Chapter Twenty-Seven
LONDON
England
“Tut tut, Minister Adams,” I teased. “Such stiff republican knees.”
We were practicing what he’d say and how he’d bow to King George in their first meeting. And now John grouched, “It’s no use.
I called the man a tyrant and led a revolution against him. I can hardly now expect to be received in warmth. Or to give it.”
“That is the art of diplomacy, John,” I said from the chair upon which I’d taken my role in the king’s place, using my husband’s
cane as a scepter.
John tugged at his lace cuffs, then started again. Three bows, one upon entrance, one halfway across the hall, and one when
he was close enough to address me. “Sire,” he began, voice strained, then colored when he realized his mistake. “I mean, sir!”
I waved his cane impatiently. “Yes?”
John cleared his throat. Then cleared it again. “The United States of America have appointed me their minister plenipotentiary.
And it is in obedience to their commands that I have the honor to assure you of their desire for friendship and their wishes
for the health and happiness of your royal family.”
“Oh, that is a fine opening, John. You’ve removed the personal animus altogether. It’s very good.”
“It ought to be, considering how many versions I’ve thrown into the fire.”
The rest of his speech continued this way, cleverly distancing John from his past utterances and transforming him into the mere instrument of the country he served.
Despite my praise, John rubbed his throbbing temples. “The awkwardness of this encounter. It’s likely to be the most mortifying
of my life!”
“Don’t you think it’ll be worse for the king? Ultimately, you’re the victor and he’s the vanquished. He lost his war and thirteen
colonies. Surely you can find it in your heart to be a little merciful to the man.”
I said it not because I cared for the feelings of the king, but to put my husband at ease. It would give him confidence to
enter the king’s presence on that footing.
On the fateful day, Nabby and I awaited John’s return at our handsome new house in Grosvenor Square, which was to be the first
American embassy in Britain. For company we had Colonel William Smith of New York—a former aide-de-camp to George Washington
who’d been sent by Congress to serve as John’s new personal secretary.
Smith was a tall, upright military man thirty years old by my estimation, with square shoulders and a dashing confidence.
I had no doubt that standing next to my portly, bookish husband, Colonel Smith might be mistaken for the ambassador rather
than the assistant. Which may be why it was thought prudent for him to stay behind.
In any case, the colonel made himself useful in diverting us with tales of the war. We already knew of his heroics at the
Battle of Harlem Heights in New York, where he was wounded, though he didn’t mention it. And I thought him a modest, worthy
man, if I could judge from so short an acquaintance.
The only thing I might hold against him was his membership in the Society of the Cincinnati, but he wore no badge of that hereditary order and claimed no intention of ever doing so.
What he did speak of was his service under Washington and then foreigners like Lafayette. “Mine is a military family, so I
thought the proudest service a man could give was to offer his life in service of his country. But how much greater is the
glory of men who fight for the freedom of others an ocean away.”
“Well said,” I murmured, distracted by the jingle of a carriage at the gate.
Soon my husband burst in, throwing his wig on the chair in triumph. “Success!”
Flying to him, I asked how he was received. And John positively puffed up with pride. “I cannot recall every word King George
said precisely. But some of it is emblazoned on my brain.”
Caught up in the excitement, Nabby said, “Do tell, Papa!”
“The king said: ‘Sir, the circumstances of this audience are so extraordinary, the language you have adopted so very proper,
and the feelings you have expressed so just to the occasion, I not only accept and return the offer of friendship from the
United States of America, but also I’m very glad that the choice has fallen upon you as their minister.’”
I gasped, for it was a better reply than we had any right to expect. I hoped it meant our diplomacy here in London would be
fruitful.
Unfortunately, the newspapers the next day were less generous than the king. It was thought that by sending an Adams to court, the United States had been impudent. Then again, many in Britain thought the very existence of the United States
to be impudent. We couldn’t allow it to dispirit us. And in any case, we had too much to do.
As the ambassador’s lady, I needed to purchase new furniture, for it had been too expensive to transport what we bought in
France. And even before I set up housekeeping, we were beset by every manner of unfortunate American in England. I found myself
in the unexpected position of receiving refugees and petitions.
