But it seemed to me as if the world outside of the convent was both wicked and unjust, and the only place I could be happy was at the Panthemont, where I thrived in the company of friends and God.
As autumn faded to darkest winter, and not a single letter arrived for me from William Short, the desire to remain at the Panthemont and take my vows grew more and more within me. And once I’d decided upon this course, the only question that remained was how to tell my father.
PAPA HAD DISCOUNTED THE FAITH to which I’d been called as “superstitious and hostile, in every country and every age, to liberty.” But I told myself that I didn’t care if my spiritual calling made him angry; perhaps I even hoped that it would. Still, my desires weren’t born of mere petty rebellion. I’d have opportunities to teach in the convent. I could think on great matters and help shape the minds of young girls. It was a vocation, a calling, both earthly and spiritual, to be of consequence. And because the desire rose up in me so strongly, I resolved to tell Papa at Christmas.
Why then, having found comfort in God, did I feel consumed by hellfires?
The very night I resolved to tell my father, shivering sent my teeth chattering, and yet, I burned. Outside, the canals were impassible with ice, the Seine River frozen solid, preventing shipments of grain from reaching the city. The other girls huddled together in the convent to keep warm, but a fire consumed me from the inside, and a rash had broken out on my skin.
Marie sent for an abbess. “Cher Jeffy has the typhus!”
By morning, Polly was sick, too.
We were both sent from the convent to my father’s home, with fear that we wouldn’t recover. My recollection is hazy, for I suffered from bouts of delirium. I scarcely knew day from night. I have slight memories of white snow frosting the windows and howling drafts stealing through the blankets under which I tossed and turned. One thing, however, I remember with perfect clarity: it was my father himself who tended us and no one else.
He lodged my sister and me in his own quarters, holding spoonfuls of gruel to our lips, urging us to take sips of wine, wiping our brows, cleaning our messes, and singing us little songs. The illness didn’t swiftly pass over us. And while my fa ther’s constant attentions helped ease my pain, Polly couldn’t be comforted. She suffered that bitter winter, through what Papa said was a Siberian degree of cold.
And all the time, he was never far from us. He never uttered a harsh word, no matter how often we called to him for water or cool damp cloths. He was so tender and motherly that I forgot my resentments. Forgot everything but my love for him as we were drawn together again in the fear of losing Polly.
One afternoon, I called to her from my bed and she didn’t answer. In terror, I screamed, “Papa! Make her answer. Make her answer me.”
In sweat-stained white shirtsleeves that matched his exhausted pallor, my father kissed the damp curls on my sister’s brow. “She can’t hear you,” he whispered, rocking Polly. “The fever has robbed her of hearing.”
My little sister wasn’t dead but in a stupor, deaf and insensible. At Christmas, Polly could no longer open her eyes. We had no hope she’d live to see the new year.
I half dreamed I saw my mother in our room with angel’s wings, but when I woke, I wondered if it was only the white lace curtain at the drafty window. When I asked my father if Mama was watching over us, he lowered his head to his hands and was quiet a long time. “I’d like it to be true . . . you’ll never know how I long for her, even still.”
The memory of my mother’s face had faded for me. Her voice I couldn’t remember at all. There’d been in me over the years a slow and gentle farewell. But he’d written on her gravestone that she’d been torn from him in death. He may have given up chasing her into the grave, but he was, even all these years later, still bleeding from what he considered a violent parting.
I think it was that desperation that drove him to work harder than any man I ever knew in a cause he deemed greater than himself. And in the midst of my fevered illness, when I had energy only for thoughts and little else, my heart ached in sympathy and sadness.
For I was nearly certain that Polly was to be torn from us, too. That night, I knelt over Polly’s bedside and steepled my hands in urgent prayer. Please save Polly. Save my sister’s life and I’ll give myself over to you. I’ll find the courage to tell my father. Take me as your bride and let her go. Take me and let her live. . . .