Chapter 31
Unless mankind were universally enlightened, which never can be, they are unfit for freedom, nor do I believe that our Creator designed it for them.
History demonstrates otherwise. If mankind were intended to be free, all ages and nations from Adam to the present day would not have been one standing continued and universal proof to the contrary.
Some were made for rule, others for submission.
What else can I conclude from the tales I hear from France?
I beg you, Charlotte, to send any news of our dear Antoinette. Anything you hear must be more trusted than what is spoken here.
Abigail
“How do you feel about John’s second term, sister?”
Abigail smiled lightly at Elizabeth, who was calling on her in spite of the winter weather outside.
She was convinced her sister was trying to avoid the complications of her children, but also that she wanted to discuss the situation with the French revolution, which had captivated her sister’s mind for weeks.
Her sister, who had no idea that Abigail was friends with the queen of France, and that everything she heard was treasured up with either relief or fear.
And with John being required in Philadelphia so much, and Abigail no longer wishing to live there, the couple was once again indulging in a marriage via letter writing, and there was something oddly comforting and warm about doing so. He was never more tender with her than he was by his pen.
I am with all the ardor of youth yours.
Her heart still fluttered at the declaration of his most recent letter. Fluttered like she was a girl of seventeen and not the matronly woman too physically inconvenienced to travel anymore.
And his humor had never waned.
You apologize for the length of your letters, yet they give me more entertainment than all the speeches I hear. There are more good thoughts, fine strokes, and mother wit in them than I hear in a whole week.
John was also an excellent source of information for her. He knew of her continued fascination with politics and shared everything he could with her—from Congress, from Washington, from those vying for favors from him, and every rumor, suggestion, or bit of gossip from the newspapers.
He did not mind his second term, really.
He knew what to expect, and he knew that Washington was yearning to return to a private life.
He did have hopes to be brought into more action while his respected friend and mentor slowly stepped back and away from the political world, but John said he would accept the same situation as had previously been established if need be.
He could be the next president, if he did not make enemies among the voters and the influential others in the political realm.
“Abigail?”
She blinked hard and focused her attention on her sister. “Yes, sorry, Elizabeth. John is quite pleased. It was a close election this time, as you may know, and he was irked to have it be so close to Mr. Clinton. His pride, you understand.”
Elizabeth smirked after taking a sip of her tea. “That does sound like John.” She set her teacup down and turned to Abigail with bright eyes. “Have you heard the news from France?”
Abigail tilted her head in interest, holding her breath. “News?”
Her sister nodded slowly. “They have introduced a contraption for brutal executions. The guillotine. It is absolute butchery, Abigail, and slices the head off in one clean swoop. No more executioner wielding the axe or the sword. Now the blade simply falls to its end.”
A cold shiver coiled around Abigail’s spine. “That poor nation.”
“It is a civil war,” Elizabeth insisted.
“I was vastly pleased when I heard the ideals were for liberty and a determination to remember the ladies—your words—with their divorce law last year. A pity they are not granted the vote, as that one delegate wished, but perhaps soon. But this condoning of murder? Denouncing religion? Abigail, they are ordering priests and noblemen purged.”
“Purged?” Abigail felt a choking sensation, her hands trembling in her lap.
“Their word, I can assure you.” Elizabeth shook her head sadly. “That poor king and his queen, locked up in the Tower like prisoners. But truly, a miracle they were spared in those September massacres.”
Abigail kept silent on that point. Charlotte had written a frantic letter to her when she had learned that Antoinette was safe, but the details of those horrible days, of what Louis and Antoinette had been forced to witness, was beyond imagining.
Charlotte had prepared rooms in her palace in England for Antoinette and the family but had not been able to get them out of France.
There were rumors of secret plots to rescue them, but Charlotte had no details and had no faith in them.
Apparently, the French were venomous in their hatred for Louis and Antoinette, and no escape attempts would be possible now that they were under such heavy guard.
Not after their failed attempt before.
Charlotte’s letter to Abigail had been raw and vulnerable, with no hint of stiffness befitting the queen of England writing to a former subject.
It had been the most indication of her feelings toward Antoinette that Abigail had ever seen.
Their friend was reason enough to put aside any residual animosity.
“They say that King Louis is to go on trial for treason.”
Abigail stared at her sister in disbelief. “Treason? How could the former king go on trial for treason?”
“Because France is in the hands of radicals!”
That, unfortunately, was true.
John had even said something of the sort, beginning to hate reading the newspapers because of, what he called, the whole drama of the world. He was weary of the spectacle, and she could not blame him.
