Chapter 37
There are some evil spirits who would fault the measure of heaven and quarrel with the angel Gabriel were he sent even to declare peace on Earth and good will to men.
I consider the recent designated representative from the French government, as it were, to be such.
This man, who once rose to serenade guests with “La Marseillaise” at a formal dinner, believes he may sway our actions with his passion.
My pride and delight with my nation has sharpened to hear President Washington tell the man that he would countenance no aggression against a European nation on American soil.
Mr. Genet, being much displeased, strove to raise an insurrection of sympathizers, leading to that dreadful seizure of the British ship in our harbor.
Imagine my surprise when Mr. Jefferson joined Washington in bidding the minister farewell and demanding he return in shame to his blessed France.
Perhaps there may yet be sense and hope in our world, in spite of its desperate failings.
Abigail
The letter’s arrival had driven Abigail from the sanctuary of Peacefield, though the chill in the November air and the cloudiness of the sky ought to have kept her home.
John was in Philadelphia, and Nabby and the children—who had all returned from England in February—were otherwise occupied, so she would have privacy.
But it was not privacy she sought.
It was connection.
She had dreaded any letter from Europe in the last several weeks. Ever since she had learned the fate of Marie Antoinette.
Her mind had been tossing over the horrors of what had transpired in France, and what was still transpiring as the bloodlust of its leaders had apparently not been sated by that of its former king and queen.
Perhaps men were not fit for freedom, if this was what they would do with it.
There was no other opinion she could be satisfied with now.
Her anger, her outrage, her embarrassment at the actions of her fellow human beings were unnaturally high, and it did not help that her feelings were combined with mourning and agony.
That sweet, vibrant, mischievous woman. The one who had made an audience in the hall of mirrors in Versailles seem like a simple drawing room conversation when Abigail had feared shaming her husband and his aims. But Antoinette had been open, honest, and genuine, very unlike the typical French lady in society, and their budding friendship had begun.
The years since had brought them closer, given them eyes to see, as the Bible said.
Eyes to see what lay beneath the surface, the reputation, the political noise, and the station in life. To see into the heart and learn of the soul. To see a woman, a wife, a mother.
What a beautiful creature Marie Antoinette had been! What right had anyone to rid the world of such a beacon of light?
Would to Heaven that the destroying angel would put up its sword.
Abigail had come to Quincy Bay because she needed to see the water she had crossed to meet her friend. She needed to feel as close to Antoinette as possible. She could have gone to some pleasant corner of the countryside, she supposed, but that had not been her first instinct.
No, she had been drawn to the water. To the ocean that was a physical separation from France. From England. From the unlikely connection that had formed between two queens and the wife of a new minister to their courts.
Abigail had been so much older than Antoinette, the same age as Charlotte, but they had both taught her so much about being in a position of influence without power.
Of being married to a man viewed as one of authority.
She had possessed an independence of being neither of them had the liberty to explore for themselves, and her very view of that blessing had altered ever since.
Abigail had never considered herself particularly fortunate in her birth, all things considered. But she would never take it for granted ever again.
Standing at the shore of the bay, Abigail closed her eyes, inhaling the sea air deeply.
Charlotte had sent this letter from England, and Abigail feared its contents.
Did she want to know more details of what had taken place in France?
Some things had been noted in the newspapers, and Colonel Smith, her ambitious son-in-law, had taken a trip to Paris during his time in England and been named as a representative of the new French government to that of the United States.
That he could support such a regime had been a blow to her and to John, and his reports could not be trusted to be accurate.
But Charlotte would know the truth.
Abigail gave herself a firm nod and broke the seal of the letter, startled to find another within its folds.
Two different hands had written these letters. The one addressed to her was clearly from Charlotte, but the one that had been encased was from Antoinette.
“Heavens above . . .” Abigail breathed. She looked at the note from Charlotte first.
I cannot contain my tears at our good fortune to hear from our friend before her death, nor could I bear to keep the original for myself.
Such selfishness would not suit our Antoinette.
I have copied its contents in my own hand and will treasure it thus, having plenty of previous correspondence to fondly admire her penmanship as I wish.
This I send to you now for your keeping, along with my vow that, for our Antoinette, I shall ever be at your disposal, should you require it, and our quiet friendship shall be more sincere and fervent now than it has been before.
Such sincerity, such openness was not quite Charlotte’s style, but Abigail could only suspect that she, too, had been changed by Antoinette’s fate. Whatever it was, Abigail would do the same and take up this charge of sincere friendship.
