It was a dismissal. James gave a stiff bow. Sally curtseyed. Then both withdrew, leaving me alone with my father.
In their wake, Papa rubbed his temples. “I face threats of abandonment on all sides.”
It felt like a rebuke. Was he still stung by my desire to take the veil? Oh, how, in my distress, I wanted to reassure him that was done now and that all I wanted was to become the wife of Mr. Short and live with both of them forevermore!
But before I could think of even a way to hint at such a thing, Papa said, “It pains me not that he wants his freedom. . . .” I suspected he’d be furious that James had spoken to him in a way that slaves never spoke to their masters. Perhaps he was deeply troubled by the potential loss of their services and hard-pressed to find another chef so well trained to the peculiarities of his palate. But he didn’t seem angry. “It’s that he could think to leave us and condemn his delicate sister to an uncertain and hardscrabble life in a place so far from home.”
Papa was worried. And wounded. Hurt as he’d been, when, on his knees, he’d begged me not to join the nunnery. A possessive man, his distraught expression told me he took the specter of freedom for James and Sally as yet another deeply personal loss. But I knew it was more than that because I’d heard him speak many times of his honor-bound duty to protect and care for his people.
I debated how to comfort him, especially since I supported James’s desire for freedom. Papa and I both believed slavery to be wrong. We both ought to have applauded the man’s stand. Yet, beyond the loss of talent and property that James’s departure would represent, was the truth that Papa hated little more than to be left behind.
As Mama had done, and Lucy, and as I had nearly done.
But in this, he would simply have to accept it. It would be good for him to accept it. So I drew a deep breath and said, “In any other circumstances, I’m sure they’d never leave us. Perhaps Sally and James can remain in France in your employ a bit longer. Mr. Short can watch over them during your leave. We’re very fortunate to have Mr. Short for such a constant friend, aren’t we?”
“Quite.” Papa pulled his tray of leafy specimens closer and retrieved his magnifying glass. One of my father’s many scientific acquaintances had requested his opinion on classifying flora he’d found on his estate, and Papa had been poring over Linnaeus’s Philosophia Botanica all afternoon. After a moment, he frowned and lowered the looking glass.
It was a frown that shot an arrow of worry through me. There had been, since Mr. Short’s return, a slight undercurrent of impatience between the two—as if the nature of their relationship had changed. Until this moment, I’d dismissed it as merely the tension of the political moment, but now I was forced to ask, “You are happy Mr. Short returned to us, aren’t you, Papa?”
“Indeed. William has returned charged like a bee with the honey of wisdom, a blessing to his country and an honor to his friends. I think no one is happier for his return than me, save for his friends in Saint-Germain.” In the clearing of his eyes and disappearance of the furrow in his brow, it seemed the change of subject brightened Papa’s disposition. If only a little.
But now it was my turn to frown, for I knew of only one friend in Saint-Germain. A sweetheart I thought Mr. Short had given up long ago. “He’s gone to Saint-Germain tonight?” My heart threatened to creep into my throat in anticipation of the answer.
“Not tonight, no,” Papa said, casually, though I sensed some purpose behind his words. “I’d be surprised if he went again to Saint-Germain so soon after his last visit. . . .”
My heart lodged solidly in my throat. What could he mean?
Leaning in over his specimens again, Papa added, almost as an aside, “Patsy, we must be good to Mr. Short, for I fear he may soon suffer a great disappointment.”
My bewilderment turned to fear. Had Papa guessed at our love? Did he plan to forbid it? Nearly breathless with anxiety, I asked, “What disappointment?”
Papa glanced to his notes. “I’ve pressed his appointment in my absence as chargé d’affaires with my superiors as far as is prudent, but Mr. Short isn’t known to them. He may not get the appointment.”
I contemplated what that might mean for Mr. Short—and for me. “Will this ruin his future?”
“He may believe so, but it may be his salvation. It would do him good to return to America at the soonest opportunity. Men too long in France acquire a fondness for luxury and a contempt for the simplicity of our own country.”
His words left me utterly appalled. “You cannot doubt Mr. Short’s patriotism!”
“Of course not.” Papa drew his gaze back to me. “I’m merely observing that, in my experience, young men in France get caught up in destructive affairs of the heart. They learn to consider fidelity to the marriage bed as an ungentlemanly practice.”