The Lonely Minister

The tall American diplomat yawned in the French sun. It was a boring day. Jefferson couldn't believe he'd been here only two months and had already been reduced to such nonsense as touring grain markets. A minor official of no importance whatsoever babbled incessantly next to him as the odd pair wound their way through the waterfront grain market.

It being September, the place was bustling as the fruits of a thousand thousand farmers toiling the lush French countryside appeared, all at once, on the banks of the Seine, either for consumption at home, or export abroad. Wheat was piled everywhere, with the accompanying bags of ground cereals, husks, and the other detritus that accompanied the annual process.

The future president of the United States reached his hand into a certain sack that would have appeared a slightly different shade of golden brown - at least under the eyes of an expert. "Einkorn, I believe. That's odd. This strain is rarely planted these days - the same soil tends to reward other varieties with much better yields."

Jefferson's accompanying functionary nodded, bowed, and smiled; all in the same motion. "Yes sir, very much so, that's right - I do believe that's cultivated especially for certain religious orders that wish to consume only what existed in the time of Adam."

Thomas sighed. He was a religious man himself, but such thoughts were beyond him. He was just about to turn and query as to the purpose of this visit when another flash of golden brown reached his eyes. He instantly sprang to his toes, frantically looking about for what he thought he had saw. "Uemmmm...sir?" Jefferson was oblivious: Where, where?!"

Another flash. He was off and running, twisting through chariots of grain and the press of the French peasantry. Where was she? It was a she, he was sure. It had to be. It wasn't simply the colour, it was intuition, a feeling that instantaneously appeared from nowhere, demanding satisfaction. Who was he to argue against himself?

Narrowly missing a cursing cabbie, the errant minister found a spot of free space, but not his object of desired. There! This time, blue complemented the gold. Vaulting a pile of grains in the process of threshing, attracting a few more blue words in the process, the chase continued.

Something clicked in Jefferson's mind. Giving thanks for his sharp intellect once again, he realized this mad dash was taking him in the direction from which he had initially entered the gardens. Presumably, one would not take a gentle lady through the seedier parts of the docks, so the exit must be their objective. This knowledge in mind, his course swerved, taking him behind a row of rude shops catering to the hunger of working longshoremen.

Breaking into the main throughfare from a side alley transecting these business, Thomas suddenly had the object of his desire directly in front of him. "Madame!" Leaping forward, his mind obsessed with the chase, he casually hurdled one of Louis XIV's fountains in the middle of the road. He back of this right foot caught the rim of the stone basin, sending him into a painful crash to the cobblestones directly in front of his prey.

Jefferson wryly stood as the lady and her escort gaped at the sight. "My humble apologies, madam. J'etais trop enchantee. I would do it again in a heartbeat. May I have the pleasure to know to whom I am speaking?"

A fairly apeish man suddenly blocked Jefferson's view of paradise. "Excusez-moi, but who are you?" Fortunately, it was at this moment that the American's errant escort finally caught up to his hare. "Mr. Jefferson! Mr. Jefferson!". Panting, he rose to his full height. "Mister and Madam Cosway? What are you doing here?" Thomas turned. "Please, do me the honour of introducing us, since you appear to be well informed." The simian spoke again. "Yes, I do believe that would be proper."

Catching his breath, Jefferson's putative guide drew himself up. "My charge is the current American Minister to France, Thomas Jefferson. Mr. Jefferson, this is Mr. Richard Cosway, an artist of some note, and his lovely wife, Maria." The tall statesman bowed. "The pleasure, is, I assure you, wholly mine."

By this time Jefferson had had ample opportunity to fully remark upon this Maria Cosway. Short - not much more than five feet. Blonde hair that was equally short, in distinct contrast to the fashions of the time, but yet was somewhat appealing. Green eyes. Overall, an extremely lithe figure, wrapped elegantly in an understated blue gown. Perhaps most importantly, she was smiling coquettishly at him. But why this oaf? He was easily twenty years older. More? And looked like an ape! There was no way to deny it. Clearly, a puzzle.

By this time, Richard and the official had been having a lively conversation about some dull wheat-related subject. Jefferson sidled closer. "Madame, I would be beyond honoured to spend an evening in your company. Do you have plans?" A whisper was quickly returned, both maintaining a smiling facade at the conversing pair opposite. "I hear the Palais Royal is lovely at sunset...if you're not occupied, that is."

In fact, Jefferson was indeed occupied. Of course, that was the last thing that was going to stop him. Coughing, he rudely interrupted Cosway and...Trunton? Who knew. It was irrelevant. "Excuse me, monsieurs, but I have certain affairs to attend to this evening. Diplomatic business, you know." "Ah, then do not let us detain you! Maria, we shall be off. A pleasure, Mr. Jefferson."

The intoxicated American replied with a curt nod. "A pleasure." Flashing a quick smile at Maria. A soft whisper preceded his departure. Fino a stasera, mi belloa.

Bumping over cobblestones in their respective hansoms not minutes later, two artful minds were puzzling. How did he know of my Italian ancenstry? Why is she married to that man? How does he come to speak Italian? Why did she go along with my rude advances? Why am I going along with him? What is this...feeling?

Jefferson winced at every bump in the road. The fountain leap had broken his wrist. It was well worth it.


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Author's Note(s): Yes, Jefferson was religious, and was later to compile his own bible, which focused on the moral imperatives in the various books, and omitted generally the things we would today consider fables - such as miracles. I would argue he understood the value of a solid moral compass, grounded in ancient writ, but felt that old stories shouldn't impede progress that meant real gains for society - e.g. better wheat. There is no record of Jefferson being able to speak Italian. Maria Cosway's physical appearance is portrayed differently than as it actually was.