It was my duty as well as my honor to help these unfortunates in whatever way I could. Sometimes that meant I convinced John
to give them money from our own purse without knowing whether Congress might ever reimburse us.
Not all the supplicants were deserving; some pretended to be soldiers from the war—and we were grateful to Colonel Smith for
sorting out the legitimate cases from the frauds.
Then came the flood of cards from ladies, which obliged me to return the visits with a shower of my own cards all over London. It was in this way that the Countess of Effingham and I went several rounds before I finally gave in and decided to be at home.
I also needed new dresses, because at court a lady couldn’t wear the same gown more than once. Worse, the shoes in London
were so inferior that I had to beg of Mr. Jefferson to send me some from France.
For our first audience with the queen, Nabby and I both wore white. Mine was a white crepe festooned with purple ribbon, ruffled
cuffs, and lace kerchief. I wore it with a pearl necklace, pearl earrings, pearl pins in my hair, and two white feather plumes.
“Do not laugh at me,” I warned John, feeling entirely above myself for wearing such pearls and riches. “Here I am, the daughter
of a parson and the wife of a farmer wearing white crepe.”
John assured me, “You, my dear, are, in all seriousness, a heavenly vision.”
But it was Nabby who stole our breaths, trailing down the stairs in white lace and decorative petticoats, her auburn hair
adorned in a wreath of white flowers. John, much affected, shook his head in wonder. “When did my little girl become such
a beauty?”
Nabby flushed at her father’s attention, taking his arm as we went out to the carriage. I was escorted by Colonel Smith—which
was how I noticed the strong pulse of his heartbeat, and eyes artfully averted from the sight that occasioned it.
Oh, it was not only Nabby’s father who realized she was a beauty!
At two o’clock we went to the queen’s drawing room, passing through several apartments lined with spectators. I spoke with
the Dutch minister, Count Sarsfield, Lord Carmathan, and Sir Dormer and several other gentlemen with whom I was slightly acquainted.
But not a single lady did I know until the Countess of Effingham pulled me into the circle round the drawing room, which was
very full.
The royal family was obliged to go round to every person and find small talk enough to speak to all of them. The king, with
red face and white brows, went round to the right. Meanwhile, the diamond-adorned queen and princesses to the left.
When the king came to me, his royal majesty kissed my cheek. “Have you taken a walk today, Mrs. Adams?”
A bit stupefied to be kissed by the man whose name I cursed whilst revolutionary soldiers bled on my kitchen floor, I replied, “No, sire—sir.”
Seemingly perplexed, he asked, “Don’t you love walking?”
“I’m rather indolent in that respect,” I replied.
At which point he bowed politely and passed on. And that was that.
It was a preposterous, almost hallucinatory experience. The King of England had seemed almost . . . daft.
But an even stranger experience was still to come, for Queen Charlotte made certain that my daughter and I were left waiting
another two hours before she approached in radiant purple and silver, her expression as hard as the diamonds in her hair.
“Mrs. Adams.”
“Your Majesty,” I replied, with a curtsey.
She stared at me frostily, as if willing me to drop my gaze, but I did not. And her mouth twisted in contempt. “Have you got into your house?”
“Yes, at Grosvenor—”
The queen interrupted me with a feigned yawn. “Pray how do you like the situation of it?”
She made no effort to hide her hostility, which was quite all right with me, because I had disagreeable feelings, too. These
people were, after all, the cause of a war that had consumed nearly a decade of my life. “It is a fine house, though naturally
I prefer those in my own country.”
I thought I heard a little snort of offense from one of the princesses. Then, abruptly, the queen moved on with great hauteur—much
beyond that which her personal charms might justify.
I remembered long ago jesting with John that someone like Queen Charlotte would never welcome me as a guest at Buckingham
House. In truth, she had not. She was rude, ill shaped, and her hair was of a ridiculous height. And I thought it a very foolish
thing to waste time and ceremony just to pass a few insipid words with royalty if she were any example of the species.
But that was not something a diplomat’s wife could utter. It was my duty to ignore these slights. And in any case, I was left too exhausted by the ordeal—standing more than four hours in total without respite—to utter anything at all.
Naturally, the newspapers were outraged that we were given even an ostensibly polite reception. One said that if they were
in the king’s place, they’d hang my husband as a proscribed rebel, peace treaty be damned.