Chapter 9
English women often wear ensembles lacking in taste.
The protruding bustle alone is the height of ridiculousness.
And yet I must appear to be à la mode in my appearances to not offend those with whom my husband has political business.
But I must draw the line somewhere. American women would be best served if they kept modesty, neatness, and economy at the forefront in their fashion decisions.
I will most joyfully exchange Europe for America, and my public life for a private one.
Abigail
“I do not know if Colonel Smith will be in attendance, Nabby, but that should not have any bearing on your appearance, especially since we had it settled with the dressmaker weeks ago!”
Nabby’s irritated huff earlier made Abigail roll her eyes in the privacy of her own sitting room while her maid prepared the final touches on her hair.
They were to attend a gathering for the queen’s birthday at St. James’s Palace, even though the queen’s actual birthdate was in the summer. Something about avoiding a conflict with the king’s birthday, she had been informed.
Heaven forbid the couple combine their birthday celebrations and economize on the fuss.
Nabby had spent the entire morning, not to mention the night before, talking of nothing but Colonel Smith.
He was a fine young man from New York who had been made secretary of the legation, and he had taken a polite fancy in Nabby.
There had originally been some slight obstacles, due to her affection for and promise to young Mr. Tyler back in Massachusetts, but Nabby had recently ended that arrangement, opening the way for the colonel to stake an official claim.
A claim which Nabby fully supported and welcomed with unmatched eagerness.
Had Abigail ever been this enthusiastic when John had been courting her?
She did not think so, but she was also not prone to flights of fancy.
Nabby was a sensible girl, but she did possess a passionate nature and some whimsical sensibilities like other girls her age.
Colonel Smith seemed an impressive man, promising in his future prospects and particularly respectful of her and John.
Nabby could do worse than be a trifle silly over such a man, especially if he returned her affections.
And if that affection led to marriage . . .
Heavens, was Abigail prepared to have a child married off?
“There, madam,” her maid said, applying the final pin to her hair. “What do you think?”
Abigail took in her reflection and smiled with true approval.
Her gown was a bright green satin with gold fringe, which suited her coloring rather well, and the maid had curled and plaited and pinned her hair into an elegant arrangement that would blend in perfectly with the other ladies without creating such a spectacle that it would draw comment.
She would be all refinement tonight, above petty remarks and social exclusion.
Or appear to be, at any rate.
The London newspapers were positively brutal when it came to John and had started to draw her into their melee as well. They even mocked the carriage they used, claiming that the United States government was unable to decently equip its envoy to the Court of St. James’s.
There had been claims that John’s first audience with the king had left him wholly embarrassed and completely tongue-tied.
He was called a nobody, ridiculed for apparently not wearing the proper fashions, decried as a pharisee of liberty and an imposter.
All Americans were cowards, murderers, and traitors.
And when they went out, whether to the theater or to social events, the British people were undeniably cool toward the new American minister.
They stared silently, and blatantly. There was no civility in their remarks, no politeness in their expression, and in several cases, the Adamses were pointedly ignored.
Abigail had written about all of it to Mr. Jefferson in France, and he had assured her that John had the fortitude to withstand this. That he would be a man made of rock in the face of this. That it would be but one victory more for his friend, Mr. Adams.
If only she could believe his words so earnestly.
Only fellow Americans living in London served to make their time in any way pleasant socially.
But when she could forget about their reception and reputation in the papers, Abigail could find moments to be quite pleased. They had recently seen the acclaimed Mrs. Sarah Siddons on stage as Desdemona in Othello, and she had been interesting beyond any actress Abigail had ever seen.
Both the actress and the play served to remind her that not everything in London was vile.
“The hair is lovely,” she belatedly replied to her maid. “Thank you so much.”
“Of course, madam.” She bobbed a polite curtsy and left the room.
Abigail rose and shook out her skirts before making her way to Nabby’s quarters. Her daughter stood before her own looking glass, fussing with her earrings.
Nabby looked stunning in pink satin with silver fringe, ribbons of the same shades crossing throughout her styled hair. The color complemented her blush, and if Colonel Smith was not in attendance at today’s events, he would certainly miss the vision she presented.
Her little girl, her only surviving daughter, had somehow grown into this lovely woman, ready to embark on a new stage of her life.
Perhaps start a family of her own. Yet Abigail could still see so clearly the toddler racing about the house, the somber girl bravely enduring smallpox, the little mother tending to her brothers year after year.
She could see every age Nabby had ever been, spread before her in a splendid array of memories as fresh as the day they were made and as elusive as a breath. There and yet not, existing only in recollection and never to be experienced again.
Her throat tightened with emotion, and she did her best to keep her eyes from burning with unshed tears.
