“The opera!” I cried. “I’ll need a new dress.”
“Yes. You’re growing so fast that I cannot keep you in clothes. But this will be a special gown. One ornamented with bows and such fripperies as the most fashionable woman in France might desire. Would that meet with your liking?”
I was so excited I nearly squeaked. The opera was no house party where I’d be swiftly sent to bed when the adult discussions began. This was the opera, where the cream of French society gathered to see and be seen. Papa would take me in my new dress, and I knew I must be well rested because the opera started late; I might not even be back to the convent by curfew!
My friends suffered with envy. None of them had ever gone to the opera on the arm of a minister to the Court of Versailles. And I gloried to know I’d have all Papa’s attention for myself and imagined how we would ride together in a glittering coach. The girls at the convent told me that I ought to be very careful alighting the carriage in my new gown, so I practiced holding my skirts in one hand and stepping down with the other.
Then I counted the days until the leaves began to fall off the trees.
On the night we were to attend, my friends tittered around me as I dressed. My stays dug into my sides and the shoes pinched my toes—but I looked womanly with my hair tied back and the faintest dusting of powder upon my nose. Marie slipped a little pot of rouge into my hand, but I dared not wear it where the nuns could see.
When the coach arrived to fetch me, I was surprised to find it empty. I’d imagined Papa would hold his hand forth to help me up. No matter, I told myself. Papa would be waiting there for me at the opera, his blue eyes bright and intent upon my face. When the carriage stopped I peeked out to see a beautiful building illuminated by lamps against the coming darkness of night. It was a magical sight, and so I stepped down just as I’d practiced and the coachman escorted me into the carpeted reception hall. I thanked him very properly and smiled at the young men who gazed curiously upon me. But my eyes were all for Papa.
He was easy to find in a crowd because he was so tall. He wore his best blue coat, and his bright white wig was perfectly arranged. As I approached, he was smiling. He looked young and vibrant—his cheeks infused with a healthy pink, as if he’d just returned from riding. He turned, summoning me closer.
Then I saw with sinking spirits that his smile wasn’t for me.
Standing with him was a little goldfinch of a woman, colorful and delicate, her tinkling laugh lighting up my father’s expression. He’d never looked at me like that; I feared he’d never looked at anyone like that. “Allow me to make introductions. Maria Cosway, this is my daughter Patsy.”
It was the first time I heard her name, but I heard it a hundred more times by the end of the night. Maria. Maria. Maria.
Papa seemed to like the sound of it on his lips.
When and how did they meet? They didn’t behave as old friends. Yet they spoke affectionately of an outing to see the crown jewels. How could my father have made such a dear friend—dear enough that he felt free to use her given name in public—without my having known about it? And where was her husband? She was a married lady—the ring on her finger revealed as much—and not a widow, I was told, when I asked.
But she didn’t behave as if there were any man in her world but my father.
The three of us sat together in our box, but only I seemed to be paying any attention to the performance of Richard Coeur-de-Lion and the farcical comedy that followed. Maria laughed during serious moments, while Papa was serious when he ought to have laughed.
And he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Chapter Seven
Paris, 12 October 1786
From Thomas Jefferson to Maria Cosway
Having handed you into your carriage, and seen the wheels in motion, I turned and walked, more dead than alive, solitary and sad. A dialogue took place between my Head and my Heart. We have no rose without its thorn; it is the law of our existence; it is the condition annexed to all our pleasures. True, this condition is pressing cruelly on me at this moment. I feel more fit for death than life. But the pleasures were worth the price I’m paying. Hope is sweeter than despair. In the summer, said the gentleman; but in the spring, said the lady: and I should love her forever, were it only for that!
I SHOULD BURN MY FATHER’S COPY OF THIS LETTER—a love letter, to be certain, written in a fashion only a sensitive heart and brilliant mind like his could’ve imagined. It unfolds, page after page, in a lengthy debate over whether or not he ought to have loved her.
This letter is a beautiful embarrassment that the world should never see.
But I cannot bring myself to destroy it with all the other evidence of his folly.