America's First Daughter: A Novel

by Stephanie Dray

  And so, in the helpless way of a girl who has never learned to guard that heart, I’d fallen most desperately in love with him.

  It didn’t matter that I was angry. It didn’t matter that I believed him a knave. It didn’t matter that I’d decided to take my vows.

  Try as I might to deny it, my chest felt empty and hollow on the days when we were parted. And that exquisite suffering was replaced with a swelling ache when I came again into his company. Yes, I was a young girl with a secret love. And this tortured predicament was made only more agonizing by my father’s decision to tour Europe in March of that year, leaving instructions that Mr. Short was to watch over me and Polly while he was away.

  IN PAPA’S ABSENCE, Mr. Short’s attention turned to me. He came to the convent within days of my father’s departure, ostensibly to ask after Polly’s health. Strolling through the courtyard, he said, “I want to be able to assure your father that she’s recovered of her illness.”

  “She was recovered of it before Papa left,” I replied, coldly. “But I’ll write a letter if he’s worried.”

  “I’ll wait, should it please you to have my company while you compose… .” There was a thread of hope in his voice, but I knew that my friends at the convent were watching us from the windows above.

  So I only shook my head. “I would rather send my letter tonight for you to enclose with your own.”

  The disappointment that flashed through his eyes pleased me. And he was back again three days later. Then six days after that. Each time, I remained perfectly placid, according him civility but not more than that. Until, at last, he visited on the pretext of delivering to me an allowance. “Your father sent this payment, some for you, some for your tuition, and some to the servants.”

  It was the mention of the servants that made me say, “I’d like Sally to stay at the convent with us. We’ll be glad to have our lady’s maid close at hand.”

  Settling beside me on a bench, and casually crossing his leg at the knee in a way that drew my eyes to the strong and lean muscle of his calf beneath its white silk stocking, Mr. Short replied mildly, “Your father considered sending Sally to stay with you but didn’t approve the cost of boarding her at the convent.”

  “How much can it cost? Perhaps with my allowance and Sally’s savings—”

  “No. Your father doesn’t wish to invite inquiries as to the special status of his servants. Such inquiries might not only prove embarrassing to him, but also result in a substantial fine for his failure to register his black servants as per French law.”

  It surprised me that my father, a great believer in laws, was breaking one. “How large a fine?”

  Mr. Short’s voice did not waver. “Three thousand livres for Sally and James, each. Six thousand in all. Should their slave status be brought to the attention of the authorities, both of them might be arrested and expelled from the country … or, conversely, they might both file a petition for emancipation in the Admiralty Court. Which is certain to be granted, by the way.”

  There are no slaves in France. That was the official policy.

  But the specificity with which Mr. Short imparted the legal procedure was not only a revelation, but also a weapon. He must have struggled over whether or not to make the Hemingses aware of their path to freedom. And now I’d have to struggle with it, too. I remember thinking that if he were any kind of a gentleman, he wouldn’t have burdened me with it. Then again, no other man would have guessed it would burden me. “How fares your conscience, Miss Patsy?”

  The question drew me back to the night of my discovery, back into my confusion and outrage. “I cannot imagine what you mean.”

  His gaze darkened. “In addition to your other cruelties toward me, are we to now add dishonesty to the mix?”

  I gasped. “My cruelties? What injury do you imagine I’ve done you?”

  The squeezing pang of my heart belied my need to ask. I’d seen the shielded flashes of hurt and disappointment in his eyes, the crestfallen expressions, the false cheerfulness at my coldness. I’d never known before it was possible to enjoy being cruel to a man, and I’d reveled in it.

  His eyes didn’t shield the hurt this time but allowed it there plainly for me to see. “You’ve held yourself so distant from me that the only logical conclusion I can draw is that you intend to cause me distress.”

  I lifted my chin, though my chest throbbed with guilt. “Why, I didn’t suspect you’d even notice being held at a distance, Mr. Short. You’re known to immerse yourself in your own amusements. Why, not long ago, I saw you pay visit to my dressing chamber at the Hotel de Langeac.”

