I looked up into the red and rain-soaked face of Mr. Short.
Puffing for breath, and without even a hat to protect him from the elements, he cried, “Patsy Jefferson, what the devil are you doing?”
WHILE I STRUGGLED WITH MY UMBRELLA against the rising wind, Mr. Short escorted me toward our house, all the while scolding me for rashness in leaving in the first place.
Meanwhile Marie scooped up her bedraggled poodle and said, “Mon Dieu, you two are hopeless. Come, Polly. Let’s find a roof and leave your sister and Mr. Short to argue like fools in the rain!”
Together with Sally, they dashed up the stairs while Mr. Short caught my elbow and pulled me into the empty carriage house to seek shelter amidst the extra wagon wheels, the scent of horses and liniment oils strong in my nose.
“For shame, Miss Jefferson. Have you no understanding of how critical the situation is?”
He was still in high temper with me, and much higher, I thought, than my behavior merited. “Papa says we’re in no danger.”
Mr. Short slicked rain-soaked hair back from his eyes, letting me look unhurried upon his handsome face for the first time in days. “He doesn’t want to frighten you. But yes, there’s danger. Today we arrived in Versailles to see placards everywhere, banning the commons from meeting in their hall. The king locked them out of their chambers at threat of bayonet!”
Mr. Short snapped the umbrella from my hand, our fingers brushing, then shook the rain water off it for me before setting it down against a bale of hay. Anger washed off of him and, together with his touch, heated my skin against the rain’s chill.
“It’s upon some flimsy pretext of needing to redecorate the great hall,” he continued. “Better to have said it was in mourning for the dauphin. Either way, with nowhere else to go in the rain, the deputies found shelter in the tennis court.”
“But why is this—”
“Think, Patsy,” Mr. Short said, giving me a little shake. “There are the people’s representatives, huddled together in a tennis court, surrounded by armed soldiers, yet still they insist on their right to govern themselves. They’ve vowed a sacred oath not to dissolve until a new constitution has been adopted. Never in my life have I seen such brave, patriotic men.”
“Not even in America?”
He tilted his head, and some of the anger ebbed from his eyes and brow. “Not even in America. For when your father and the others pledged to each other their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor . . . the king was an ocean away, royal troops with bayonets not literally at the door.”
Picturing such a scene, it was easy to imagine how passions might become inflamed. The king and his soldiers could slaughter the people’s representatives. The reformers might die in a single clash of new principles and ancient tradition. Their bravery became quite clear, and I wondered if they might’ve even deliberately taken this stand knowing their deaths might come to pass. Would they, in their fervor, speak of my father’s authorship of their new constitution?
Finally, a sense of alarm shivered down my spine. “Where is Papa now?”
“On his way. We came in different coaches because we feared unrest in the city might spill over and block the roads. I ran the last bit because I had to see for myself that you were safe. And what do I find but you traipsing toward danger!”
He’d come . . . for me? Hugging myself against the chill of the rain, I shook my head. “I only wanted to find you. I’ve been wanting to speak to you most desperately. . . .” I trailed off because, given what he’d just told me, my romantic longing sounded suddenly petty even to my own sixteen-year-old ears.
Nevertheless, his expression softened and he stepped closer. “No doubt, you’ve felt quite abandoned in recent days. What do you wish to speak about so desperately?”
My gaze flickered away. “I beg you to forget it, entirely. I see now that it’s a trifling matter.”
He yanked his soaked neck cloth open from where it had tightened. “Miss Jefferson, is my present state of agitation not enough to convince you that nothing is a trifling matter to me when it concerns you?”
I’d rehearsed what I’d say, how I’d get answers in the most subtle ways. But now that he was waiting so expectantly and standing so close, my heart pounded and I blurted, “You went to Saint-Germain.”
He nodded. “Yes. After being gone for eight months, I wanted to look in on—”
“The Belle of Saint-Germain,” I interrupted, the heat of jealousy burning my cheeks. “You professed love to me, but you went to see her.”
The reproach was so plain that he couldn’t mistake it. Still, he seemed untroubled. “Indeed. She’s a dear friend and I’d not seen her in nearly a year.”
His words were entirely reasonable, but I couldn’t quell my hurt feelings. “Do you claim your relations with her entirely innocent?”