America's First Daughter: A Novel(21)
The thought made me so glad that not even the jostling three-week trip to Boston, where we traveled to catch our ship, dampened my excitement for this new shared adventure. And in the dawning hours of our nation’s eighth birthday, we boarded the Ceres and set sail.
Chapter Five
Hartford, 11 October 1784
To Thomas Jefferson from Lafayette
When I heard of your going to France, I lamented I couldn’t have the honor to receive you there. My house, my family, and anything that is mine are entirely at your disposal and I beg you will see Madame de Lafayette as you would your brother’s wife. Indeed, I’d be very angry with you, if you didn’t consider my house as a second home, and Madame de Lafayette is very happy to wait upon Miss Jefferson.
HAS THERE EVER BEEN such a labyrinthine city as Paris?
Upon our arrival, we found sooty walls within muddy walls around the city proper and beggars round every corner. But all the soot and mud gave way to beauty when, borne in a fine coach by seven horses, we passed under a bright blue sky onto the wide avenue of the Champs-élysées.
From there, the whole city fanned out before us in splendor. Stone archways, domes, and pillars all reached for the sun. In truth, the bustling seaports of Philadelphia, Boston, and Baltimore were mere infants in comparison to the ancient majesty of this grand city.
I was giddy at the sight, and I wasn’t the only one. Jimmy Hemings removed his cap, thunderstruck. And Papa gasped when the proud Palais-Royal came into view. The palace’s ex panse of creamy white bricks beyond ironwork gates was nearly too much to take in. I could never have imagined such a place. Overcome, I asked, “This palace belongs to the king?”
The word king elicited a frown from my father, but our coachman explained that the gardens were now open to the public—a thing we could plainly see as we turned a corner into the teeming crowds. Every man was ornamented in waistcoat and powdered wig, and the ladies wore their hair as tall as you pleased, strutting about like well-plumed songbirds. Every breeze carried a thousand voices in the melody of the French language.
The breeze also carried the disagreeable smell of so many people crowded close together, but the sweet perfume of the gardens and the ribbons of bright green shrubbery winding in every direction made me forget all else. “Oh, Papa! Is this what heaven looks like?”
“If there be such a place, perhaps it is just so.” There was a new light in his eyes. As his gaze slipped over the carved facades of the palace and its surrounding structures, the hard lines of his expression melted away into fascination. I hadn’t seen him this engaged with the world since my mother died.
And Paris was very much alive.
Taking it in, Papa sat with his mouth set in an awed half smile. I realized with a jolt that the shadow of grief seemed to have lifted from him. Could I dare to hope this momentous change I sensed was real? Unable to resist, I threaded my fingers through his.
His hand, so often stiff and cold since my mother’s death, closed warmly over mine.
We stayed that night at a cheerful little inn. The next morning, Papa was up early to shop for wine and a map of the city, and to look for servants. He hired two men straightaway.
That afternoon, we were paid a visit by one Mr. Adams—a member of our delegation in Paris—and his wife, Abigail. What a relief it was to be in the company of Americans after even a few days of being surrounded by people who spoke only French!
The stout Mr. Adams greeted my father with the warmest friendship.
It was Mrs. Adams, however, who commanded our attention. In a gray gown with few ruffles at the sleeves, she rolled into the room like a summer storm. “Oh, poor Mr. Jefferson! I’ve seen the new house you intend to lease and it’s even emptier of furnishings than ours. There is no table better than an oak board, nor even a carpet.”
“We’ll have to shop for furnishings,” Papa allowed.
Mrs. Adams beat back the hotel draperies for dust. “You’ll also need table linen, bed linen, china, glass, and plate. Our own house is much larger than we need; forty beds may be made in it. It must be very cold in winter. With a smaller abode, you’ll have the advantage.”
She wasn’t an elegant woman, Mrs. Adams. Nor was she deferential in the way Papa taught me good women must be. I looked to him for signs of disapproval, but when it came to Abigail Adams, he wasn’t able to muster it. “I won’t need many beds,” he said. “There will only be me and my daughter and a few servants. And, of course, my secretary, Mr. Short, when he arrives . . .”
I hadn’t heard Mr. Short’s name in quite some time. Not since my fall from the horse, when he chastised Papa. The mention now was a pleasant surprise. Almost as pleasant as learning that Mr. Short would be joining us here in Paris.
As I absorbed the happy news, Mrs. Adams turned her gaze to me. “You must be your father’s dear Patsy.” Then her dark eyes narrowed over a beak of a nose when she saw the stain upon my calico dress. She looked me up and down and when she reached my feet, I wiggled my toes nervously in worn shoes. Mrs. Adams spun to face my father. “Oh, dear. Oh, no. This will never do. Your daughter can’t set foot in Paris looking like this.”
How provoking! She made me sound like an urchin. My father looked positively mortified, and Mr. Adams grumbled.
Immune to our general discomfort, his wife continued, “For that matter, Mr. Jefferson, it might be well for you to have some new clothes made, too. We Americans must represent ourselves well, and you’ve no idea how these Parisians worship fashion. Why, to be out of fashion is more criminal than to be seen in a state of nature . . . to which the Parisians are not averse.”