  He paled, as he ought to have. But when he recovered from his shock, he said, “Please believe I meant no disrespect or impropriety.”

  “As I’m sure Sally can attest.” This bitter rejoinder escaped my lips before I could stop it, and I regretted it at once.

  Especially when Mr. Short only tilted his head in apparent bewilderment. “Sally?” he asked, as if he’d never heard her name. “I waited until she went down for a broom so I wouldn’t be seen.”

  I was now equally bewildered … and scandalized. “You don’t mean to imply that you came to see me in my private chambers, do you?”

  Where he’d been pale, color suddenly flooded his cheeks. “Do you take me for a scoundrel?” And when he saw I might answer that question, he hurried forth to say, “I suppose you must. I’m a bit of one, but not in this. At least, it was in no way my intent for you to ever discover… .” He shook his head.

  I hadn’t the faintest idea how to react. “Mr. Short, if you weren’t visiting my dressing room to see Sally nor to see me, then why were you there?”

  He glanced away. “Ask me again when your father returns.”

  He meant for that to be the end of the discussion, but because my heart was pounding against my ribs beneath my stays, I feared my unfulfilled curiosity would kill me. “You speak of my cruelty, Mr. Short, yet you refuse to answer the simplest question.”

  “Patsy, leave it be.”

  Until that moment, I didn’t know I had the capacity for coercion, but Mr. Short brought out a great many things in me I didn’t know were there. “Since you’re so concerned that the matter must wait until my father’s return, I’ll simply write him about it… .”

  Mr. Short turned to me with an expression of astonishment at my threat. “And to think everyone who meets you praises you as such a good-natured, happy girl with the charm of a perfect temper. Everyone from Abigail Adams to the nuns at your convent assure your father that you’re a girl with the utmost simplicity of character.” He gave a rueful laugh. “None of them knows you in the slightest.”

  I took instant offense. “I behave as Papa wishes me to behave.”

  “And he knows you least of all. You’re his Amazon disguised as an angel.”

  This was another insult, or at least, it should’ve been. And yet, I sensed in Mr. Short’s tone the hint of approval. Nevertheless, I became painfully aware that we were quarreling in an abbey under the eyes of gossipy girls. “Thank you for your visit, Mr. Short. You may assure my father that I won’t spend my allowance on fripperies.”

  It was a dismissal, so he rose, stiffly. Tipped his hat, curtly. But he didn’t take his leave. “What a mess of this I’ve made,” he murmured. Then, with one gloved hand, he reached into his coat and pulled from some inner pocket a folded note of linen paper. He placed it gently on the seat beside me, and added, almost timidly, “Mercy, Mademoiselle. I beg of you.”

  My mind raced with all manner of villainy that might’ve been written upon that paper, but when I opened it, I found no ink at all. Just a blank page, between the folds of which was pressed a glossy curl of ginger. “Is this—is this a clipping of my hair?”

  Mr. Short cringed, as if in the greatest mortification. As if he might like to jump the gates and hop out of the convent, escaping into the streets on foot. “You’re most unkind to ask. An angel would’ve spared me the humiliation.”


  Of a sudden, my heart pounded even harder and a flush heated my skin. “Then I vow to pretend I know nothing about it.”

  He sighed with resignation. “On the day Sally cut your hair, I took this clipping before she could sweep it up. I hope you can forgive my act of petty larceny.”

  The implications of this confession broke a fissure in my resentment like the sun cracking open a frozen river. Mr. Short hadn’t sought out a private moment with Sally. He’d stolen a token of mine! Overcome with a rush of emotion, I pressed a hand to my chest, crushing the front of my crimson frock, and breathed in, as if for the very first time. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  He removed his hat and stared at his feet with chagrin. “With our friendship imperiled, I felt the want of a keepsake to remind me of happier times.”

