Chapter 16
I have always thought that women were destined for more than what our lot allows.
The narrowness in the scope for our education is absurd.
Surely as rational beings, our reason may properly receive the highest possible cultivation.
Knowledge will teach candor, and she who aims at the attainment of it will find her countenance improved as her mind is informed, her looks ennobled as her heart is elevated.
And thus may she become a pleasing companion to the man of science and sensibility, enabled to form the minds of her children to virtue and knowledge, and not less capable or willing to bear the management and responsibility of the domestic aspects of her family simply for having wandered beyond the limits of the dressing room and the kitchen.
Women’s minds are equals in the capability of absorbing knowledge to men’s and have the same right to be educated.
Alas for us, poor females, the men make the decisions, and we women must simply bide.
Abigail
She had lost all hold of herself. There was no other explanation for it. She had, quite simply, forgotten her common sense, her wisdom, and possibly her mind, or tossed all of them aside in the carriage that was carrying her to her destination.
Abigail Adams was engaging in a covert meeting with foreign dignitaries without the blessing or knowledge of the government her husband represented. Without any political aims. Without any protection or support.
Without any reason.
Well, other than Marie Antoinette of France had asked.
The letter that Abigail had sent to the queen in response to Mr. Jefferson’s remarks had been met with a response of surprising tenderness and friendship, and the two women had begun corresponding fairly regularly.
When she heard news of the loss of the little princess, Abigail had wept bitterly and pleaded with her new friend to let her help somehow.
Which was how the invitation to meet in Calais had come about, along with assurances that this was no state visit. There would be no ministers, no business of countries or policies, and no distractions of pomp or pageantry.
A simple gathering of like-minded women, Antoinette had said. A confidential one, so the pundits and puffed up would not grow offended or envious. No scheming, no scandals, no insufferable guests who must be endured for politeness.
Truth be told, Abigail was delighted to get away from England, even if only for a little while.
She had enough to do preparing to return to America and enduring the regular commentary from the local society about her and her husband.
And as Colonel Smith had returned from Portugal, Nabby had her husband at her side once more, so Abigail was not as required for company.
Doing this small thing for herself was a welcome change.
The carriage pulled to a stop in front of an elegant country manor, rather reserved in its detail and unremarkable in its appearance, compared to the grandeur that Abigail had seen on nearly all her social calls when they had been in France previously.
It was tucked away outside of the bustle of the Calais docks and ports, nestled snugly in a surprising bit of countryside that was quite refreshing after her travel from Dover.
Truly, it was remarkable how eagerly Abigail had boarded the ship ferrying her across the Channel, given her resistance to the idea on all her previous journeys.
Perhaps because this one was done by choice rather than necessity.
A servant in plain clothes approached her carriage and opened the door for her. “Madame Adams, welcome,” he greeted in halting English. He offered her a hand, his head bowed slightly.
She took it, allowing him to help her down.
He led her to the door, where a stout man with dark hair bowed.
“Madame Adams, if you will follow me.” He gestured, and she followed him, curious about the complete lack of finery she was seeing.
The plain clothes of the servants, a very simple livery indeed, and none of the décor in the interiors was gilded in any way.
From her experience in France with the royals, everything was gilded.
Everything.
Antoinette had said this would not be formal, but this was more like visiting cousins in the country.
Abigail was immediately comfortable and perfectly at ease.
The butler—if that was what he was—led her through the house, and then out to a low-level terrace that opened up into a simple but elegant garden that was at once picturesque and relaxing.
And sitting at a table on the terrace with a tea spread that was somehow English as well as French were Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, and Charlotte, Queen of England.
Heavens.
“Madame Adams!” Antoinette’s light voice greeted her as the two women stood.
Stood. For her.
She had been trained in royal protocol since her arrival in Europe, and the fact that these women were flying in the face of that training for her was the most unsettling thing she had seen in some time.
“Erm . . .” Abigail looked between the two of them and felt her left knee buckle for a curtsy while her right knee remained locked. “My sincerest apologies, Your Majesties, but I haven’t the faintest idea how to greet you in an informal setting like this.”
