WE MUST HAVE POLLY, 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 ma?tre d’h?tel 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. . . .
Chapter Six
Paris, 11 May 1785
From Thomas Jefferson to Francis Eppes
My appointment will keep me somewhat longer. I must have Polly.
DUE 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.