I helped Papa brush the shoulders of his best blue coat while Sally hastily mended the button on his red waistcoat. With white breeches and a dark blue felted hat, he was entirely bedecked in the colors of American and French patriots. Red, white, and blue.
I wanted nothing more than to go along with him to witness the debates from the gallery, but Papa wouldn’t have approved even if he had an extra ticket. However, I was able to see the pageantry of the procession in the carriage of the elderly Madame de Tessé, the woman Lafayette called his aunt.
Thousands crowded the streets, swarmed the rooftops of every building along the avenue, clapping and reciting the famous pamphlet, “What is the Third Estate? The whole people. What has it hitherto been in our form of government? Nothing. What does it want? To become Something.”
Swept up in the excitement, I hummed along with the flutes and trumpets. Soldiers marched in blue coats with gold epaulettes, wearing their proud ranks of insignia. The king marched beneath a canopy covered in fleurs-de-lis. The purple-robed bishops and red-robed cardinals chanted as they made their way to Versailles. The nobles strolled in rank, with gold sashes and feathered hats. Then came the sea of the Third Estate, representatives of the people, obliged to dress in stygian black and slouchy hats to denote their inferior rank.
That’s all I saw of the opening day. It was not, however, my last visit to Versailles. So many great personages couldn’t be gathered together in one place, even for such serious business, without evening entertainments.
At the next ball, I danced again with the Duke of Dorset and the Duke of Polignac’s son, sending a scandalized titter through the politicized crowd, and a ripple of sighs for our precise steps so elegantly made in white-heeled shoes.
My chevalier and I stopped only for refreshments near the sideboard table, dodging dripping wax from the candelabras overhead and taking glasses of sweet wine from silver trays. My friends joined us, musing over whether or not we could sneak into the covert card game some aristocratic ladies had arranged in a private room upstairs.
It was, of course, improper for women to play cards in public, or at all, but a certain duchess was an inveterate gambler. “Speaking of dazzling duchesses,” murmured my chevalier. “Please excuse me, ladies. The lovely Rosalie has arrived and I must pay my respects.”
I turned to give my suitor a wave of farewell, but Marie grabbed my arm and pinched it so hard I yelped. “Mon Dieu, Jeffy. Don’t look up!”
It was too late. I’d already spotted the pretty Duchess de La Rochefoucauld, and there, at her side, was William Short.
Chapter Twelve
OUR EYES LOCKED across the crowded ballroom, never wavering, in spite of the servants passing with silver trays of bubbling pink champagne in crystal glasses.
Without breaking my gaze, William Short whispered a quick word into his companion’s bejeweled ear. I hated the sight of his cheek so near to the porcelain skin of her shoulder and plunging décolletage. Then hated more when he left her side to close the distance between us, striding between plumed ladies and men swaggering about with swords on their hips.
Most violently, my heart tried to take flight, leaving me suddenly breathless and light-headed. I’d yearned for our reunion, but now that it was upon me I felt utterly unprepared.
As if sensing my plight, my friends circled to form a phalanx before me in a violent swish of petticoats and lace. Marie, who had the best reason to know the pain Mr. Short’s long absence had caused me, didn’t bother with subtle gestures. She rudely shook her dance program at him as if shooing away a fly.
“Ladies.” Wearing the warmest smile, Mr. Short ignored the flapping page and bowed. “Miss Jefferson . . .”
I just stared.
Eight months he’d been absent. Eight months, without a word. Wars had been fought and won in less time. Certainly, my whole world had changed. Yet, he addressed me as if a mere day had passed since our last visit.
William Short ought not have presumed we were still friends. No, he ought not have presumed.
I finally managed an icy, “Mr. Short. What a surprise.”
“May I have a quiet word, Miss Jefferson?”
He scarcely waited for me to nod before herding me away from my coterie. I pulled away, not letting him touch me, not taking his arm, even as I followed him into an empty alcove where gold-tasseled curtains framed a tall, elegant window. I was so dizzied by his presence that the fleurs-de-lis on the blue silk wallpaper danced before my eyes, but I refused to let him see how affected I was.
I crossed my arms, seething. “I had no word you were back in Paris, Mr. Short.”
“I just arrived in the past hour, actually, which explains my state of dress.” It was then that I realized how out of place he looked in a dark coat and breeches, an outfit more fit for travel than the ballroom. “I feared I might be denied entrance, but fortunately, Rosalie vouched for me.”
The gall of mentioning her to me in this moment! My gaze narrowed and my tone chilled even more. “Fortunate, indeed.”