Maybe he did. “Patsy, I have a farewell gift that I hope you’ll hold close to your heart.” He withdrew from the pocket of his embroidered coat a miniature portrait of himself.
I pressed it against my chest. “Oh, it’s lovely, Papa. I’ll treasure it. Why, it must be one of a kind!” In saying this, I hoped to give him an opening. A chance to confess that it was a duplicate of the one he’d commissioned for Mrs. Cosway. A chance to beg my pardon for remembering me only because of Mr. Short’s kindness.
I waited for Papa to say these things, ready to tearfully confess my own sins. Eager for him to embrace me and reassure me that he hadn’t forgotten Mama and that he didn’t intend to return to Virginia with Mrs. Cosway and make her the new mistress of Monticello. But Papa merely kissed my cheeks. “I’ll write to you so often you won’t even know I’m absent from Paris.”
Then he climbed into the carriage and was gone.
Watching the wheels of Papa’s carriage rumble down the street, I backed up the stairs to find Mr. Short waiting there. Still smarting with disappointment, I asked, “So, I suppose you’re to be master of the embassy while Papa is away?”
“Custodian anyway.” He clasped his hands behind his back, swaying with faux hauteur upon his buckled shoes. “But since you’ve also been entrusted to my care, I’m uncertain as to which duty will be more trying.” He raised a brow, as if to remind me that he knew a part of my nature to which the rest of the world was blind. “If you have any care for the prospects of my career, make certain I’m not forced to account to your father for bad behavior while in my charge.”
I did have a care for the prospects of Mr. Short’s career. I had a very great care. And so, when he next came to the convent to pay my tuition, I quizzed him on France’s financial troubles, which, to my ear, sounded like a very grown-up topic indeed.
“The finance minister has called for tax reform,” Mr. Short explained as we strolled through the convent’s inner courtyard past neatly trimmed shrubbery and an explosion of spring flowers in yellow, red, and pink. “And at least half the city stands insulted by the king’s refusal to put the matter before parlement.”
“I’ve heard the political quarrel has spilled out into the streets in scuffles,” I said, a little ashamed of the thrill in my voice, especially since it wasn’t the danger that excited me, but the nearness of Mr. Short. How had I never noticed before how noble a profile he had? And his green eyes . . . how could eyes be so strangely world-weary and enchanting at the same time?
“Men will fight for liberty,” Mr. Short was saying, sounding very much like Papa. “But there’s always a risk that fighting will descend into lawlessness.”
“Then I’m glad our revolution is over in America.”
Mr. Short’s lips twitched up. “You think our revolution is over and done, Patsy?”
“Have we not wrested our liberty from the British?”
“We’ve won, at force of arms, the right to draw up a Constitution. Yet, you need look no further than your father’s own plantation in Virginia—or indeed, our embassy kitchen—to see that liberty hasn’t been secured for all men.”
My lips parted in astonishment. Mr. Short was unwilling to judge my father for his affair with Mrs. Cosway, but on the matter of slavery, I heard the very certain note of censure. Bristling, I said, “I suppose the Virginia gentlemen of Spring Garden, from whence you hail, don’t keep slaves?”
“Not this Virginia gentleman,” he said, with a determined shake of his head. “I entered this world with a small patrimony. I hope to grow my investments such that my fortune may sustain me. But I will not water it with the infamous traffic in human flesh. The practice compromises our morals and teaches us a habit of despotism.”
His vehemence took me entirely unawares. I couldn’t imagine this was a conversation of which my father would approve, but the lure of discussing anything with an impassioned Mr. Short proved too much to resist. “Then what—what is to be done about slavery?”
Mr. Short turned us into the bright green hedge maze. “I haven’t an answer yet. But I intend to join a society for effecting the abolition of the slave trade.”
As we walked, Mr. Short explained to me his vision for a world where slavery was no more and men lived in equality and deference to the law. And for once I didn’t curse my long legs, for I had no trouble matching his stride as our shoes fell into rhythm together. I’d always taken him for a pragmatist—a shrewd man if not an entirely virtuous one. But that day I learned he was a man whose ideals were as lofty as my father’s.
Perhaps loftier.
When he left me, I raced up to the bedroom so that I could stand at the window overlooking the street to watch him go. Marie came upon me and flounced atop the embroidered-coverlet of the bed, propping herself up on one elbow in bored repose. When she glanced out the window to see the retreating figure of Mr. Short, her mouth formed a little circle of surprise. “Mon Dieu! Jeffy, you are smitten.”