“I’d grieve of it,” Papa said. “I’ve set a plan for Tom’s education. I want him to study law in France for two years, then embark on a political career. He could be a great man of Virginia. He has the aptitude for it and the Randolph name. Not to mention lands and fortune.”
That was my clue. So nakedly obvious I nearly dropped my opera glasses. Mr. Short was a Virginia gentleman with ability and ambition, but he’d divested himself of almost all his landholdings to follow us to Paris. Mr. Short said he had entered the world with a small patrimony, and now, as far as I knew, he relied entirely upon his modest salary. A salary my father perhaps thought too modest to provide for a wife. I understood the importance of financial security, but many of Mr. Short’s other attributes recommended him. Confusion and sorrow left me unable to reply.
Only one thing seemed clear. Papa disapproved of the man who had claimed my heart. And so he was sending him away.
SOME PART OF ME DIDN’T BELIEVE Mr. Short would really leave Paris. Certainly not without a note to explain himself. And some part of me refused to believe it right up until the afternoon when, with guarded eyes, he kissed my gloved hand in farewell, climbed into a carriage, and rolled away.
I stood on the cobblestones, staring after that carriage, half expecting it to stop or even turn back. Only when it was long out of sight and I was shivering against a cool autumn breeze did I finally surrender to reality.
Miserable with longing, I went inside and eased into the chair behind the desk where Mr. Short did his work, reaching for some essence of him in the things he’d left behind. A quill pen. An inkwell. A page of paper.
Nothing more.
Not even a note for me to tear to pieces and throw into the fire.
That night, I sat near a different fire, wondering why it would not warm me and whether or not I was so heartbroken that I would never feel warm again. Seemingly oblivious to my distress, Papa bade us to see how neatly Sally mended a silk stocking. At her master’s praise, she bent to show us her work, and I caught a glimpse of a locket round her neck. A silver oval stamped with flowers and tiny hearts hung on a crimson ribbon, delicate and lovely as the girl it adorned.
“It’s so pretty, Sally,” Polly said, reaching to trace the filigreed locket. “Where did you get it?”
“C’est un cadeau de mon—mon patron,” Sally said, revealing her near fluency in French. “A gift!” Her glance flicked to my father where he sat reading a book in his stuffed armchair. And though Papa never met her gaze, he smiled.
For a moment, I wondered if there was something in his smile beyond kindness. Sally spent her days lighting fires, dusting books, mending stockings, sewing on buttons, and helping James in the kitchen. But how did she spend her nights? She had a cot in the servants’ quarters under her older brother’s watchful eye, but no one would question if Papa should call for her at bedtime. And how could she refuse?
What if the locket wasn’t just a gift, but . . .
No. As resentful as I was at my papa, he’d been nothing but gentlemanly with Sally since the night I saw him kiss her. Besides, how could I trust myself to see attraction or affection between a man and a woman, when I hadn’t even properly understood Mr. Short’s feelings for me?
I put it out of my head and dismissed it entirely. I was too miserable with my own troubles to care about the dresses and baubles my father bestowed upon his servants. And to add to my misery, in November we learned Papa had requested a congé—a leave of absence that would enable us to return to Virginia.
When I gently questioned the decision, he only said, “When we came to France, I supposed an appointment of five months. We’ve been here five years. Affairs at home can no longer wait, and political passions here are poised to erupt. I must see you and your sister settled in a more appropriate place.”
“You intend to leave us in Virginia?” I asked, horrified. Was it to rid himself of the temptation Sally presented or to keep me away from Mr. Short? I couldn’t ask. I didn’t dare ask. And what answer could he have given that would’ve been a balm to my savaged heart?
“It’s for the best,” was all he said.
And I sat there, staring up at the painted domed ceiling to keep hot tears of helpless anger from escaping the corners of my eyes. Because what I thought best didn’t matter. It wasn’t even deemed proper for me to acknowledge my feelings for William. Not to him, nor to my father, who had not felt the need to consult me. I’d had no say—no sway, even—in his decision to release William, nor in William’s decision to go. Or even whether or not I wanted to return to Virginia. And I never would have a say, because in the world outside the convent, men did as they pleased and women were left to simply accept the consequences.