The next morning, Polly opened her eyes. In the days that followed, her rash disappeared, her fever abated, and she answered when we called—her deafness cured. But Polly’s mind never entirely recovered. In the months that followed, she suffered from a torpor of intellect. When we returned to the convent school, Polly struggled with her studies. And by springtime, it was manifestly evident that the bright little girl who had charmed Abigail Adams with her cheek and sassed me into exasperation was no more.
Nevertheless, God had answered my prayer. The bargain had been struck. I was bound by my promise to take my vows and didn’t despair of it. It’d been almost seven months since Mr. Short left on his tour of the Continent, never writing a line to me in all that time. This painful silence ensured that I didn’t see for myself a future as any man’s wife, so why shouldn’t I welcome the convent as my sanctuary and salvation?
My friends at the Panthemont helped me to practice the words to tell Papa, but no combination of utterances ever seemed to capture everything I felt—and not even putting it to paper made it come out right. Still, I knew I must find a way before my father took us back to Virginia.
The matter was decided for me one Sunday in mid-April, when Polly and I returned to the Hotel de Langeac to find Sally wearing a fashionable new dress in crimson damask that matched the ribbon for her locket. Sally had a trunk full of new clothes, too. Papa had bought her expensive silks and satins, petticoats and stockings, ribbons and heeled shoes—things she’d never have need of were she to return to our plantation in Virginia.
I doubted Sally had asked for any of this largesse. My father had spoiled her, either because he felt responsible for her or in fatuated with her. Or perhaps he spoiled her because it eased his conscience for the way he’d once used her. Was it possible that he meant to free her, and leave her here in France when we returned home? Or did he intend to keep Sally Hemings with him, even as he made plans to send me and my sister back to Virginia?
The suspicion made me as sad as it made me angry, and because I was sixteen years old, it finally felt right to tell him my adult inclinations.
Chapter Eleven
Paris, 18 April 1789
To Thomas Jefferson from Patsy
I ask your blessing to take my vows and join the holy order of the convent, where I intend to live out my days with my new sisters.
THIS LETTER AND ALL THE OTHERS I ever sent my father are carefully preserved within these wooden filing presses. My father always said my letters were precious to him; I believe it now as never before. And as I hold this letter above the candle flame—for I cannot let it survive—I remember how my hands shook to write it in the first place, all those years ago.
I’d never feared my father before. I’d feared for him, but never before had I dreaded seeing him as I did the day I sent this letter. At the convent, awaiting his reply, time passed so slowly I found myself checking and rechecking the tall case clock that stood sentinel over the library as it counted out the minutes and chimed at the quarter hours.
But Papa didn’t send a reply that night.
Part of me knew he wouldn’t.
When he rode up in the carriage the next day for our weekly visit, I was afraid to meet his eyes. Thankfully, he gave no evidence that anything was amiss. Instead, he took us to the Palais-Royal, a center of gardens, theaters, shops, and cafés, with gentlemen’s clubs open from noon to midnight. I never tired of shopping amongst ladies with frilly parasols, and gentleman being carried in sedan chairs under the colonnade. But on that day, I could barely stand the unspoken tension, waiting for my father to acknowledge the note that I’d sent him.
It wasn’t until evening that Papa called me to sit with him, alone, where he sipped at wine by the fire. “Has someone at the convent proselytized to you on the subject of religion?”
“Never,” I replied, knowing how much it’d displease him if the answer were otherwise.
He stared down into his wine, which glowed like a garnet in the firelight. “In my role as ambassador, I’ve been made aware of the plight of an American girl, schooled in a convent just like you. She’s somehow been seduced into remaining there as a nun, thereby abandoning her country, her relations, and her religion. And yet, even learning this, never did I think my own daughter was just as vulnerable.”
Papa’s characterization of a religious epiphany as seduction made my belly knot. Worse was his assertion that taking my vows would amount to abandoning my family and country. How could I argue for my convictions when the man who opposed me was both beloved and formidable? I tucked my hands between my knees so he wouldn’t see them shake. “Would you forbid me to follow the dictates of my conscience?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if the question gave him great pain. “Patsy, you’re young and inexperienced. This decision needs more time and consideration. Mature reflection.”
His words were unbearably familiar. They sounded like Mr. Short’s description of his own conversation with Papa, which also turned on the subject of youth and inexperience. And heat crawled up my neck.