Chapter Seventeen
BOSTON
Massachusetts
In the aftermath of a dreadful storm, the battered French fleet lay in the harbor with torn sails flapping helplessly in the
wind, broken yards yawning upon scarred decks, and snapped ropes dangling from the rails. Nevertheless, the sight of the gilded
fleur-de-lis flying over fancifully carved prows inspirited every patriot in our poor beleaguered Boston.
We weren’t alone anymore in this war.
We hoped our new allies would make the difference.
The French Admiral d’Estaing had put into our harbor for repairs, then sent sailors in blue coat, white lace, and red breeches
to my door to apologize that he could not call upon the wife of Monsieur le Commissaire Adams personally.
His officers had, instead, handed over a formal dinner invitation, written upon paper so rich and creamy I was tempted to
press it to my cheek. Now my daughter and I were to dine with the French aboard the Languedoc, said to be the finest warship in the world.
The admiral’s dinner party promised to be the only highlight in Boston’s social season, but for some reason, Nabby balked
at the occasion. She didn’t like the feathers in her hair or the brooch I gave her to wear upon a ribbon at her throat. And
unwilling to admire herself in the mirror, she said, “I dread it, Mama. I cannot speak French well enough to converse.”
I could myself read and write French well enough but my tongue was another matter. With a hopeful breath, I said, “I’m sure
some will speak English.”
“I’ll be the youngest person there!”
“I’m certain other young people will be aboard for the music and dancing,” I said, lightly dusting her cheeks with powder.
“You’ll have a chance to practice your new accomplishments.”
And to meet eligible young bachelors, I thought.
I certainly didn’t wish for my daughter to attract the attention of a Frenchman, but prominent Bostonian gentlemen would also
be there. Still, Nabby protested, “I won’t have anything to say!”
“Then just smile,” I advised. “You’re a young lady now, and as the daughter of John Adams, you’ll be expected to charm our allies.”
Nabby didn’t argue further; she was merely sullen. Unfortunately, I was sullen, too. My gown wasn’t even fit for a Quaker,
for I hadn’t had a new dress in years, and had not received the silk I asked John to buy me in France.
In fact, three shipments of goods had been lost. Three! I wanted to wail at my bad luck, fearing when my husband learned of our misfortune, he’d refuse to invest more, saying we
had no use for textiles, handkerchiefs, and gloves that were sunk in the sea. No doubt, he’d tell me to count it an expensive
lesson and cease wasting money on baubles.
Then again, John rarely told me anything at all. What few letters I received from France were clipped. Brief. Parsimonious.
And cold.
It was as if he had changed hearts with some frozen Laplander.
By way of excuse, he’d scribbled, “It’s not safe to write anything that one is not willing should go into all the newspapers
of the world. Notwithstanding this, I’ve written you nearly fifty letters but they’ve all been sunk or taken.”
Fie on the newspapers of the world. A loving wife could not survive on guarded missives alone. These were my gloomy ruminations
as the admiral’s barge ferried us across a murky autumn’s sea to the large warship, its French flag snapping in the wind.
As it happened, I could not remain sullen or gloomy under that festooned mast. Especially not when greeted so politely by
both Admiral d’Estaing and his French officers. Another Frenchman was present, too—this one wearing an American uniform of
buff and blue. In greeting, he bowed with a flourish. “I am Gilbert du Motier, the Marquis de Lafayette.”
I knew his name, of course. The French hero had come long before his naval compatriots and had been wounded at the Battle of Brandywine. He was not quite so good-looking as I’d been led to believe by the breathless accounts of ladies who admired him throughout the colonies.
But he had an aristocratic visage, and the overall effect of his person was extremely agreeable. “I’m happy to meet you, sir.”
“I am happier,” he said, in heavily accented English. “Because I am highly sensible of the honor that I have to present the
wife of John Adams with a tribute of my gratitude and respect. For I know this man by reputation to be a colossus of liberty.”
I flushed with pride. “Well, you also have a reputation here, sir, as you are quite young for the rank of major general.”
Lafayette grinned. “This campaign is a good school for a young soldier like me. God grant that the public does not pay for
my lessons.”
At that point our conversation was cut short by the boom of celebratory guns, a dinner fit for a princess, and glasses raised
in toast after toast.
The French toasted America. We toasted the King of France. They toasted Congress. We toasted the French fleet. They toasted
General Washington. We toasted the French-American alliance. They toasted Dr. Franklin and my husband; we toasted Admiral
d’Estaing and the Marquis de Lafayette. They toasted Commerce, Art, and Architecture. We toasted Liberty and Friendship.
This went on until we had toasted seemingly everyone and everything of importance in the world.
Later, warmed by the liquor of so many toasts, Lafayette said, “I feel as if your husband and I have traded places, Mrs. Adams.
Here I am in America, having left behind a daughter and a worthy wife devoted to enlightened ideals. And there he is, in France, having left behind a daughter and a patriotic wife who I am told is no less devoted to the cause of worldwide
humanity.”
