America's First Daughter: A Novel by Stephanie Dray, Laura Kamoie Page A

was shockingly sentimental, even for a Frenchman, and it took me several moments to sift through his emotional speech. I heard the names of my sisters. An illness, born of teething, worms, and whooping cough, had swept through my aunt and uncle’s household, striking all the children.
    “Your little Polly survived,” said Lafayette. “But baby Lucy is gone.”
    Gone? I pressed a hand to my shuddering chest and struggled to draw in a breath. The pain started as a sting in my heart and burned its way out until I had to choke back a sob. Never once had I imagined my separation from my sisters to be final. Never had I thought our hasty farewell to baby Lucy at Eppington would be the last. I’d written a letter to Aunt Elizabeth just weeks ago with wishes for Lucy she did not live long enough to hear. To learn the sweet girl had been gone for over three months and I hadn’t known it, I hadn’t felt it, I hadn’t sensed the loss.
    What a wretched sister I was!
    And, poor Polly. Just six years old and she’d already lost her mother and sister to death’s grip. And here we were, so far away. The sob finally broke free. My mother bade me to watch over my father, but what of my sisters? I was to watch after them, too, to protect the little family that Mama so loved, and I was stunned by my failure.
    Papa made a quick farewell to Lafayette, all but shutting the door in his face. Then he leaned against the wall, shuddering with grief. He thumped his fist on the wood to punctuate each moan and sob. I fell against him, hugging his waist, pressing my face against his rib cage where his heart thudded. His body muffled my wails, and his shirt absorbed my tears. He clutched at me and I clutched at him as if we were wrestling. Perhaps we were.
    We were wrestling the pain, thrashing against it, drowning in it, until we were insensible to all else.
    And I knew that no one could ever see us like this.

    W E MUST HAVE P OLLY , I decided. We must have my remaining sister here in France where we could care for her and hold her close. For months, Papa resisted the idea, worrying that the seas were too unsafe for one so young to travel alone. For pirates, privateers, and warships abounded across the Atlantic.
    But I couldn’t be content without her. There was only one way to honor the losses of my mother and baby sister, and that was to bring our family together again.
    Our conversations on the matter were often frustratingly disagreeable, even when I pressed Papa calmly —if also frequently—to reunite our family once and for all. Meanwhile, I dared not trouble Papa in any other way for even the smallest thing; I even drew my allowance from the maître d’hôtel rather than go to my grieving father.
    Our house was in mourning, and our French friends were effusive with their sympathy. Lafayette seemed haunted by having delivered us the news and sent bouquets to brighten the house. The pretty young Duchess de La Rochefoucauld brought sweets for our table and bade me to call her Rosalie. In truth, the very Frenchwomen Mrs. Adams and my father sometimes spoke of so disparagingly for their bold manners were tender and kind to us.
    By contrast, some of our American friends and other guests seemed insensible to our loss. Charles Williamos, a Swiss-born adventurer who often dined with us, said my father should simply remarry and make another baby to heal his broken heart.
    At hearing this, Papa excused himself from the table, no doubt to wrestle with his grief in private. But I had not Papa’s good manners. Williamos’s heartless advice reminded me of Colonel Randolph’s suggestion that Papa remarry. Were the affections of these men so shallow they believed a lost life, a lost love, could simply be replaced?
    From that moment, I despised Mr. Williamos.
    And it must have showed. Mr. Short looked up from the meal, caught a glimpse of the enmity on my face, and said, “Patsy, shouldn’t you be abed? Better still, back at the convent?” He