“And Mr. Jefferson!” Elizabeth cried, slapping the table hard. “How dare he speak so casually about this revolution! Has he no feelings on the sanctity of life itself?”
Elizabeth’s passion on the subject was a credit to her, but she was saying nothing that Abigail did not already know and feel.
Mr. Jefferson was no longer their friend.
He found the revolution in France beautiful and was equally as devoted to confrontation and sowing discord among his fellows.
He, who had once agreed with them that King Louis was a good and honest man, now said that monarchy must be annihilated and the rights of the people firmly established.
That the loss of life was unfortunate, but the cost of a battle.
As though this was nothing more than a war.
He saw this as a reflection of their own revolution and thought they ought to support France in the same manner that France supported America years before.
Could he not see the stark differences?
Freedom and liberty were no great sins. America had endured its own wretched losses to achieve them. Abigail shuddered to remember the atrocities that had occurred with their own battle for liberty.
But the manner in which this was being brought about?
The raw brutality was harrowing. Surely Heaven wept for the sins its children committed against each other.
“Mr. Jefferson has very strong opinions,” Abigail murmured, forcing herself to take a sip of her tea.
“But did he not adore France when he was there?” Elizabeth pressed. “And the French court?”
She could not feed the friction this revolution created among people here. She could not lean one way or the other, not with John’s position, and not when she had sources of information no one was aware of.
“He did, but opinions alter. And he does adore France. Just not the monarchy, it seems.”
There, that seemed steady enough.
Steady. Abigail had always been steady in everything she had done.
But she wanted to be passionate and volatile now.
She wanted to rage at those celebrating this monstrosity and demand that they seek for even a sliver of their humanity.
Were the alleged sins of the aristocracy so vile that a woman and her children must be punished for them?
The poor and the needy in France had endured so much, suffered so greatly, and surely deserved their dignity, of that there was no question.
But how could these current actions bring about the desired change?
How could demanding the death of children possibly improve the situation?
Why could they not be exiled and safe elsewhere?
But she could not say or do anything. She had no power or authority.
Her husband might be vice president of the United States, but even he was hemmed in on what he could express and required support for anything he wished to accomplish.
Abigail had no position at all. The best she could hope for was to be the woman standing beside John Adams or the woman who ensured his speeches were no longer than necessary or filled with too many quotations or polysyllabic words.
No one would listen to her. No one would act on her word. No one cared.
This must be what Antoinette and Charlotte meant when they bemoaned their position as being one of influence and not power.
Being seen and sought after for the sake of connection and nothing more.
Being confined by the role carved out for them and unable to move beyond the boundaries that someone else had set.
Being a woman had always been maddening in that regard. But now, when it mattered more to her than it ever had?
It was nothing short of crushing.
“That poor, unfortunate Louis,” Elizabeth said on a heavy sigh.
It was difficult to determine if her sister was truly sincere, or if this current infatuation with France was merely something that lit her imagination.
“Indeed,” Abigail agreed softly.
“His only crime is that he was born a king at this particular time.”
Now that was very true. From what she understood, Louis had not been born to be king and had inherited most of the trouble when his brother had died and he had been named heir to the throne.
The excesses of his station were not his sin.
The discontent of the masses had been set in motion before he had been crowned.
But all the sins fell upon his head.
His and Antoinette’s.
Was it even possible for them to escape a dreadful fate in France? Would the bloodthirsty radicals in control find a shred of mercy where they were concerned? Was it more important to make a statement with action than to uphold values long instilled?
This was not going to end well, she realized. France was its own worst enemy, and it would never allow an outside influence to intervene. Barring a miraculous escape for the royal family, the news would only grow worse for her friend.
Helpless and hopeless, Abigail could not taste the tea as she sipped it.
All she had were her letters with Charlotte and Antoinette.
They were her only source of strength and comfort with the world in such turmoil, and though Antoinette would likely never see her letters, she would continue to write them.
Perhaps her words were more for her own reconciliation with the circumstances than anything else, but it was her only course of action.
Her only choice.
“When do Nabby and Colonel Smith return from England?” Elizabeth inquired, switching topics with the suddenness of a thunderclap.
Abigail’s smile was less forced now, a flicker of real affection sparking at the question. “February. I have missed them so much.”
She did not tell her sister that she was afraid that the trouble in France would spill over to England. That she feared her daughter’s travel would not be easily managed. That her grandchildren might be in danger.
That this bloodbath would somehow touch her family.
Just as it was touching her friends.