Chapter Twenty-Six #2
inside. Whoever is served the slice with the bean is dubbed king or queen for the day.”
My husband’s expression darkened as he gnawed at his chicken bone. But Nabby was already taking the first slice. Alas! Poor
girl, no bean, and no queen.
Licking her fork, she declared, “At least the almond cream is delicious.”
Johnny took a larger cut, bisecting his paste with mathematical circumspection until he finally conceded. “Bah. No crown for me.”
“For what purpose would you need a crown?” I asked.
“Height,” my boy replied. “I’m determined never to marry a girl as tall as Nabby lest her height give her a sense of superiority
over me.”
“Oh, are you thinking of marrying?” I asked, knowing that it would make Johnny go crimson, for it seemed he formed a new crush
on a new lady every week.
Cheeks aglow, Johnny mumbled, “It was a jest, Mama.”
Grinning at the mischief I’d made, I was ready for my dessert. “Though I have no cravings for royalty, the puff pastry is
wondrously aromatic.” When I finished every delicious crumb, I declared myself in no way dissatisfied that my slice had no
bean.
My husband, who was all this time picking his chicken bone, had watched us divert ourselves without saying anything. Now,
to the servants’ horror, he seized the entire remaining half of the pie and began stabbing and slashing it with his knife
and fork until he found the bean.
“Behold!” John said, keen to prove a point. “This is how kingdoms are attained.”
We all laughed except for the enraged servant, who could not countenance the havoc wreaked upon the cook’s finest pie. “No,
sir. You are no legitimate ruler for you seized the bean by force, which is against the laws of God.”
A slow smile spread over John’s face. “Very good. Now I have you speaking like an American.”
Our whirlwind of merriment came to an end with a terrible piece of news from America—Mr. Jefferson’s youngest daughter, Lucy,
had died at just two years old.
A man of great sensibility and parental affection, our Virginian friend took it hard. Afflicted with a migraine that left
him prostrate with grief, Jefferson could not work. Neither could Dr. Franklin, as he was too ill.
Thus, the work of the commission in negotiating treaties of commerce with France fell almost entirely to my husband—though
he did not complain of it. Instead, he leaned upon his family. To help him, Nabby and Johnny did their best to manage the
correspondence and translate ciphers while I made our house an embassy for foreign diplomats.
At a dinner with a representative from the West Indies, my husband was asked if American women spoke much on politics. He
replied that we did. “Indeed, the liberties of a country depend on her ladies.”
How gratified I was to hear it. I was pleased, too, by the rhythm of our days. We rose in the morning, not quite so early
as I used to when feeding the turkeys and geese on the farm, but as soon as my fire was made and my room cleaned, I woke Nabby,
then knocked at Johnny’s door, who always opened it with his book in hand.
After breakfast, my husband sat down to either writing or reading while I directed the chambermaids in their work and took
up mine, for I still darned stockings. Meanwhile, Johnny retired to his chamber to translations of Horace and Tacitus, Nabby
to her writing table to pen letters home. At noon, John found his hat and cane for a four-mile walk while Nabby and I retired
to our toilette to be dressed.
At two we all met together to dine. And after tea, the table was covered with mathematical instruments and books, and nothing
was to be heard until evening but of theorems, as my husband taught Johnny about the bisecting and dissecting of tangents.
Occasionally, Nabby and I would be called upon to relieve their brains with a game of whist—a game I always won.
“How is a parson’s daughter so adept at cards?” Johnny wondered.
“Because your uncle Bill is a gambler,” I said. “He taught me what the parson said I ought not learn.”
Johnny grinned. “Then you shall not mind anything I teach Nabby . . .”
Nabby sniffed from behind the fan of her cards. “Why should she? I’m incorruptible.”
We enjoyed each other’s company until ten, when it was time to rest. And if you had asked me what the business of life was
here, I would have answered pleasure. Indeed, but for the absence of our friends and loved ones in America, I couldn’t imagine living a more pleasing existence.
One afternoon in spring, John was scribbling at his desk and said, “I fear Jefferson’s grief befuddles his mind. He’s sent
for his remaining daughter. He says he must have little Polly here. Must be able to see her, touch her, and ensure her safety.”
It was a sentiment I could understand, though I feared for such a young child to cross the sea without a parent—look what
had happened to Charles!
“In his place, I’d resign and go home.”
“Have you had your fill of France already, then?”
I shook my head ruefully. “In spite of all my better judgment, I’ve fallen in love.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.” I smiled, hoping he understood that the love into which I had fallen was not only with France. But I said, “Paris.
The countryside. The people. The churches. The artwork. I’ve even come to love the obscenity of the ballet, not to mention
Madam Helvétius and her incontinent little dog.”
“Then I’m sorry to tell you of some news that has come lately from Congress . . .” My husband was now grinning like a Cheshire
cat. “I’ve been appointed to England to serve as the United States’s first ambassador there.”
My hands went to the backs of our red velvet chairs for balance. “Oh, John . . .”
His grin fell away. “No, don’t say it. You’re right. I shall have to refuse it. I’m ill-suited to the role. I’m not elegantly
made, not sparkling in conversation, not agile in ballroom dance, nor quick with flattery—”
“You cannot refuse! It’s the greatest honor. My husband, the minister. It’s your destiny, John.”