Queen Charlotte made a scoffing sound that immediately earned her a glare.
From Abigail, not Antoinette.
Antoinette only laughed and waved a hand in a gesture that was somehow dismissive as well as regal. “We are not majesties at the moment, Madame Adams. I have insisted on it. Greet us as you would your friends in America.”
“But perhaps keep the tea in the cups,” Charlotte muttered.
Oh, this was how the queen of England wanted to not be a queen?
Lovely.
“So long as nothing I say or do here will have an impact on international relations between our countries,” Abigail said with a quick flick of her eyes toward the scowling Charlotte, “I can agree to that.”
Antoinette nodded, giving a hint of a shrug. “That suits me.” She turned toward Charlotte. “Mon amie?”
Charlotte had kept her eyes on Abigail, but at Antoinette’s soft address, given in such a hopeful, vulnerable tone, the mighty shoulders of the queen of England drooped a little.
“Yes, very well. I may have a sharp tongue, but I shall never divulge the identity of the attendees of this gathering, nor what we share.”
Sensing this was as much of a concession as she would get, Abigail nodded and moved to the open chair at the table and sat.
“And, I will admit,” Charlotte went on with heavy reluctance in her tone, “that I quite like your frankness, Mrs. Adams. Pray, do not tell anyone of that either.”
Surprised, Abigail forced her mouth to remain closed. The queen of England actually liked something about her? What was happening here?
“I won’t,” she vowed, her voice unsteady.
Antoinette prepared tea for Abigail, keeping the barrage of surprises going.
That was the sort of thing servants would do for fine ladies and queens, but there were no servants on the terrace.
The quiet of this secret meeting of theirs was almost surely secured just from that alone.
But as Abigail looked over both women, she noted the complete lack of finery adorning them.
They might have been simple country women for their appearance, though there was no mistaking their station.
Were they uncomfortable when dressed this way? Or did they enjoy the opportunity to be stripped of the elevation foisted upon them by royal occasion and ceremony?
Antoinette handed her a cup of tea and caught her staring. She grinned easily. “Madame Adams is not aware that we do own simple attire?”
Abigail returned the smile as she took her tea. “No, I am only astonished that you chose to wear simple attire in public.”
“With the engagements we are regularly inundated with,” Charlotte said dryly, “this is anything but public.”
It was the least antagonistic thing the woman had said to Abigail yet. Perhaps there was hope after all.
Nothing was said between the ladies for a few moments, the three of them simply enjoying the tea and their surroundings—the sound of the birds nearby, the mild temperature, the warmth of the sun, the lack of distractions.
The perfect day if any artist had ever wished for one.
“How is your grandson, Abigail?” Antoinette asked as she set her teacup on its perfectly matching saucer. “Pardon, may I call you Abigail?”
Abigail nodded quickly. “Of course. I wish you would.” She cleared her throat and set her own tea aside.
“He is well, thank you. It is a strange thing, becoming a grandmother. I had thought myself prepared for the status when my daughter was married, but I find that the actuality is far more complicated.”
Antoinette’s brow creased. “Complicated? How so?”
Abigail wet her lips, thinking a moment.
“Well, I am somehow still a mother to my daughter who cares about her welfare and comfort. She has this son, who seemed to be born holding a piece of my own heart, and yet I have no responsibility for him. He is too young to strictly parent, of course, but I now realize that I may have no opinions on how he is raised. That must be left to his parents, which is only right. I shudder to think how my own parents, or my husband’s, might have intervened in how I raised my children. ”
“God forbid, my mother-in-law was tyrannical enough on her own children,” Charlotte muttered over the top of her teacup.
“She had nine, but somehow that wasn’t enough, and she thought I needed her parenting as well.
I believe Shakespeare was acquainted with her ancestor—the Taming of the Shrew and all that. ”
Antoinette coughed a startled laugh, pressing a hand to her chest. “Charlotte! You have the sharpest tongue. It is a wonder it remains cordial with all the engagements you must attend and conversations you must endure.”