It was too generous a compliment, for I had committed myself only to the freedom of my own country. I’d given little thought
to the idea that our revolution might elevate mankind. “Do you really think the ideals we are fighting for will change the
lot of the average person?”
“I wouldn’t have come to America if I believed otherwise.
Given my title and holdings, I am more free than anyone to bestow my services where I please.
And in offering my services to this intriguing republic, I bring only my frankness and goodwill; no ambition, no self-interest; I work only for the glory of human happiness. ”
I actually believed him. He was, after all, only twenty-one. An age when men allowed themselves to be shaped by ideals, before
life’s cruelties hardened them. Fortunately, my own husband—so tough and crusty on the outside—still harbored a softness in
his breast for high-minded purpose. It was the true source of my love for John, so I hoped for the sake of Lafayette’s wife
that he did not lose this idealism. “I assure you, Marquis, you secured your own personal glory, too, by shedding blood in
our cause.”
He shrugged, color coming to his cheeks. “It was a trifling wound. The sort one should wish for if wanting to take a bullet
only for curiosity.”
With that, he extended his long, stockinged leg, so we could see that he had quite recovered. Which made me laugh. For of
all the things I might have expected from a French nobleman, humility wasn’t one of them. “Hearing that you’ve now been cured
of such morbid curiosity about bullet wounds must be a comfort to your wife.”
Now Lafayette cringed. “The post is so unreliable over the sea that my lady wife believed me dead until a letter from my own
hands reached her. You can imagine the mischiefs made by rumor in this war.”
“I don’t have to imagine. I have lived it. And if your wife loves and esteems you as much as I do Mr. Adams, she must miss
you very much.”
Lafayette gazed into his glass without taking a sip. “I did not have the opportunity for a proper farewell to my wife and
child before I sailed. And I know my beloved Adrienne has suffered cruelly for my absence.”
I did not doubt it. I’d heard that the Frenchman’s wife was pregnant when they parted company, and that their daughter had since died.
I didn’t know if it was their first or second child; I only knew that I, too, had suffered the loss of a daughter in my husband’s absence during this war.
So I felt deep sympathy for his beloved Adrienne.
Lafayette sighed. “If providence sees fit to allow me to return, I shall beg her pardon. Given your own husband’s long absence,
I think you are one of the only women in the world who can tell me whether she will forgive me.”
“She will,” I replied, unexpectedly moved by his vulnerability. “Of course she will forgive you. For she must know that you are about an extraordinary task.”
Lafayette smiled. “As is your husband.”
He made me feel better. He soothed the heart that had been bruised by my husband’s cold letters. He made me feel optimistic,
patriotic, and brave. Truly, the young Frenchman had a gift for it. For though he only sipped at champagne, Lafayette effervesced
in conversation, arguing for human equality. And he repeatedly pulled the ladies into respectful discussion of matters in
which we were normally seen as trespassers.
He asked our opinions. He even tried to engage my terribly shy daughter. “What must you have thought, Miss Adams, the day
independence was declared? How proud and pleased you must have been.”
Uncomfortable to be the subject of attention, Nabby stared down at her lap. “I—I was too young to know what to think about
it, sir.”
Lafayette smiled, indulgently. “And now?”
It should’ve been an easy question to answer. All Nabby had to say was that she was proud of her father. I nudged her because
my daughter seemed tongue-tied. But when she finally spoke, I wish her tongue had stayed tied.
“I don’t think much about politics,” she said, fingering her napkin nervously. “Perhaps it’s better that way, so I can have
friends upon either side of the war with whom to take tea.”
She tittered, as if she thought this a very fine, feminine answer.
Doubtless, in many circles, it was. Yet around this table, shoulders slumped, fingers fidgeted, gazes fixed upon the distant horizon, and French officers about to do battle for our liberty deflated, all undone by the notion that even John Adams’s daughter thought they risked their lives for a disagreement that didn’t merit disrupting her seating arrangements at a tea party.
Later, in the carriage, Nabby cried, “I told you I wouldn’t know what to say!”
“I’m sure it is all forgotten,” I said, hoping the Lord would forgive my little fib. “The Marquis de Lafayette smoothed matters,
and with luck, by morning it will be lost in a drunken haze.”
Nabby tore the ornamental feathers from her hair. “I never know what to say in company. Much less in the presence of important people.”
Why should she? She spent her days sequestered with me on a farm. There were no provisions made for women, much less girls,
to study the art of international diplomacy—not even in this era, when it was so plainly necessary.
“I don’t always know what to say either,” I admitted. “But we’ll both have to learn. We have little choice but to become lady
diplomats. We haven’t the luxury of being indifferent to politics. No one in our country does.”
“But they say ladies must not trespass in politics.”
I raised a brow. “Those who say it are the very same who conspire to deprive us of the education we need to inform us on such
matters. So, we must educate ourselves.”
Which is why I decided to send Nabby to Mrs. Warren over Christmastide, for more politics took place in Mercy’s salon than
in the legislature. It would leave me even lonelier in the bleakness of that winter, and I’d dearly miss Nabby’s company,
but it was far more important that my sons and my daughter learn to be good, productive, and informed citizens in the free country we were struggling to bring about.