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!
Of course, we’d need more servants. A coachman, a gardener, and a housekeeper, too. Jimmy Hemings couldn’t be expected to do it all. And, in truth, I’d begun to worry for our mulatto slave to be seen in the dining room where he provided ammunition to those who mocked my father as our slaveholding spokesman for freedom. But after hearing Mr. Short worry aloud that he wasn’t sure how Papa would manage all this on a salary of five hundred guineas per annum, I fretted at the expense of my new gown—lavender silk with a ribbon of lace for my neck in the place of jewels.
Nevertheless, we had a grand time together at a musicale, and afterward, at home, Papa sighed and said, “I miss it.”
“What do you miss?”
Absently fingering the watch key in which he kept a braid of my mother’s hair, he said, “Music.”
His reply ought to have puzzled me, for we had heard more music—and in more variety—since coming to Paris than any time past. But he used to make music with my mother, and he was merely a listener now.
“I should very much like to hear you play your violin, Papa.”
He blinked down at me. “It’s a lonely instrument without accompaniment.”
Till then, I had been a middling student of music. More enthusiastic than talented. But in that moment a desire bloomed inside my chest to sing and play as beautifully as my mother had so that neither of us might ever be so lonely again. “Shall we choose a duet, Papa?”
His lashes swept guardedly down over his blue eyes, as if he meant to refuse and retire early to bed. But then his lips quirked up at one corner and he called for his violin.
We made music that night, and every night I was home from the convent.
And I think Papa forgot his cares.
I think he forgot that Lucy was dead and that Polly still hadn’t made the crossing of the sea to be with us, despite Papa’s repeated requests. I think he forgot all our unhappiness. And I think I forgot it, too.
At least until the carriage ride home, when he spoiled it all by telling me that he was going to England. “Only for a few weeks, Patsy. You needn’t be afraid.”
But my memory resurrected our most harrowing days. I lived in dread of British soldiers since the night we had fled Monticello. It was an English king who declared my papa a traitor and tried to capture him. “It’s England, Papa.”
“John Adams reports a civil reception in London,” Papa said, to allay my fears. “Besides, I’ve fought too long against tyrants to let the terrors of monarchy keep my girl awake at night.”
This left me with only one suggestion. “Then let me go with you. I’d very much like to see Nabby again.”
“You have your schooling,” Papa said firmly. “The more you learn, the more I love you. Lose no moment in improving your head, nor any opportunity of exercising your heart in benevolence. Your duty is to attend your studies at the convent. My duty takes me to England.”
What of the duty Mama had bestowed upon me to watch over him?
Nevertheless, Papa left me in the care of Mr. Short, who had command of the American embassy while my father was away. I believed it was the increased responsibility that was behind the infrequency of Mr. Short’s visits to the convent and not—as my friends whispered behind their hands—that he spent all his free time in the company of notorious women. But their rabid gossip gave me the strangest sinking feeling, so I refused to even acknowledge it.
On the day he came to pay my tuition, Mr. Short reported, “Your father has arrived safely in England. He bids me to look after your happiness.”
Tartly, I replied, “I’d be a good deal happier if he’d write me.”
Mr. Short straightened his cravat and gave a sympathetic smile as we walked together on the convent grounds. “Perhaps he’ll return with a little gift . . . I have it on good authority that he’s ordered a special harpsichord for you.”