America's First Daughter: A Novel

by Stephanie Dray

  Prayers were not, however, on the schedule Papa wrote out for me. So, I tried to devote myself to my studies—save for drawing, for which I had no capacity. Even Mr. Simitière said so. Fervently and repeatedly. All my efforts ended in my nervous stomach emptying its contents into a bowl I held in filthy hands, smudges of graphite on my fingers and clothes.

  Someone must’ve reported this to Papa, for his next letter from Annapolis upbraided me for slovenliness. “Let your clothes be clean, whole, and properly put on,” he wrote. “For nothing is so disgusting to our sex as the want of cleanliness and delicacy in yours.”

  These were the harshest words Papa had ever put to me, and to see the reprimand written so starkly on paper, I gasped and clutched at my stomach, which again tossed with humiliation and upset. Mrs. Hopkinson pulled my trembling body against her sweaty bosom, trying to hush me. “Poor child. Pray for an acquiescent spirit so that you obey your father’s commands. Surely you know your papa does God’s work, so we must relieve him of temporal worries.” Her words echoed Mama’s, and everyone in Philadelphia said that my papa was a great man and that we must put before our own desires a worry for our new country.

  But, wickedly, like Colonel Randolph, I no longer cared a fig for it.

  Instead, I burned with resentment, angrier with my father than I’d ever been. Papa wanted me to send him my drawings, but he didn’t reply when I did. Indeed, it seemed there were a great many things that Papa wished from me while none of my wishes mattered at all. So I wrote Papa only when he wrote to me. And when my drawing teacher couldn’t recognize my sketch of Monticello as having any merit, I tore it to bits, prompting Mr. Simitière to quit his post.

  Six months passed in Philadelphia.

  Christmas. The New Year. Winter. Spring.

  It wasn’t until May that Papa finally came to fetch me.

  I spied through the window the back of a tall man wearing an embroidered blue coat. And, as he made his way to the door, I caught a glimpse of ginger hair beneath his black tricorn hat. I wanted to leap up from my chair and cry “Papa!”

  But instead, I waited sullenly while the white-aproned matriarch of the household ushered my father inside. Though I was angry with him for having abandoned me, words could not express my relief at seeing my father again.

  While he thanked Mrs. Hopkinson for looking after me, my eyes hung on every detail of his features, looking for any evidence that time had wrought changes. The straight set of his spine and the animation of his blue eyes revealed that he was glad to see me, and it softened the hardest edges of my anger.

  “How is my girl?” Papa asked, opening his arms to me. I wanted to run to him, but it had been so long and I had been so scared that I held firm in my seat. When he saw that I would not be so easily wooed, he wryly took from his pocket two tickets to an exhibition of hot air balloons. “I see an inducement is required. Come now, Patsy. Let me show you a glorious thing.”

  Try as I might, I couldn’t resist my papa. In truth, when he put his mind to charm someone, no one could. I rose slowly, but then I flew into his arms and buried my face against his coat. And that very hour, he took me to see the marvelous contraptions that harnessed heat and rendered the balloon lighter than air. That was how I felt, holding my papa’s hand again. Watching the colorful balloons rise up, I thought I might float into the heavens. “Tell me we’re going home again, Papa. Tell me we won’t be apart anymore.”

  His clear eyes followed the balloons into the sky. “I’m to be an envoy to Paris.”

  I crashed back down to earth, afraid I’d cry. Right there, in front of the crowd, shaming myself and Papa besides. “No, Papa. Please—”

  He gave my hand a small squeeze. “I’m taking you with me. I’ve learned in these past months that I cannot do without your company. In truth, I am quite lost without it.”

  Gulping in breaths of relief, I hugged his arm tight. I never wanted to set foot in Mrs. Hopkinson’s brick house again. I didn’t even want to say good-bye.

  Thankfully, Papa sent Jimmy Hemings to fetch my things from the boardinghouse. My father explained that Jimmy was coming with us to Paris to be trained in the art of French cookery so that when we returned to Monticello, we might entertain with the same grace we’d found at Tuckahoe. Those words were a balm to my soul, for they meant that Papa was thinking of a time when we would all live together at Monticello again … someday. Even if he couldn’t bear it now.

