“Two drunkards were caught sleeping beneath the altar,” he explained. “The mob accused them of trying to set off explosives to prevent people from signing the petition. I fired warning shots, but it did no good. I was left with the choice of complicity with murder or firing on the people . . . so I fired. Nevertheless, the unfortunates were torn to pieces.”
“You did all you could.”
He put his head in his hands. “Adrienne, in the melee someone aimed a pistol in my face and pulled the trigger.” My heart stopped. “The gun misfired, but now I wonder if this near-death angered me so much that I did the wrong thing.”
“No,” I said, my heart thumping wildly with gratitude that God had spared my husband’s life. It made me more firm in my conviction. “You are no butcher, Gilbert.”
Surely he knew it, and yet this self-doubt broke something in him.
In September, the king ratified the new constitution. After he forswore his oath to a constitutional monarchy, I would never trust the honor of King Louis again. I did, however, think he could not possibly be foolish enough to risk all our lives a second time. Thanks to Lafayette, he had survived the turmoil, remained one of the richest men in the world, and kept his crown. He could now rule in the same way the British king did.
All he had to do was keep his word.
Nevertheless, the royal family made clear that they did not wish for my husband’s help or protection any longer. The royals resentfully celebrated every dent in my husband’s armor—even as he shielded them with it. Though he had saved their lives, they scorned him. Now they believed they were in better hands, and I hoped they were.
I wished no ill on the queen’s family even though she wished much ill upon mine. The royals said Lafayette was now welcome to leave public life altogether. Perhaps they thought to test his integrity. Some people still accused Lafayette of wanting to be king. Others wanted him to be king.
Yet I knew he wanted to be George Washington.
Which is why, with peace restored, my husband twined his fingers in mine and asked, “Will you steal away with me to Chavaniac—the only place we can be free?”
THIRTY-FIVE
BEATRICE
New York City
November 1916
America might still be neutral, but New York City decidedly was not. After the explosion, no one with a modicum of good sense was willing to repeat President Wilson’s inane mantra that America was too proud to fight. And even without an elephant, I was able to lure more than fifteen thousand people to the Allied Ball.
From the hoity-toity of Manhattan to jazz musicians from Harlem, everyone turned out, and I encouraged the audience’s applause for the uniformed Gurkhas and sepoys. It was a world war, after all. Men from India fought alongside the French, Belgian, English, Scottish, Irish, Canadian, Russian, Italian, Japanese, Portuguese, and more. They all deserved our praise. And I hoped the roar of the crowd could be heard all the way from Madison Square Garden to the White House.
After the pageantry followed an evening of dancing, and I awarded an automobile to the lady with the best costume. （I took my dazzling ensemble of Indian sari silk out of the running, because who could compete with me?） I’d raised piles of money, and now my dressing room was filled with bouquets. Bitter-scented marigolds from the reporter Mitzi Miller . . . well, now this was war. I’d be forced to retaliate by penning an ebullient handwritten note of thanks accompanied by a bone-dry fruitcake.
The red roses were from Willie.
I threw them in the trash.
I hadn’t returned his calls since the car accident. I had, in fact, spent the better part of the past two months avoiding him.
You’re all right, sweetheart, you’re all right, it’s just a little glass . . .
I closed my eyes, forcing away the memories of the summer, the screams, the crash. Had it all been a terrifying rush that way for Victor before his plane hit the ground? Killed instantly, they said, but now I wondered. Perhaps that’s what Willie had been wondering, just before he drove us into that tree.
I shook my head, pulling jeweled combs from my hair. As long as I kept busy, I could keep bad memories at bay. Fortunately, I had plenty to keep me occupied. I’d moved out of the hotel. My new doll shop on Madison Avenue was doing brisk business as Christmas shoppers readied for the holidays, and I was sending the proceeds overseas for Emily, Clara, and Marie-Louise to use for the benefit of refugee children. I’d also recently received formal thanks from French generals on the front lines, to whom we’d sent more than seventy thousand more Lafayette kits. With the success of the Allied Ball, I’d be sending more.