Chapter 4 #2
Abigail cast a sidelong look at her husband. “You do not find me hypocritical for my lack of fiery rhetoric over our very presence here?”
John brought her hand to his lips quickly. “I find you exactly as I always have, Abigail: my dearest friend, my clearer conscience, and my wisest counsel.”
A blush of pleased embarrassment warmed Abigail’s cheeks, which might have given her the sculpted complexion artificially sought by the ladies of the French court but was entirely unlike her usual manner.
“The romantic sensibilities of the French have invaded your mind, John, and you have turned to flattery. It does not suit.”
Her terseness did not fool her husband, who knew full well that her aversion to compliments was second nature, and his low chuckle only made the heat in her face burn more.
Impossible man. Why on earth had she married him?
“Flattery, madam? I would not dare. You know me to be an honest man, and you know my vanity has no place in your presence. I am stripped of all artifice before you, and am never more my truest self than in your company. I have no doubt, none whatsoever, that any romantic sensibilities or sentiment that may find its way from my lips to your ears comes from the depth of my very soul.”
Abigail struggled to not scoff aloud at his nonsense, sweet though it was.
This was not who they were with each other, which made the rare compliments all the more foreign.
She had no doubts about her husband’s feelings toward her, nor the need he had for her better nature in his life, but to express them so openly was entirely uncalled for.
Now, when they corresponded by letter, she would not refuse them. Their sincerest thoughts were best expressed in written word, and the letters they had exchanged over the years told a greater story of their relationship than any spoken word could ever do.
Perhaps her husband’s proximity was just as foreign to her now as his spoken compliment.
So many years of separation, both for the revolution and battle for America’s independence and then for his assignment in France, had made them practically strangers but for their letters.
Regular for the most part, though John had struggled to write during those difficult, early days in France.
Pride was her husband’s greatest sin, and any delay to his success—whatever that might be—was viewed as a great slight. Victory and perfection were all that ought to be possible for John Adams. Anything else was unthinkable.
That he should have to express such frustrations to his wife, such failures, was unthinkable.
For him, of course. Abigail would have loved the vulnerability and honesty of such a confession, but that might also have worried her more, given how well she knew the man she married.
But this was what she knew now. What she had known then was only the diminishing frequency of communication from her dearest friend.
Never mind the heartache that had come from his silence. Never mind the fears that had sprung up in her mind. Never mind the doubts of her own worth, her own heart, her own life that had wormed their way into her very being.
The pride of John Adams must be preserved.
Once she had been reunited with John and heard the truth of the matter, she had engaged in a verbal sparring that might have brought down the heavens upon them and might possibly have reignited her husband’s affections for her, should they have been in any doubt.
He adored her impudence where he was concerned.
“We approach the proverbial dais of the oracle, my dear,” John murmured, nudging her gently with his elbow.
Abigail glanced at him, her lips quirking. “Oracle, you say? Of what?”
John inclined his head in a semi-bow to someone they passed in their procession, which also brought him closer to Abigail. “The oracle of our future, madam. And of our hope of furthering American interests with our precarious allies.”
“How precarious?” Abigail ventured in a softer tone, her frame growing still with sudden concern.
Her husband patted her hand. “Nothing to fret over, but having Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Franklin as well as myself here in France, you can infer the situation.” John cleared his throat and straightened.
“Now, prepare yourself, Abigail, to meet the most beautiful woman in France, if sources are to be believed.”
“Beauty is no match for character,” she muttered in return. “And I am well aware that only the plain and overlooked ever say such things.”
John tutted. “You are too harsh, and such words are beneath your dignity.”
Abigail fixed her smile as they waited for the couple in front of them to complete their greetings, meaning she was in full view of the king and queen if they looked beyond their current associates. “Dignity is no match for anxiety, John, and at the moment, I am utterly terrified.”
There was no time to settle her nerves, as their predecessors moved and their own presentation was upon them.
Vaguely, Abigail heard their introductions and curtsied at the appropriate time, praying she reached the proper depth with the requisite grace.
Comportment training had not been at the forefront of anyone’s mind in her part of Massachusetts.