  The thought made me so glad that not even the jostling three-week trip to Boston, where we traveled to catch our ship, dampened my excitement for this new shared adventure. And in the dawning hours of our nation’s eighth birthday, we boarded the Ceres and set sail.

  Chapter Five

  Hartford, 11 October 1784

  To Thomas Jefferson from Lafayette

  When I heard of your going to France, I lamented I couldn’t have the honor to receive you there. My house, my family, and anything that is mine are entirely at your disposal and I beg you will see Madame de Lafayette as you would your brother’s wife. Indeed, I’d be very angry with you, if you didn’t consider my house as a second home, and Madame de Lafayette is very happy to wait upon Miss Jefferson.

  HAS THERE EVER BEEN such a labyrinthine city as Paris?

  Upon our arrival, we found sooty walls within muddy walls around the city proper and beggars round every corner. But all the soot and mud gave way to beauty when, borne in a fine coach by seven horses, we passed under a bright blue sky onto the wide avenue of the Champs-Élysées.

  From there, the whole city fanned out before us in splendor. Stone archways, domes, and pillars all reached for the sun. In truth, the bustling seaports of Philadelphia, Boston, and Baltimore were mere infants in comparison to the ancient majesty of this grand city.

  I was giddy at the sight, and I wasn’t the only one. Jimmy Hemings removed his cap, thunderstruck. And Papa gasped when the proud Palais-Royal came into view. The palace’s expanse of creamy white bricks beyond ironwork gates was nearly too much to take in. I could never have imagined such a place. Overcome, I asked, “This palace belongs to the king?”

  The word king elicited a frown from my father, but our coachman explained that the gardens were now open to the public—a thing we could plainly see as we turned a corner into the teeming crowds. Every man was ornamented in waistcoat and powdered wig, and the ladies wore their hair as tall as you pleased, strutting about like well-plumed songbirds. Every breeze carried a thousand voices in the melody of the French language.

  The breeze also carried the disagreeable smell of so many people crowded close together, but the sweet perfume of the gardens and the ribbons of bright green shrubbery winding in every direction made me forget all else. “Oh, Papa! Is this what heaven looks like?”

  “If there be such a place, perhaps it is just so.” There was a new light in his eyes. As his gaze slipped over the carved facades of the palace and its surrounding structures, the hard lines of his expression melted away into fascination. I hadn’t seen him this engaged with the world since my mother died.

  And Paris was very much alive.

  Taking it in, Papa sat with his mouth set in an awed half smile. I realized with a jolt that the shadow of grief seemed to have lifted from him. Could I dare to hope this momentous change I sensed was real? Unable to resist, I threaded my fingers through his.

  His hand, so often stiff and cold since my mother’s death, closed warmly over mine.

  We stayed that night at a cheerful little inn. The next morning, Papa was up early to shop for wine and a map of the city, and to look for servants. He hired two men straightaway.

  That afternoon, we were paid a visit by one Mr. Adams—a member of our delegation in Paris—and his wife, Abigail. What a relief it was to be in the company of Americans after even a few days of being surrounded by people who spoke only French!

  The stout Mr. Adams greeted my father with the warmest friendship.

  It was Mrs. Adams, however, who commanded our a
ttention. In a gray gown with few ruffles at the sleeves, she rolled into the room like a summer storm. “Oh, poor Mr. Jefferson! I’ve seen the new house you intend to lease and it’s even emptier of furnishings than ours. There is no table better than an oak board, nor even a carpet.”

  “We’ll have to shop for furnishings,” Papa allowed.

  Mrs. Adams beat back the hotel draperies for dust. “You’ll also need table linen, bed linen, china, glass, and plate. Our own house is much larger than we need; forty beds may be made in it. It must be very cold in winter. With a smaller abode, you’ll have the advantage.”

  She wasn’t an elegant woman, Mrs. Adams. Nor was she deferential in the way Papa taught me good women must be. I looked to him for signs of disapproval, but when it came to Abigail Adams, he wasn’t able to muster it. “I won’t need many beds,” he said. “There will only be me and my daughter and a few servants. And, of course, my secretary, Mr. Short, when he arrives …”

  I hadn’t heard Mr. Short’s name in quite some time. Not since my fall from the horse, when he chastised Papa. The mention now was a pleasant surprise. Almost as pleasant as learning that Mr. Short would be joining us here in Paris.

