America's First Daughter: A Novel(22)
I blushed and so did my papa, but I didn’t think it was the mention of Parisians in the state of nature that embarrassed him most. He looked down at his own waistcoat, self-consciously fingering one of the loose fastenings. “Is there no advantage to remaining uncorrupted by sophistication?”
Mrs. Adams smirked but insisted with an innate sense of authority, “You must send immediately for the stay maker, the Mantua maker, the milliner, and even a shoemaker!” In a few hours, merchants of every variety overran our quarters and Mrs. Adams marshaled them this way and that, lecturing my father on the cost. “I could’ve furnished myself in Boston, twenty or thirty percent cheaper than I’ve been able to do here. I cannot get a dozen handsome wineglasses under three guineas, nor a pair of small decanters for less than a guinea and a half.” When the dressmaker arrived, Papa allowed the garrulous Mrs. Adams to herd me upstairs. “Poor motherless girl. We’ll get you in proper order straightaway.”
It was a comedy after that, for the dressmaker knew only a little English and neither Mrs. Adams nor I spoke French very well. My apprehension grew when the dressmaker’s assistant displayed bolts of cloth for our perusal. Mrs. Adams asked my favorite color, and looking at the samples before me, I hesitated, afraid to give the wrong answer. I’d never been good at keeping my clothes tidy, so I hoped to choose something that might hide the stains.
“The blue silk would suit you,” Mrs. Adams said, then seemed to reach into my thoughts and snatch them from the air. “Girls keep their clothes tidier if you let them choose the colors and fabrics they like.”
Under her expectant gaze, I tentatively asserted myself. “I am fond of the blue, but yellow, too.”
Mrs. Adams nodded. “A lovely combination. Perhaps a pale yellow petticoat beneath the blue silk and some yellow bows on the sleeves.” With hand motions, Mrs. Adams made the dressmaker understand. Assistants rushed in with a dizzying array of shiny ribbons and frothy lace. Meanwhile, Mrs. Adams looked through my trunks, quite uninvited. “You’re nearly twelve?”
I nodded.
“Then you’ll need a new wardrobe entirely. We can’t get it all done today, but I’ll draw up a list.” She said I was to have shoes with decorative buckles and bonnets with flowers. I was to have new undergarments and a side-hooped petticoat to give me the illusion of hips in the case of a very formal occasion. I was to have a cape and handkerchiefs and maybe even a chemise gown of pure white muslin like the kind made popular by the French queen. I was to have at least one gown immediately, made of the scraps and bits that the dressmaker sent her assistant to fetch, so that I could go out into proper company while the other dresses were being made.
Standing in the middle of the whirlwind as the seamstress took measurements, I was shy of the attention. But Mrs. Adams encouraged me to stand up straight. “You’re going to be tall like your father; there’s no help for it. Still, your red hair is lovely and your soulful eyes are sure to be some man’s undoing, so never shrink down into yourself.”
Her direct manner might have been off-putting but I perceived a compliment. Maybe two. “My thanks, Mrs. Adams . . . but you’re sure Papa will consent to the expense for my clothes?”
At this, Mrs. Adams softened. “What a sweet girl you are to worry. The truth is, you’ll have to help your father make do. The policy of our country has been, and still is, to be penny-wise and pound-foolish. The nation which degrades their own foreign ministers by obliging them to live in narrow circumstances cannot expect to be held in high esteem. Here in Paris, my dear, appearances are indispensable.”
I liked that she didn’t speak in the falsetto voice some adults do with children. She talked of grown-up concerns as if I was old enough to understand. She was too loquacious to remind me of my own mother, but I felt mothered as I hadn’t been in years. Though Mrs. Adams offered very firm guidance, she didn’t bully me. When the friseur came and I declined to have my hair styled in the high plume of fashionable Parisian women, Mrs. Adams said that I should have my own way and I left my copper ringlets down, tied in a simple ribbon.
Eventually the dressmaker’s assistant returned with a gown of lilac satin that had been discarded by some other girl. I was virtually sewn into the dress on the spot. When the seamstress was finished, I stroked the fabric, which was soft as peach skin. I’d never owned anything so lovely. Excitement fluttered in my belly that the dresses made for me would be even prettier. In my new gown of draped sleeves, I scarcely recognized myself in the mirror. Indeed, I preened so long that I feared Mrs. Adams would think me vain. But I no longer appeared to be the rustic girl I knew.
Abigail ushered me into the parlor, where we found Papa with a book in his hands, pointing something out to Mr. Adams.
“May I present Miss Martha Jefferson,” Abigail said, clearly pleased.
Papa glanced up, his eyes widening. “Why, Miss Jefferson, you have become a miniature lady.” He looked to Abigail. “I thank and congratulate you, madam.” He pressed his hand to his mouth and shook his head. “Plainly, a woman’s touch was just what was needed.”
Perhaps not sensing the sadness I heard in his voice, Mrs. Adams clasped her hands and gave a self-satisfied smile. “Indeed.”
Their praise made my cheeks heat, but I enjoyed Papa’s astonishment so much that I didn’t mind the attention. Especially when, after Mrs. Adams left, Papa turned to me once more. “Let me see you,” he said. “Spin ’round.”