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.
“CELEBRATIONS 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.