And now that my father is dead, I’m left to wonder why.
That summer, my father came to Edgehill to fetch me in a fine carriage pulled by even finer horses. At the sound of wheels grinding up the road, I came flying out of the house, my daughters behind me, squealing with glee to see the kindly grandfather who sent them books and poems and other treats with every packet.
My children all loved him, and he loved each of them in return. And I nearly envied my children the sweet, playful side Papa always showed them. If I were to tell them that he’d once been a stony and remote father with exacting standards, they’d scarcely believe me. Why, watching him play the Royal Game of Goose with my children as we loaded up the carriage, I could scarcely believe it myself.
And I’d lived it!
“This visit is going to restore our spirits, Martha,” Papa said, boldly placing a smooch on my cheek when we were ready to leave. How I basked in his love and affection.
Tom and Jeff would follow our caravan on horseback, but I climbed into the carriage with my father. As the wheels rattled on, I said, “I’m relieved to see you’ve somehow come home without your presidential entourage. I hope we won’t have many visitors this summer.”
“Just the Madisons.” My father bounced little Ginny on his knee with genuine delight. “And one special visitor we’ve been waiting to see for a very long time: Mr. Short.”
It’d been nearly thirteen years since I left William Short in Paris. Thirteen years.
In that time, I’d taught myself to forget him. But when Papa told me that he was to visit with us, my practiced indifference unraveled. And I couldn’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse that my husband knew nothing about my anxieties at this reunion.
One evening, Tom asked, “So this Mr. Short, was he one of your suitors in Paris?”
I’d just finished playing the harpsichord for the Madisons and my fingers froze over the keys, unable to make my tongue move in answer. Fortunately, Papa rescued me by saying, “Oh, Patsy had a gaggle of suitors in Paris. Even the son of a duke, I seem to recall.”
I smiled gratefully at my father, but Mr. Madison’s face pinched in a sour disapproval far more affecting than it ought to have been from such a tiny little man. “Mr. Short has had a very storied career.”
Madison’s wife—whom everyone was encouraged to call Dolley—put her delicate hand on his arm and laughed until the careless plume with which she’d ornamented her hair shook with merriment. “They do say Mr. Short has a way with money, and he’s done the country a great service.” Then her eyes twinkled with the promise of juicy gossip. “But I’ve heard notorious stories about him living in open congress with his lover . . . a French harlot at that.”
Tom’s eyes widened.
My father winced.
I did not. “The Duchess Rosalie is no harlot.”
“Oh, you knew her?” Dolley asked me, leaning forward with rosy pink cheeks that matched the satin of her gown. “I suppose you’re quite right to hold her blameless. It’s Mr. Short who hasn’t made an honest woman of her. He’s allowed himself to be debauched away from the morals of his countrymen. I daresay, in returning to America, he’s likely found himself in another world. It’s good that he isn’t returning with the duchess on his arm or the stain on his honor would be more difficult to wash out.”
As painfully shy and withdrawn as my sister had become, this prompted her to break in with, “Perhaps we ought not judge them too harshly. I remember Mr. Short very kindly from our time in Paris.”
“Well, you would, you sweet dear,” Dolley said. “You give us all a good example to follow. We must be very kind to Mr. Short, for I fear our neighbors won’t be so forgiving.”
What I feared was that William wouldn’t be forgiving. Had he ever forgiven me? I still had Marie’s letter—the one that said how angrily he’d denied loving me. I wondered if he was angry still. And I wondered, too, how he might look now, at the age of forty-three. I hoped he’d grown bald and portly. Certainly, he wouldn’t be as handsome as my own husband, whose beauty had only sharpened with years.