  My heart insisted it was more than that. I recalled the gold watch key containing a braided lock of my mother’s hair that Papa had commissioned. So that he’d never forget her. So that he’d carry her with him always. Mr. Short wanted that kind of connection … with me? “Why didn’t you simply ask me for such a token?”

  “I thought you’d be ill-disposed to such a request. Moreover, I’d never presume without your father’s permission. And given that Mr. Jefferson had just confided his intention to leave you and your sister under my protection, any discussion of my feelings for you would have sounded suspect, if not depraved.”

  Mon Dieu! I thought I might fall into a breathless swoon before I got the words out. “What are your feelings for me?”

  “Ask me again,” Mr. Short said, snatching back the token of hair from my grasp, “… when your father returns.”

  Chapter Ten

  WAS THERE EVER A TIME OR PLACE for love better than spring in Paris?

  With my father away, William Short and I exchanged witty little notes, discussed books, and railed at the injustice of French commoners paying taxes, while nobles and clergy were exempt. We marveled together at the revolutionary spirit in Paris. Indeed, we knew ourselves to be caught up in a singular moment in history, and hoped the whole world, inspired by my father’s ideals, was poised to make itself over anew.

  All the while, I kept my vow; I pretended not to know about the lock of hair. At least, I never again made mention of it during Mr. Short’s dangerously frequent visits to the convent. Nor did he openly declare his feelings for me. Indeed, during our long walks, we thought ourselves models of restraint, our behavior above the suspicion of even the most censorious nun.

  Though we were far too clever together to let restraint, or propriety, or even our confinement get in the way of affection’s bloom.

  When it rained and we were forced to shelter under the cold, gray arches of the Panthemont, we shared a little bag of chocolate drops. Mr. Short said, “Let’s warm ourselves by painting a mental picture of a sun-drenched field… .”

  I laughed, delighted. “Given my lack of talent for drawing, I fear to take up the imaginary brush. What else do we see but a field?”

  “Some trees.” He grinned. “Perhaps a church tower in the distance.” His grin widened. “A pair of sweethearts picnicking together.”

  Smiling, too, I closed my eyes to the pitter-patter of rain, allowing myself to imagine sprawling upon a blanket with him in the sun. “Are these sweethearts well suited?”

  “Too soon to tell, but they’re both enormously fond of chocolate drops, so I have high hopes for them.”

  That made me laugh. Dear Mr. Short. “Is a mutual fondness for chocolate drops a strong basis for affections?”

  “It is if you understand how seriously this fellow regards his confections… .”

  Blinking with guile I asked, “Oh, is he a chocolatier?”

  Mr. Short chuckled, his green eyes dancing with mirth. “A country lawyer by training, but he was induced to serve a diplomat in a foreign land. He’s very dashing and a sprightly dancer, too.”

  The desire to twit him was irresistible. “Aha! I’ve guessed who our sweethearts are. Nabby Adams and her father’s secretary, the dashing Colonel Smith.”

  Mr. Short smirked. “No, but our sweethearts are similarly situated.” Then, more peevishly— “You really think Colonel Smith is dashing? He’s a dreadfully stiff dancer and whenever the man sings, he’s off-key.”

  “I thought he was your friend!” I exclaimed, warming inside at his displeasure in my complimenting Colonel Smith.

  “He is my friend. That’s why I’m so well acquainted with his faults. I taunt him for his lack of musicality and he taunts me about the elderly Frenchwomen who are taken by my charms.”

  It wasn’t only elderly Frenchwomen who were taken by his charms, but I refused to let the thought dim my enjoyment of our game. “Let’s return to the sweethearts in our imaginary painting. Does the fellow enjoy his work?”

  “He does, though he’s worked for years now, without respite. He arrived desperately eager to see the Continent, but his employer hasn’t been able to do without him.”

  It was a mild, implied complaint that made me laugh, for I believed my papa’s resistance had more to do with his fears about young American men being at great risk of corruption in Europe. “To work so hard, without respite, this fellow must be either industrious or ambitious.”

