On the eve of Gilbert’s exile, he gave me and our baby a teary farewell. “Remember, Adrienne, that in whatever country I may find myself, I shall always love you. You know my heart, or at least I hope you believe me when I say it is yours for life.”
Alas, soon I would have reason to doubt it.
* * *
—
Several weeks later, my father thundered into the house on the Rue Saint-Honoré, his spurs scraping the tiles; he made straight for me, where I was sniffling into my kerchief fighting tears, for Maman had already broken the news. Lafayette wasn’t in London where he was supposed to be. Nor was he in Italy, where my father had intended to drag him.
Somehow my husband had slipped my father’s leash and was attempting to sail away to America.
This would have taken planning—months of planning—and yet Gilbert had kept this secret from me. My sentiments swung wildly among hurt at the betrayal, anger at my own credulity, and fear of my father’s wrath, to say nothing of the king’s. Oh, Gilbert, what have you done?
Now my father stood before me, grim as a reaper. “Did you know what Lafayette was planning?”
In half-numb shock, I murmured, “I knew nothing . . .” Truth was my defense. Surely Gilbert knew I wouldn’t have revealed his plan to anyone; so I allowed myself to believe that he had kept his plans from me to protect me. Fortunately, I had another protector too . . .
Maman stepped between us, shielding me from my father’s wrath. “Gilbert’s farewell letter explains that he pledged himself to the Americans months ago, long before you forbade him to go. He gave his word and kept it.” Was that pride I heard in her voice? “We all know Lafayette’s honorable heart, which has compelled him to answer to a higher cause.”
I was too stunned to know whether I believed this. Too devastated at the idea that I had been abandoned. Yet Maman did believe it, perhaps because she too had defied my father when she felt duty-bound to a higher cause. But oh, the price of his fury. “I care not at all about Lafayette’s heart. I would give less than a fig for it!” My father snatched up a pen and inkwell from a writing table and slid them to me atop a blank page. “I only care that he does not get far. He is not on that ship yet. Write to him, Adrienne. Tell him you are desperately ill. Make him worry for his heir, and he will return with his tail between his legs.”
My father expected my obedience. What is more, I wanted to obey. Infected by sudden fear of what might happen to Gilbert in a war—terrified that he had gone without the king’s permission and without boon companions—I wanted to beg my husband to return. I picked up the quill, but my hand stiffened, then stopped.
The duc d’Ayen lowered his voice to coax me. “Poor daughter. You are not to blame. It is my fault for giving you in marriage to a heartless blunderer willing to abandon his pregnant wife and child.”
This transparent attempt to manipulate my sentiments produced the opposite effect intended. “That is not true,” I whispered. “Lafayette did not abandon me. You were going to take him away for six months.”
My father loomed, impatient. “If you do not write this letter, I will put out a warrant for Lafayette’s arrest. Is that what you want—for your husband and the father of your children to be dragged back in chains like a criminal?”
This was not an idle threat. I knew my father would do such a thing; that he felt entitled to do it and his position allowed it. As an orphan, my husband had been traded to my family like a prized breeding stallion, and now my father was treating us both like horses in the Noailles stables that must be reined in. In that moment, a fire that had never burned before was kindled in my heart. A fire inspired by my husband’s defiance. A fire that would burn for the rest of my life. I would never again allow myself to be used as a whip to command anyone’s obedience. My husband, like the American colonies, was in open rebellion.
Now I was too.
I pushed the paper away. “No.”
“You will obey me,” my father ground out, drawing a hand back to strike.
My mother shrieked, but I did not cower. I thought of all the evils in the world that might be remedied by a victory against the tyranny of kings. I no longer believed that a just God could ordain one man to rule over his brothers and sisters without their consent. I thought of colonists trampled underfoot. French peasants starving in the streets. Enslaved Africans carted in cargo ships. The whole world was an open wound, and my husband, the nobody from Chavaniac, wanted to do something to salve it. Even if he failed, it was a noble attempt—noble in the truest sense of the word. I had not gone with Gilbert on that ship, but here in my chest beat his very own heart, and I would not betray it.