“Monsieur Adams, at long last you have brought your wife to see us,” King Louis greeted in clear but heavily accented English.
He was younger than Abigail had expected, even with the dusting of pale powder on his face.
Classically featured, but perhaps not classically handsome.
There was a vibrancy to his pale blue eyes that seemed out of place with his elaborate attire and pristine powdered wig.
He was tall and slender, with a slight curve to his mouth, making him look more like an eager lad ready to sprint across a field than to rule a kingdom.
Yet there was no mistaking the regal air in his countenance or the solemnity of his nature.
She wondered if an old soul inhabited a youthful body or if age had been forced upon him prematurely.
Oddly enough, she wanted to embrace him like a mother.
“I have, Your Majesty,” John said with all polite deference. “My wife, Abigail.”
“Enchante, Madame Adams,” the king offered softly. He gestured with three fingers. “My queen, Marie Antoinette.”
Abigail did not miss the light in his eyes that spoke of adoration as they flicked toward the stunning woman to his left.
Fair hair piled and coiffed to utter perfection and elaborately arrayed, large crystal-blue eyes filled with light, perfectly painted lips that naturally curved into a pleasant smile, and the smoothest complexion Abigail had ever seen in a woman over sixteen.
Her gown was not the largest in the room, but it glistened and folded about her in a way that only artists and the most elite could manage.
Her dress was tiered and well-constructed, showered with pearls, and likely cost more than the Adamses’ entire farm back in Massachusetts, but it was so admirably situated on her frame that it was impossible not to marvel.
Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, commanded attention.
Abigail met the woman’s eyes and saw beneath the light dancing in them a shrewdness that immediately put her at ease.
Shrewd women must always be allied with one another.
“Charmed, Your Majesties,” Abigail murmured, dipping her chin demurely.
“How do you find Paris, Madame Adams?” Marie Antoinette asked in a bright, musical tone as one hand fell to the notable swell of her stomach.
The gesture made Abigail’s heart ache for her children at home.
“Foreign,” she remarked before she could stop herself. “Full of finery and pleasure but lacking in all that I consider to be home.”
It was well that Abigail Adams had long mastered the art of schooling her features, for a mighty grimace was the first inclination that rose and huffing in exasperation at her loosened tongue the second.
Thankfully, the queen giggled, dissipating the shame rushing through Abigail.
“What a delightfully frank response!” Marie Antoinette set a hand on her husband’s arm as her musical laugh continued.
“Oh, Madame Adams, I like you. May I confess that I feel like a particularly ornate piece of china, trussed up as I am? One slight push and I shall tumble from my table and shatter on the floor, illusion and expense gone. I would love nothing more than to spend the evening at home with my husband and children in a housedress and slippers, but alas, it is not à la mode for the queen to be less than parfaite. No one told me that this was what parfaite looks like, you know.” She raised her brows meaningfully, her smile spreading into a grin.
“Oh, Majesty, I quite agree,” Abigail gushed with feeling. “Fashion seems to be the deity everyone worships here, no offense to yourself and your king-husband.”
Marie Antoinette nodded with all somberness, though her eyes sparkled.
“Oui, Madame. Even the king and I must worship at that altar. Servants are specifically assigned to see to our faithfulness in that way.” She nodded again, so seriously that, were it not for the mischievous tilt to her lips, Abigail might have believed it.
“I think, Monsieur Adams,” the king said on a sigh, “that our wives might be a trying influence on each other.”
John chuckled and offered his arm to Abigail. “Your Majesty, my wife has dealt with my trying influence for nearly twenty years now and has yet to be driven mad from the experience. I have no doubt any association with your queen would only improve her character after that.”
King Louis grinned briefly, as though the action was not to be undertaken in public, and nodded. “Perhaps.” He looked to his wife. “We must away to Mass.”
Marie Antoinette held a hand out to Abigail. “I shall see you again, Madame Adams. Perhaps not before my child arrives, but we will invite you to the christening. And perhaps a small soiree or two. Will you come?”
Flattered, Abigail curtsied. “Your Majesty, if I am invited to join you, I shall most certainly come.”