Mr. Short might have taken it upon himself to cancel such an unwise commission—but instead, he requested the painter make another miniature for me. More astonishingly, Mr. Short asked the painter to pretend the request came from my father. This gesture, at once thoughtful, gallant, and modest, moved me deeply. It also shamed me, for there I was, snooping about in Mr. Short’s desk.
I began to wonder how many times Mr. Short had secretly interceded on my behalf. How many men with such responsibilities would take the time to worry after the feelings of a girl? How had I betrayed the trust of such a friend, even if my intentions were good? The full measure of my wickedness sank in, like a stone dropping to the bottom of the sea, when the door creaked open.
Mr. Short caught me where I should not be, still clutching my father’s love letter. Given the soft look of reproach in his eyes, he knew just what I’d come here for and why. He came toward me, reaching wordlessly for the letter. “Don’t make me wrestle it away from you, Patsy.”
I couldn’t excuse myself—nor could I lie. Red-faced and miserable in my guilt, I let him take it from me, but pleaded, “Pray throw that letter in the fire!”
He replied with an indulgent chuckle. “I’d never do such a thing. Every shining word that flows from your father’s pen is a national treasure.”
He was jesting, but I couldn’t smile. “You don’t know what’s in that letter, or how it might embarrass Papa or sully his honor.” I hated that I had to speak the words, but it was better than admitting that my father was slipping back into the state of mind that nearly ruined him.
Mr. Short gave a rueful sigh. “I have a rather good idea of what’s in this letter. Your father confided that it was a debate between the wishes of his heart and the restraint of his intellect.”
Stung that Papa had confided in Mr. Short what he wouldn’t confide in me, I said, “Then you know it’s better burned. He compared himself to a lonely monk! How can he still be so unhappy when he has your company and mine?”
Mr. Short started to reply, then snapped his mouth shut again before giving a rueful little shake of his head. “Oh, Patsy.”
My nostrils flared at his condescension. “Didn’t you tell me that my father may rely upon you? Isn’t it your duty to keep him from making an error in judgment? Sending this letter would be a grave error!”
“Patsy, it’s the very essence of liberty that a person be allowed to err.”
And we both knew how I had erred in being there like a thief in the night.
Mr. Short met my eyes. “Besides, I’m the last man on earth who may judge another for unwise associations and attachments.”
He must’ve meant the notorious women of whom he and I had once spoken. The Belle of Saint-Germain and the married Rosalie, the Duchess de La Rochefoucauld. But something made me dare to hope that Mr. Short aimed this pointed remark at me. Was he forming an attachment to me and did he think it unwise?
And yet, his apparent reference to those women made my face heat such that it took me a moment to find my voice. “It’s for God to judge, but perhaps you can advise Papa against—”
“I’ve advised your father to make a long trip to the south of France.”
So he’d counseled my papa to go somewhere he might forget Mrs. Cosway; perhaps it was good counsel. I didn’t wish to be left behind in Paris, but I wouldn’t be lonely. I had friends at the convent and no harm came to my father when he traveled to London, save for the snubbing at the hands of the English king. . . .
As if to forestall objection, Mr. Short added, “He can use the trip to investigate commercial opportunities that will enable our new nation to meet its financial obligations. It will keep him busy.”
Yes. Perhaps distraction and duty were exactly what Papa needed right now.
Mr. Short’s words were both cloak and candor. And I realized that there was no one else in the world who spoke to me this way. The garrulous Mrs. Adams spoke to me as if I’d become a woman of good sense. Papa shared with me his enthusiasm for science and inventions and architecture and music. Especially music. But only Mr. Short ever spoke to me of politics, spies, and finance. Only Mr. Short seemed to believe I had some right to know more about the revolution my family had brought about.
He didn’t treat me like a child anymore, and that was for the best, because I very much wanted William Short to know that I hadn’t been a child for quite some time.
THANKFULLY, WHEN PAPA’S WRIST HAD HEALED A BIT, he embarked on the trip to the south of France. As we stood together on the street in front of our embassy waiting for the carriage, I wished I could tell my father to forget Maria Cosway. I wished I could tell him to find joy in discovering the countryside and observing the beauty of nature—instead of the beauty of a married woman.
But I could say none of this without confessing that I’d read his letter. Instead, I let my breaths puff silently into the cold morning air, hoping he could divine my hopes in those little clouds of steam. Hoping he’d sense my love, my longing for him to confide in me where he wished only to confide in others.