When next I saw Gilbert, he kissed me and put his hand upon my swelling belly. “You must not think me so ridiculous as to take anything but joy in this new child, whatever sex it might be, but if it would not trouble you too much, I will insist upon a boy.”
“You will have to convince the babe . . . I fear he might be too shy to come out, given the burden of carrying your now-famous name.”
Gilbert laughed, stooping to plant a kiss on my stomach. “Never fear, little one. I plan to carry the burden of my name for a while longer!”
In the coming months, this reassured me that whatever dangers Lafayette faced returning to battle in America, he meant to come back to me. Perhaps it reassured the little one too, because on Christmas Eve whilst I was visiting relations, out my son came into the world. A precious, perfect little boy who took us all by surprise.
Though it was much past midnight, I sent a messenger to deliver my cheeky note to Gilbert where he was meeting with Franklin. I teased that both America and France should mark the occasion of my son’s birth with fireworks. I congratulated myself too for having brought another Lafayette into the world, which was surely a public service!
Gilbert came to me straightaway, and we spent the next week in celebration.
Our son would be named Georges Washington Lafayette.
After fetching her ear trumpet and pretending that she did not hear us the first time, Grand-mère made us repeat the name. Then she complained, “Highly irregular. Disrespectful to the family!”
Fortunately, the duc d’Ayen was so overjoyed at the birth of his long-awaited grandson that he bore the indignity, accepting at long last that my husband was his own master and could name his son as he pleased.
The only thing to darken our joy was a secret missive that came late in the week. “France is finally sending an expedition to America,” Gilbert said, throwing the note into the fire.
From childbed, I reeled in confusion, for was this not the news for which he had hoped?
Gilbert put both hands on the mantel and hung his head. “I am being cut out. The king entrusts command to Rochambeau.” It was a bitter disappointment. My husband had earned this command. He was the only Frenchman for whom there would be no conflict regarding rank when combining with the American army. The Americans had already followed him into battle. For the king to send someone else . . .
“At least . . .” I grasped for something to soothe stung pride. “Rochambeau is experienced; they have not promoted someone unworthy.”
“True,” Gilbert admitted.
“If you take offense—”
“If I take offense, it will be used as an excuse by the conservatives at court to abandon our hard-won alliance with America.” Gilbert sat on the edge of my bed and reached for me. “You see? I have learned something of court politics from you. You are going to say I can help the cause or I can have my pride, but not both.”
I nodded. “So which will it be?” Some traitorous part of me wished for him to choose pride and turn away further adventures. Stay here, with his children and me. He had already made his name; did he need to risk himself again?
“I choose the cause,” Gilbert said quietly. This was not, after all, the same bristling boy who once insulted the king’s brother. “I will congratulate Rochambeau.”
I sighed because his willingness to set aside his pride made me love him more. Yet the thought of parting with him again made me so sad I could not let him look into my eyes for fear he would find my sentiments unworthy.
At least this time he would not go alone. France would be with him this time, and my brother-in-law, Marc, too. In March, my husband kissed me and our children farewell. My last sight of him was in his proud American uniform of buff and blue, with its gold buttons and braids. He also wore a white satin sash in honor of our king and the royal house.
To keep up his courage and my dignity, I must not cry, I told myself. Not even when he lifted my chin for a kiss and said, “Adrienne, I love you more than I thought any man capable, and leaving you costs me dearly. Farewell, farewell, my dear heart! The war will be won and I will be with you again by Georges’s first birthday.”
I managed a brave smile, praying fervently that I would see my husband alive again.
FIFTEEN
BEATRICE
Paris
May 1, 1915
I couldn’t possibly face my husband without a new hat.
Shopping the windows on the Champs-élysées, I spied one in romantic Irish lace that whispered: Remember how much you once loved me? A sleek straw panama announced: I’ve commenced a new life without you, giving no thought to our past. But it was the expensive tricorne revival with iridescent pheasant feathers that spoke of my newfound spirit of independence, and that was beyond value.