to tell?” He gave a small smile. “You worry too much for your father. Now, go on to bed Patsy, it’s getting late.”

But in the morning, I knew that I’d have to return to the convent. I’d have no opportunity to protect Papa from those who didn’t understand the depths of his sensitivity. To those who felt free to opine about Papa taking a new wife, not knowing—or perhaps, not caring—that he had sworn never to do so.

My father was too trusting; it was always the case.

So, I didn’t go to bed. Instead I slipped quietly into the empty room where Charles Williamos slept at night, not knowing what I was looking for. He had few belongings and even fewer that interested me. A scattering of papers on his writing table drew me closer. None of them useful, I thought, but, then . . .

A receipt. A tailoring bill charged to Papa—surely the sort of thing my father’s secretary ought to be aware of, if the expense was incurred on my father’s behalf. It was nothing, I told myself. Or at least not much. But maybe it was
something
. . . .

I snatched it up and carried it across the hall to where Mr. Short took dictation for my father. And I left Mr. Williamos’s paper there, as if it’d merely been mislaid by a servant.

“C
ELEBRATIONS ARE IN ORDER
, Jefferson,” the Marquis de Lafayette exclaimed the next weekend over a glass of wine by the fire. “I’m told it’s now official that you’re to replace Benjamin Franklin here as minister to France.”

“No one can replace Dr. Franklin,” Papa replied. “I am only his successor.”

It was a modest reply, and Papa was earnest in his admiration for Dr. Franklin, but he couldn’t disguise his pride. He’d secured a position of great esteem and importance for our new nation. We were charged here with protecting American citizens, securing documents for travel and letters of introduction. We were to foster goodwill, educate Europeans about our new country, and make reports to America on the happenings overseas.

It was, Papa assured me, great and necessary work. I was very proud, of course. And upon hearing the news, Kitty Church behaved much better toward me. For if her father had been a rival to mine, he was no more.

In celebration, Papa took me to witness the grand procession to Notre Dame in honor of the new prince of France, born to his mother, Queen Marie-Antoinette.

Papa and I bumped and jostled along with the rest of the crowds that lined the roads. Given the harsh words some of the Frenchmen had for their queen, I was surprised they came out in such force to see her. But the moment her carriage rolled into view, the crowd roared and surged with eagerness. Such are the contradictions of monarchy, I supposed.

Even Papa was taken in by the spectacle.

“Look, look!” Papa cried, elbowing a space for me at the front of the crowd.

I clapped my hands in excitement. How beautiful the queen’s garments and how regal the king looked at her side! And yet, they were too far away to judge if they looked like their portraits in Philadelphia. “Why do some in the crowd boo the queen, Papa?”

“Because King Louis is too much governed by his queen,” Papa replied.

That hardly seemed like a thing
she
ought to be faulted for, but I held my tongue, for we were having a grand time. When the entourage disappeared, Papa and I walked hand in hand to the convent. I was a giddy girl the whole way, and didn’t want the feeling to end. “I should like to come out into society with you more often, Papa. Perhaps go with you to concerts and the theater.”

Papa smiled and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. “You’re turning into my little lady, aren’t you?” The compliment lit me up inside and I stroked my hands over the fine silk of my beautiful green skirt. In truth, I was thirteen, no longer a child, nor even a girl, but, according to the nuns at the convent,
a spring flower on the cusp of blooming
. I’d just experienced my first woman’s blood, and I felt all the more like a woman when, with great adult satisfaction, I learned on my next visit home that Mr. Williamos had been sent packing.

Papa would say nothing of why his boon companion had been so unceremoniously ejected from our embassy. So, while he changed out of his formal waistcoat and powdered wig to take an evening brandy, I went to Mr. Short.

I suspected
he
would tell me the truth about such matters, and I was right.

Closeted with an array of ink pots and quill pens scattered upon his desk, my father’s secretary explained, “Mr. Williamos was ‘sent packing’ because he had his tailoring billed to your father’s account. What’s more, he had the temerity to lay the bill of receipt on my desk!”

I dared a glance up at Mr. Short in the light of a flickering candle. “Did he?”

An eyebrow lifted at my interest. “Indeed. Of course, he accused me of ransacking his belongings to find it. Can you imagine the nerve?”

Mr. Short must’ve suspected that I was the one who ransacked Mr. Williamos’s belongings. But he didn’t scold me for my misadventure. Indeed, I saw a hint of admiration in his eyes. That emboldened me to venture, “Surely a tailoring expense isn’t the whole reason Mr. Williamos was banished. Papa is very generous with his guests.”

Short nodded. “That’s true. Your saintly father thinks too well of other men, whereas I’m a sinner with a rather peculiar talent for prying into facts.”

I tried valiantly not to imagine what sort of sins Mr. Short may have committed, but my efforts did not prevent a flutter in my belly. “Did you pry into the facts of
this
matter, Mr. Short?”

His smile was thin and conspiratorial. “I made inquiries and got word from a certain Frenchwoman that Charles Williamos is a British spy.”

I gasped. A spy!

Pleasure brimmed up inside me at the thought that I had some part in flushing out an enemy, and any guilt I still felt for my sneakiness disappeared on the spot. The rightness of my instincts justified my actions and perhaps saved my father from embarrassment or harm. It was all very well for me to study music and Latin, but I was now decided that it would be much better for our fathers and husbands—for the country itself—if all American women learned to study the manners of people and warn against the bad ones.

It is a belief in which I have never wavered since.

B
Y LATE SUMMER,
all anyone could talk about was Queen Marie-Antoinette. The fascination owed mainly to the accusation that she’d somehow persuaded the Cardinal de Rohan to secretly purchase for her an exquisite diamond necklace. Kitty Church’s bold and irreverent opinion was, “The audacious woman wanted an expensive bauble, but didn’t dare buy it
openly
while her subjects go hungry. Then, when the bill came due, she couldn’t even pay!”

It was patently false, and the nuns ought to have been embarrassed by the cardinal’s gullibility to be fooled by a woman impersonating the queen, but many of them seemed to blame the queen anyway. “How can the people believe her guilty?” I asked Papa. “The imposter signed her letter
Marie-Antoinette de France
. Even
I
know that’s not how sovereigns sign letters.”

Directing the servants as to where to place his favorite mirror in our new embassy, Papa replied, “The people believe it, because the queen of France has a reputation for callous imprudence. It sounds in keeping with her character.” He paused, to give me his full attention. “You may take a lesson from this, Patsy.
Reputation
is everything. A soiled reputation in an ordinary person may reduce them to impoverishment, but a soiled reputation in someone like the queen may take down a government.”

It was a shocking statement—one that revealed my father’s lingering revolutionary sentiments.
Did he think the French would rebel, too?
But he said no more about it.

Because he was now a minister in the Court of Versailles, we were obliged to live in a way the French believed equal to his station lest he be thought ineffectual by the foolish standards of Paris. Foolish standards or no, we were both pleased with our new two-story town-home on the Champs-Élysées. It had more rooms than I dared to count, and in shapes one wouldn’t expect. There was a coach house and a stable for the horses. A greenhouse for the plants Papa loved to collect. Even a water closet with a flush toilet!