  As I absorbed the happy news, Mrs. Adams turned her gaze to me. “You must be your father’s dear Patsy.” Then her dark eyes narrowed over a beak of a nose when she saw the stain upon my calico dress. She looked me up and down and when she reached my feet, I wiggled my toes nervously in worn shoes. Mrs. Adams spun to face my father. “Oh, dear. Oh, no. This will never do. Your daughter can’t set foot in Paris looking like this.”

  How provoking! She made me sound like an urchin. My father looked positively mortified, and Mr. Adams grumbled.

  Immune to our general discomfort, his wife continued, “For that matter, Mr. Jefferson, it might be well for you to have some new clothes made, too. We Americans must represent ourselves well, and you’ve no idea how these Parisians worship fashion. Why, to be out of fashion is more criminal than to be seen in a state of nature … to which the Parisians are not averse.”

  I blushed and so did my papa, but I didn’t think it was the mention of Parisians in the state of nature that embarrassed him most. He looked down at his own waistcoat, self-consciously fingering one of the loose fastenings. “Is there no advantage to remaining uncorrupted by sophistication?”

  Mrs. Adams smirked but insisted with an innate sense of authority, “You must send immediately for the stay maker, the Mantua maker, the milliner, and even a shoemaker!” In a few hours, merchants of every variety overran our quarters and Mrs. Adams marshaled them this way and that, lecturing my father on the cost. “I could’ve furnished myself in Boston, twenty or thirty percent cheaper than I’ve been able to do here. I cannot get a dozen handsome wineglasses under three guineas, nor a pair of small decanters for less than a guinea and a half.” When the dressmaker arrived, Papa allowed the garrulous Mrs. Adams to herd me upstairs. “Poor motherless girl. We’ll get you in proper order straightaway.”

  It was a comedy after that, for the dressmaker knew only a little English and neither Mrs. Adams nor I spoke French very well. My apprehension grew when the dressmaker’s assistant displayed bolts of cloth for our perusal. Mrs. Adams asked my favorite color, and looking at the samples before me, I hesitated, afraid to give the wrong answer. I’d never been good at keeping my clothes tidy, so I hoped to choose something that might hide the stains.

  “The blue silk would suit you,” Mrs. Adams said, then seemed to reach into my thoughts and snatch them from the air. “Girls keep their clothes tidier if you let them choose the colors and fabrics they like.”

  Under her expectant gaze, I tentatively asserted myself. “I am fond of the blue, but yellow, too.”

  Mrs. Adams nodded. “A lovely combination. Perhaps a pale yellow petticoat beneath the blue silk and some yellow bows on the sleeves.” With hand motions, Mrs. Adams made the dressmaker understand. Assistants rushed in with a dizzying array of shiny ribbons and frothy lace. Meanwhile, Mrs. Adams looked through my trunks, quite uninvited. “You’re nearly twelve?”

  I nodded.

  “Then you’ll need a new wardrobe entirely. We can’t get it all done today, but I’ll draw up a list.” She said I was to have shoes with decorative buckles and bonnets with flowers. I was to have new undergarments and a side-hooped petticoat to give me the illusion of hips in the case of a very formal occasion. I was to have a cape and handkerchiefs and maybe even a chemise gown of pure white muslin like the kind made popular by the French queen. I was to have at least one gown immediately, made of the scraps and bits that the dressmaker sent her assistant to fetch, so that I could go out into proper company while the other dresses were being made.

  Standing in the middle of the whirlwind as the seamstress took measurements, I was shy of the attention. But Mrs. Adams encouraged me to stand up straight. “You’re going to be tall like your father; there’s no help for it. Still, your red hair is lovely and your soulful eyes are sure to be some man’s undoing, so never shrink down into yourself.”

  Her direct manner might have been off-putting but I perceived a compliment. Maybe two. “My thanks, Mrs. Adams … but you’re sure Papa will consent to the expense for my clothes?”

  At this, Mrs. Adams softened. “What a sweet girl you are to worry. The truth is, you’ll have to help your father make do. The policy of our country has been, and still is, to be penny-wise and pound-foolish. The nation which degrades their own foreign ministers by obliging them to live in narrow circumstances cannot expect to be held in high esteem. Here in Paris, my dear, appearances are indispensable.”