  “Very ambitious,” was Mr. Short’s answer. “He’d like to be of both service and consequence to his country.”

  My heart fluttered anew. How could I not admire such a man? “How brave to make his career so far from home.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t make too much of his courage. He was so seasick on the way to his post that he now contemplates staying abroad forever rather than face the crossing again.”

  I smiled at the admission of the shortcoming. “But wouldn’t he miss his country?”

  Mr. Short contemplated, one finger tapping his lips in a way that drew my gaze there. “He already does, but he’s not homesick for some of its peculiar customs. He’d like to return to his native land, secure a comfortable fortune as a planter, and make a home for a suitable wife, but he worries it cannot be done except at the cost of his sacred honor. Do you think that’s something his sweetheart could understand?”

  I swallowed, trying to make sense of his question. “That depends … is his sweetheart a French girl?”

  “Virginian.”

  In spite of my intention to remain coolly, flirtatiously aloof, my breath caught and my lips parted as I met his pointed gaze. “Then she understands.”

  How ignorant I was. I’d never before given any thought to how difficult it was to prosper in Virginia without slaves. Never contemplated the obstacles of leasing lands to free sharecroppers. Never racked my brain to choose crops requiring only the labor that might keep both a plantation and conscience in good order. The only thing I understood was that Mr. Short was fearful of returning to a way of life in Virginia that he despised.

  “And the girl in this picture?” he asked. “What does she dream for her future?”

  As tangled as my thoughts had become, the question took me utterly unawares. I had, from the youngest age, been given directives. How to comport myself in a way that honored my father. What to learn to make myself a more pleasing companion. I still heard my mother’s reedy voice bidding me to take care of my father all of the days of his life. No one had ever asked me what I wanted. “What can you mean?”

  He mischievously stole the last chocolate drop and held it just out of my reach. “What sort of life do you think she’d like to lead? Does she wish to marry or give herself to spinsterhood? Does she see herself the lady of a house in town, visiting with her friends and debating in salons? Does she see herself the mistress of a vast country plantation, brewing beer, slaughtering pigs, haying in its season?”

  My father always spoke as if I would, inevitably, return to take up life on a plantation. Except for my now mostly forgotten desire to join the convent, other choices had never before been presented to me. And when faced with this dizzying array, the words that bubbled up fro
m within me were born of raw instinct. “She dreams of a future in which she, too, might be of both service and consequence to her country.”

  It was an absurd answer. Mr. Short might’ve laughed in mockery. Or he might’ve presumed it was a docile, noncommittal reply, rather than the ambitious and prideful one it really was. But knowing I was my father’s daughter in this, and everything, he stared with wonder, surrendering to me the last chocolate drop. “Well, then, Miss Jefferson, the sweethearts in this idyllic painting are very well suited indeed.”

  THE ONLY THING that clouded our sunny romance was the seemingly endless wait for my father’s return. It came in April, when Papa rolled up to the convent with a carriage full of gifts for me and Polly. He was eager to talk about the food, art, and ideas the soils of Germany had given him about the best design for a plow. And though he could no longer play the violin with any real skill, due to his injury, I made enough music for the both of us with my new harpsichord, a thing we both treasured.

  Papa’s buoyant spirits delighted Polly and reassured me that he’d be receptive to Mr. Short, should he choose to declare himself for me. Waiting for that fateful moment at the convent school, I huddled together with Marie, my only confidante in such matters, and anxiously counted the days before we’d dine together at the Hotel de Langeac. Polly, Papa, me, and Mr. Short. What a pleasant little family of four we’d make!

  I was puzzled, then, upon our end-of-week visit, to find Mr. Short not there. My father pulled me into a hug, chiding me gently that I’d not seen fit to pen him but a few lines while he was away. I was ashamed of my neglect, for it was born of my infatuation, and I almost told him as much when asking after Mr. Short.