America's First Daughter: A Novel(175)
We watched in respectful, sniffling silence. Even the slaves choked back cries of their own.
When at last the two heroes broke apart, my father led Lafayette up the stairs. “This is my daughter Randolph—you knew her slightly in France.”
“Slightly?” Lafayette looked at me with red and watery eyes. “Mon Dieu! I remember very well tall Patsy, the schoolgirl from the convent, the indomitable young mistress of her father’s house.”
Lafayette kissed both my cheeks, then captured my hands and brought them to his lips, pressing tearful kisses into them with great affection. “Madam, the sight of you makes my heart sing with pride and joy.”
My vision blurred with tears. “My heart sings in echo.”
Four hundred people waited for introductions, but Lafayette lingered with me, drawing my hand to his stout chest, placing it over his heart. “My dear, you won’t remember this, but there’s a moment in time as real for me still as if it were happening now. I was leading the royal procession into Paris—facing down thousands of angry citizens with pistols, swords, and pitchforks. . . .”
Oh, but I remembered that day perfectly well. It was the first time I refused William. The first time—but not the last time—my head conquered my heart. And the scars of that victory throbbed with such renewed vigor that I said, “How could I forget, General? It is emblazoned on my soul.”
Our eyes met again, and he shook his head very slowly. “You cannot remember it as I do. For you cannot have guessed your part. I was still a brash young man then, a soldier who thinks more of glory than fears the loss of his life. What I feared that day was to lose a king, a queen, a whole nation . . . and be blamed for it. In truth, even as the people chanted my name, I’d never been more afraid. Then, in my terror, I looked up at a window and saw a flash of red hair, like the very fire of liberty itself. There you were, my lady liberty, looking down at me, a reminder of your father and his words. You gave me courage, for I couldn’t bear to disappoint him . . . or you.”
These words obliterated me to dust, then lifted me toward the heavens on a breeze. I had been Lafayette’s lady of liberty? Made timid by the reverence in his eyes, and the stares of onlookers from whom I couldn’t hide my tears, I tried to shrink away, but he still held my hand against his lion’s heart. “You were my touchstone, sweet lady.”
And he had been mine.
I felt somehow that we were two veterans of the same wars. Perhaps we were. . . .
Looking into his eyes, his courage became mine, once again.
The debts, my husband’s madness, the loss of my love—like Lafayette, I knew I’d somehow survive them all. And I whispered, “I remember you bowed to me, General. And never before or since have I received a bow of which I was so proud.” I showed him then the old, faded tricolored cockade pinned to my hat. “I’ve kept mine all these years since.”
Lafayette inhaled deeply, filling his chest until it puffed out with pride. “How blessed my friend Jefferson is to have such a lady at his side. Are these your children?”
I nodded, introducing each and every one of them as they crowded around, eager to touch the hand that had wielded a sword in our great Revolution. With this and other introductions, we were treated to addresses. Then, at last, we retired into the entryway with its Indian trophies and antlers and animal bones, a fireplace burning a cheery wood fire, leaving the crowd to wave handkerchiefs in farewell, cheering Vive Lafayette! Vive Jefferson!
Inside the house, we retired to the crowded dining room where tables had been squeezed to accommodate nearly fifty people, with not an inch to spare. There, the two aging patriots presided at the main table, recalling stories of the Revolution in the heav enly glow of the skylight overhead. And so animated did they become, with such eloquence did they speak, that, carried away by the enthusiasm of the moment, we found ourselves abandoning all decorum, rising from our own chairs to surround the two old sages.
Even the servants drew near so as not to miss a word that fell from their lips, as the golden glory of the setting sun shone through the many tinted mountains behind which it was sinking. Seeing them sit together, their heads bent in the occasional quiet remark, I could imagine us in Paris, all of us young again. For this visit had restored Papa’s vigor to the point that he wished to stay awake past ten o’clock.
The next day, Lafayette was to be feted at the University of Virginia, with Presidents Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe. What a sight the four patriots made in their carriage. When Papa returned, he said, “The government is voting Lafayette a pension, you know. He deserves it.”
I didn’t doubt that for a moment. “As do you, Papa. You built this country.”
My father’s dry lips pulled to a thin line. “In truth, I merely held the nail; Lafayette drove it.”
But, of course, even two such old and loving friends cannot be at ease in all things. . . .
The general wasn’t shy to confront my father in the presence of our servants. Their faces strained to show indifference, but I wasn’t blind to the way their bodies leaned in, how they made themselves busy in such a way as to best hear every word when Lafayette said, “I gave my best services to, and spent my fortune on behalf of Americans because I felt you were fighting for a great and noble principle—the freedom of mankind. But instead of all being free, a portion were held in bondage. My old friend, surely you must concur that it would be mutually beneficial to masters and slaves if the latter were educated and emancipated.”