He rose, wrapping his arms around me, pleased by my reaction. “Do you mean it?”
“I do,” I said, cupping his cheeks in my hands.
“Don’t think it will be a bed of roses. They’ll have no love for me at the Court of Saint James.”
That did give me pause. “Will it be safe for you there?”
“We have a treaty, now. It will be perfectly safe.”
“Then I’m only sorry to be leaving France. It’s felt like a magical hour in my life, and I’ll always love every person who
played any role in it.”
John smirked. “You mean Jefferson. I’ll miss him, too, but letters will swiftly cross to London, and there’s little reason
we cannot visit.”
“He’s staying in France?”
John nodded. “As minister. He’ll replace Franklin.”
There was a delightful symmetry. John Adams and Thomas Jefferson had toiled together like brothers to declare our independency
and now served as ambassadors to secure that independence, separated only by a narrow channel.
I felt the hand of providence in it.
But now we’d have to tell the children.
Nabby, who came to Europe to persuade her father to return to America, would no doubt want to go home and marry Mr. Tyler
at the soonest opportunity. I supposed Johnny would not wish to accompany her because, speaking five languages fluently, he’d
have the best opportunity to further his career as his father’s personal secretary.
But in the end my predictions were wrong in every particular.
“It’s time to finish my education at Harvard,” Johnny said.
When I pointed out to him the many fine institutions of learning in England, he wouldn’t hear of it.
“The son of John Adams ought to be educated in his own country and—well, that’s enough reason. ”
I’d caught the hesitation. “Is there another reason?”
“I should be at home for my brothers. I know Charlie and how sad he can get.”
I scoffed, for my middle son was the most cheerful boy I knew. But Johnny pointed out, “He was so homesick when I went to
Russia that he was willing to undertake a sea voyage.”
“Well, he’s home now,” I argued. “Or at least, in his own country with his own relations.”
Johnny’s lips thinned. “I should also like to meet Mr. Tyler.”
“Oh dear. Do not make trouble for your sister.”
“To the contrary, my sister wishes it.”
“What can you mean?” I sensed a secret. Unfortunately, my eldest son was, in his way, even more stubborn than his father,
and there was no prying it out of him.
Guessing the reason, I confronted my daughter. “I suppose you want John Quincy to escort you home and down the aisle to marry
your sweetheart.”
Then Nabby flummoxed me by saying, “No. I hope to stay longer with you and Papa in Europe.”
I was selfishly pleased, if surprised. “What will Mr. Tyler say?”
Nabby turned to stare out the window. “I cannot guess. And in any event, I’m certain to be the last person to hear of it.”
This pained me with curiosity. “What is it that you and your brother know?”
She shrugged. “I simply believe Mr. Tyler and I could both stand to mature before we wed.”
And that was all she would say.
“I don’t know what I’ll do without Johnny,” my husband complained.
“Congress is sending you a personal secretary,” I reminded him. But my husband’s sorrow in sending Johnny home had less to
do with the young man’s helpfulness as scribe, and more to do with how close father and son had become.
For my part, I grieved to let Johnny go after so little time together again. Nabby often teased that John Quincy was the golden child, for in our eyes he could do no wrong.
Now my husband mused, “Once he graduates from Harvard and I return to my life as a simple country lawyer, we can hang our
shingles together. A law practice of father and son.”
I couldn’t imagine how my husband—after living a life as an important statesman, and now a minister—might return to a modest
law office and a ramshackle house on a little farm. “I think when we return to Braintree that we should buy a new house. Johnny
can scout property for us.”
Naturally, my frugal husband despised the idea. “Corrupted by European opulence already, my dear? No, my money already flows
through our fingers here, and we shall end up very much in debt.”
He would not end up in debt, but I let him think so. My pin money continued to grow under the watchful eye of Cotton Tufts,
to whom I wrote a private letter about how I thought it best to invest the money.
In the meantime, we made ready to leave France.
One night, the weather being very soft and pleasant, I asked John to take me on a walk through the garden so I might impress
it all upon my memory.
Ah, I would miss it.
We made fond farewells to Franklin and other members of the delegation, Mr. Short, who had become a favorite of mine, and
our French friends, including the Condorcets and, of course, the Lafayettes.
Then, at last, the Jeffersons.
That John didn’t wish to part with Thomas Jefferson—the only person outside our family with whom he felt he could communicate
with perfect freedom—was most evident by how brusquely he said farewell.
A thump on the back, then a grunt of “My good man.” Then an abrupt disappearance into the house.
I worried Jefferson might take offense, but I think he knew my husband well enough to be sensible of the honor. After I’d embraced and blessed his daughter, I sighed with deep regret. “Thomas. It’s only the knowledge that we’ll likely have your company on a visit to England that keeps us dry-eyed.”
Jefferson took my hand, upon which he planted a kiss. “Madam, you are one of the most estimable characters on earth.”
They say nobody ever leaves Paris but with a degree of tristesse, and that was certainly true of me. As we set off in the
carriage, my beloved little songbird thrashed in its cage so much that I feared it would dash itself to death.
“You are a little French bird,” I said, stopping the carriage to surrender the beloved creature to my former chambermaid.
“It’s right that your first attachment must be to your own country above all others.”
And thus we quit France with a wistful sigh.