  I liked that she didn’t speak in the falsetto voice some adults do with children. She talked of grown-up concerns as if I was old enough to understand. She was too loquacious to remind me of my own mother, but I felt mothered as I hadn’t been in years. Though Mrs. Adams offered very firm guidance, she didn’t bully me. When the friseur came and I declined to have my hair styled in the high plume of fashionable Parisian women, Mrs. Adams said that I should have my own way and I left my copper ringlets down, tied in a simple ribbon.

  Eventually the dressmaker’s assistant returned with a gown of lilac satin that had been discarded by some other girl. I was virtually sewn into the dress on the spot. When the seamstress was finished, I stroked the fabric, which was soft as peach skin. I’d never owned anything so lovely. Excitement fluttered in my belly that the dresses made for me would be even prettier. In my new gown of draped sleeves, I scarcely recognized myself in the mirror. Indeed, I preened so long that I feared Mrs. Adams would think me vain. But I no longer appeared to be the rustic girl I knew.

  Abigail ushered me into the parlor, where we found Papa with a book in his hands, pointing something out to Mr. Adams.

  “May I present Miss Martha Jefferson,” Abigail said, clearly pleased.

  Papa glanced up, his eyes widening. “Why, Miss Jefferson, you have become a miniature lady.” He looked to Abigail. “I thank and congratulate you, madam.” He pressed his hand to his mouth and shook his head. “Plainly, a woman’s touch was just what was needed.”

  Perhaps not sensing the sadness I heard in his voice, Mrs. Adams clasped her hands and gave a self-satisfied smile. “Indeed.”

  Their praise made my cheeks heat, but I enjoyed Papa’s astonishment so much that I didn’t mind the attention. Especially when, after Mrs. Adams left, Papa turned to me once more. “Let me see you,” he said. “Spin ’round.”

  Like a dancer, I held out my arms and twirled, the long skirts swishing around me. And Papa smiled. The first open smile I’d seen in so very long.

  I was afraid to pinch myself for fear that I’d wake up in Philadelphia, alone and afraid. But no. I was awake. And I dared to hope that the charms of the Old World had awakened us both from our nightmare of grief and madness, at last.

  PAPA’S FRENCH FRIENDS who had helped us during the Revolution were also eager to get us settled. In fact, it was the Marquis de Chastellu
x who arranged for my enrollment at the Abbaye Royale de Panthemont, a convent school where two of the French princesses took their education.

  Fearful of being boarded with strangers yet again, I pleaded, “Can’t I have tutors? I promise to attend my studies. I want to stay with you, Papa.”

  I was grown, now. Old enough to help set up his household. If Papa believed, as he said he did, that young girls ought to primarily be trained for domestic tasks, to prepare for a life as wives and mothers, then why did he insist on my learning music, drawing, arithmetic, geography, and Latin? But Papa would not be dissuaded in his plans for my education. Even when my enrollment in the convent was universally criticized by our American friends, who feared royal and papist influences. The abbess swore, however, that though I would be cloistered behind convent walls during the week, I’d be exempt from catechism and the sacraments.

  As the day I was to attend the new school dawned, I could scarcely force myself from bed, despite the fact I’d hardly slept all the night before. Papa had to call for me twice, and I was so distraught at our inevitable separation that I didn’t even care that my delays earned his ire.

  When we finally passed through the gates of the Panthemont, underneath a magnificent clock that faced the street, I clung to my father’s arm. In habits, the nuns all looked much the same, rushing about with their charges, girls wearing uniforms of crimson. We were led into a large room filled with beds and writing tables where I was to board with other girls. And though some of the girls were introduced to me as the daughters of English nobility, none would speak anything but French. I thought I was the only American, and when Papa left me for the night, I cried into my pillow hoping no one could hear.

  Today, if someone were to ask where I have been happiest in my life—where I found the most companionship and joy and discovered the best in myself—I would name the convent without hesitation. But my first days at the Panthemont were a misery. I lived for the evenings when Papa came to share supper with me. Every night, I thought he’d change his mind and take me home, but he didn’t.