In reply, Gilbert pondered aloud. “Ah, but those gifts are too humble. Those are gifts for monarchs, whereas Washington is the defender of a free nation.” Such a comment would have, in other times, given powerful offense, yet somehow Gilbert turned it into a clever jest. “For Washington, only the gift of an armada will do.”
The queen laughed, and this time not in mockery. Even the king’s chief advisor joined in the jest. “Young man, you are such a zealot, I fear you would strip the jewels from the queen’s neck and sell every painting in Versailles to fund your Americans.”
Again, the queen laughed. “Let us not make sport of our guest of honor, who shall soon be a colonel in command of a regiment of the King’s Dragoons.”
My hand tightened with excitement on my husband’s arm. He had commanded a peasant army of yeoman farmers across the sea. To rise so high in rank in France’s professional military was something entirely different. Something he dreamed of.
As the evening progressed from dances to toasts, coquettes giggled behind every fan, batting eyelashes at my husband and casting envious stares my way. Whereas once I had been the object of pity for having been saddled with an Auvergnat, I now caught fragments of whispered jealousy at my good fortune.
To my surprise, one of these whispering women was the doll-faced flirt Aglaé d’Hunolstein.
“Adrienne,” she said, sidling up to me in a gown worn without fichu for modesty. “Your tales of how Lafayette conducted himself with distinction in America lifted the stain of his disobedience in going there. How proud you must be now that he has won universal approval!”
“I have always taken pride in him, even when no one else approved.” It was a tart reply, but something about Aglaé provoked me. It was not merely that she was the mistress of Philippe, the duc de Chartres—for marital infidelity was so common I should have nary a friend if I condemned a person for that. It was, perhaps, my suspicion that she had conspired with her lover to embarrass Gilbert at the queen’s quadrille all those years ago. I would set a better example now that we were in favor at court and Philippe decidedly was not. He had joined the navy looking for military glory, but his failure to follow orders from a superior officer had resulted in a costly defeat.
Still stinging, Philippe said, “Lafayette, your wife told me—and anyone who would listen—that you took a scratch in the Americas . . .”
“She seems to have made a legend of me,” Gilbert said.
“I only told the truth, sir,” I replied, and we shared a private smile.
“If I had known a bullet would improve your dancing,” Philippe cut in with a sneer, “I would have put lead into your leg back in the day.”
This taunt was meant to put my husband in his place, which had hitherto been beneath Philippe’s boot. Yet Gilbert appeared to take no notice. He behaved as if he was now the man of greater stature, one who could afford to ignore such slights. And indeed, he was.
* * *
—
“Madame,” Benjamin Franklin said, kissing my cheeks in greeting, then again in flirtation. “You glow like the fertility of the New World. Dare I say, you are a founding mother of my country, though you have yet to set foot on American soil.”
I considered this the most gratifying of compliments, for at nearly twenty years old and in the early months of a new pregnancy, I now stood as representative for my husband at a celebration to mark the anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, during which there was to be a public unveiling of Washington’s portrait. But first, Franklin honored me with a little poem he read to his guests:
I’ve painted a picture for you of the hero, Lafayette;
Now I dare to sketch his charming helpmeet.
Imagine love, virtue, and kindness—
And the portrait is complete.
Of course, there was a more important portrait to reveal that day. “Will you do the honors, Madame la marquise?”
I grinned at Dr. Franklin; then, to the cheers of the assembled guests, I pulled the drape away to reveal a giant painting of George Washington. The great man cut a fine figure in buff and blue uniform, one hand holding a treaty of alliance with France, the discarded rulings of his tyrant beneath his boots.
What a fetching portrait! I knew Gilbert would adore it. However, I was struck by the incongruity of a dark-skinned servant depicted alongside the great man’s horse, as I knew the man to be enslaved. Gilbert had promised this war would end slavery—that the Americans believed all men were created equal. Could not Washington lead by example in freeing the people he held in bondage? It was not, of course, the last time this question would come to mind, but it was difficult to broach the subject when the war was still unwon.