“Are you ready, Nabby?” Abigail asked.
“Yes, Mama.” Nabby turned toward her, beaming brightly. “Do you think the king will ask us about walking again?”
Abigail chuckled. The king, for all his pleasantries and congeniality, had asked them almost exactly the same thing on every occasion they met. Always something about if they had walked, where they had walked, if they enjoyed walking.
Abigail enjoyed a stroll as much as anyone else, but London was not her preferred location to do so.
Yes, there were parks and spots of green throughout the city, but nothing could compare with the open land and views of her home in Massachusetts.
And even if there were, there was always something else to do—reading or housework or gardening, for example—that would keep her from a simple walk.
But the king seemed rather fixed on the topic, and if he was going to continue to ask it of her, she might have to begin walking more just to give him some variety in her answer.
Though, evidently, he was not recollecting either the frequency of his question or her previous answers, so a new answer may not have any impact whatsoever.
They loaded into their carriage—which was perfectly situated for their circumstances, despite what the papers said—and headed toward St. James’s Palace.
They would need to arrive early, of course, no matter how long it took to actually be presented to Her Majesty and offer their birthday felicitations.
Abigail had learned that time had little relevance when it came to matters of the British court.
But after they paid their respects to the queen, they could return home for a time before the ball that would be hosted after the midday meal.
That would be a much more entertaining occasion, and not only because Nabby would almost certainly see Colonel Smith.
“My ladies, you both look exquisite today,” John praised from beside her, looking between Abigail and Nabby. “The loveliest sight of all the ladies the queen will receive today.”
“The loveliest Americans, perhaps,” Nabby quipped with a quick grin.
John scowled playfully at his daughter. “Come, come now, Nabby. I’ll not have you thinking so lowly of yourself that you must put such limitations in place.”
“Papa,” Nabby groaned. “Princess Augusta will be the loveliest sight. She is a beauty in every respect. I do not need to believe anything low of myself to see that. And the Princess Royal is fair as well. The queen is . . . elegant and imposing, and very well dressed.”
Abigail snorted before she could stop herself. “The queen is not well shaped nor handsome, yet we must acquit ourselves as though we are in the presence of some minor deity. One pays dearly for the smiles of a royal.”
“Abigail,” John scolded in gentle protest.
She shrugged. “St. James’s Palace is nothing to Versailles, and I find the royals here rather dull and uninspiring.
The princesses are affable, and pretty rather than beautiful.
But none of our occasions allow us to know the nature of any of these people, and they have not the freedom to engage in anything more than the same light conversations with every single person at the gatherings they host. If everyone is asked the same question at every occasion, one could avoid feeling any anxiety or nerves of socializing altogether. Think of the convenience!”
“Oh, Mama, you are harsh!” Nabby laughed merrily.
“Mrs. Adams,” John scolded again even as he fought a smile.
Abigail looked at him without shame. “Yes, Mr. Adams?”
“You are, indeed, rather harsh on our incumbent hosts. Should you be preparing to attend them with such an attitude in your countenance?”
“I might feel as I do without behaving rashly, John,” Abigail retorted. “I would never do something to embarrass you or our country. And I might think better on our host and hostess if they managed to offer us any semblance of respect beyond bare tolerance.”
“And you did not feel that way in France?”
“I felt nothing of the sort among the French court.”
Sighing, John took her hand. “Perhaps that is because, not so long ago, Great Britain was our enemy, and France was not.”
Perhaps, but Abigail did not feel the need to agree. Not directly, at any rate.
“That may have some influence,” she allowed with a faint sniff, looking out the carriage window, “but it does not alter the fact that the queen is embarrassed to receive me, and I have no taste for it either. It would all be much better if neither of us were forced to do so.”
John grunted. “I am certain the queen does many things she finds unpleasant simply because she is the queen and she must.”
“Perhaps this time we shall meet the Prince of Wales,” Abigail suggested without enthusiasm. “Everyone hears a very great deal about him, but I have yet to bear witness to any of it.”
“I heard he fell on his back in the middle of a minuet once,” Nabby chimed in eagerly. “He was so intoxicated, he could not mind any of the steps.”
“A fine example of the social hierarchy of London setting its best foot forward, I am sure,” Abigail smirked.
“So the French have the hall of mirrors, and the English have a frequently intoxicated, dancing heir to the throne,” John mused. “My, my, we shall have to find something intriguing indeed for those of foreign shores to discuss when they visit us in America.”
Nabby gave her father a mischievous smile. “Oh, we already have something, Papa.”
“Do we?” John glanced at Abigail before returning his attention to his daughter. “And what might that be?”
With a quirk of her brows, Nabby replied, “We have George Washington.”