Smiling slightly, she opened the letter from Antoinette, scanning its opening lines and beginning to cry as she recognized the date as the very one of her death. Her heart ached as she thought of her friend sitting in her cell and writing this final letter to her and Charlotte.
Her eyes caught sight of her name, and her focus followed.
Abigail, my newest American friend, I grieve our friendship has been of such short duration.
It ought to have spanned decades, as a lifetime was never intended to be as swift as mine.
Your genuine spirit and open nature immediately brought you to my attention, and I have never been more grateful to have a minister’s wife fail to curb her tongue.
Your frankness and compassion brought joy to the protected heart of someone only accustomed to flattery and self-interest. I seek to be like you, my friend: fearless in the pursuit of bettering myself and forever being true to her.
I delight in you, I pray for you, I shall be with you.
A weak moan of grief and sympathy escaped Abigail, and she took a moment to let it rise and fall in its natural wave. She had no idea that was how Antoinette had seen her, and to hear it now after her death was a bittersweet revelation.
How often did people say what they felt before it was too late? Before it was the very end? Why could the human race not be as open and sincere without the prospect of death or separation provoking it?
With a faint sniffle, Abigail looked over the words once more as Antoinette expressed her spiritual pleas and desire for forgiveness. Surely, she went to her death with as unburdened a spirit as could be hoped, if such declarations were enough for Heaven.
The idea of being separated from you and my other friends forever, and the sorrow it shall bring you, is one of the greatest regrets that I carry with me when I die; know that until my last moment I thought of you.
I embrace you with all my heart, as well as my dear children. How heartbreaking it is to leave them forever!
As far as Abigail was aware, the royal children of France were still locked up in their prisons, and no one could seem to determine what was intended for them.
Would they turn the boy into a puppet king for the revolutionary government?
Would the daughter be used as chattel for a political alliance as so many daughters in Europe were?
Would either of them live to see the next year? Their birthday? Adulthood?
So much was unknown, and the harshness that was possible from the monsters abroad was a terrifying prospect.
France would bathe itself with the blood of its people; that much was clear. So much had changed, so much had ended, so much violence had already been suffered, and there was no end in sight.
Antoinette was gone. Sacrificed for the entertainment of the people after having endured a fall from grace that had shocked the world. How much further would that nation devolve?
With a shake of her head, Abigail read the final words of the letter:
Farewell, my good and tender friends; I pray this letter may reach you! Remember me, ladies, as I lovingly and fondly remember you.
Abigail read the letter in its entirety a few times more before folding the pages and tucking them into her skirts. Then she folded her arms across her chest and stared out at the ocean before her.
How drastically had her life changed in the nearly ten years since she had crossed that ocean to join her husband.
Since she had thought she was facing her own death.
Since she had questioned the wisdom of making such a venture and leaving her boys and her life behind her.
Her love for her husband and her longing for him had prompted her to take that voyage, but how could she have imagined she would have seen, heard, and experienced so much?
How could she have anticipated a friendship with two of the most influential women of Europe?
How could she have dreamed that she would have anything in common with them?
How could the death of one such woman encourage her into living a more genuine life?
She may never be able to tell her children or friends about the friendship she had shared with Marie Antoinette, and certainly no one would believe she had a friendship with Queen Charlotte, but she could not deny the truth of it to herself.
But this friendship did not need public opinion or knowledge. It did not need discussion or boasting. It did not need to be opened up and explored by those who could never understand what had been shared, felt, and understood by the three of them during one secret retreat in Calais.
It only needed to be treasured. Embraced. Recollected.
Lived.
Their friendship lived and breathed in a way that human life did not. It surpassed mortal bonds and physical distance. It remained unharmed by wars, by loss, by fear, or by hate.
Remember me, ladies.
Yes, Abigail would remember. She would think of her with every glimpse of the sea. She would write the queen of her former kingdom with genuine fondness. She would hold her children and grandchildren closer, love her husband better, and live her life more vibrantly.
She would look behind her with affection and joy and look ahead of her with hope and courage.
For there was more to this expanse of life than living and dying, the accumulation of wealth and influence, or the power and authority one might hold.
There were connections and experiences, for good or for ill, that added color and texture to the exquisite tapestry of life woven with every passing year.
And looking out across the ocean, in the direction of troubled France and stalwart England, Abigail smiled softly, her tears flowing unchecked.
What a beautiful, complex tapestry hers was turning out to be!