It was John Quincy Adams, son of the former president. And though he was a Federalist, it wasn’t hard to smile at him, given I still harbored affection for his family. To that point, he’d seemed very much ill at ease at my father’s table, paying little attention to the chef’s creations, but staring longingly at the tray of dried fruit just out of his reach. And because he was the son of Abigail Adams, I was determined to put him at ease. Taking the liberty of slipping an apricot to him, I said, “Mr. Adams, I’m afraid I’m old enough to remember a time when there weren’t any Federalists or Republicans. A time when we were all simply Americans. Why it was your very own mother who helped choose my first real dress in Paris. You would’ve laughed to see the chaos of it!”
“Do tell,” he said, and we laughed together the rest of the evening as I happily reminisced. I smoothed ruffled feathers when I could, most notably at a public function when my father gave accidental offense by overlooking an Irish poet.
No one else seemed to have noticed the reddening face of the little man, but I quickly stepped forward to say, “Why, Mr. Moore, I’m afraid you’re so young and handsome that my father mistook you for a page boy!”
Of course, at the time, I had no idea that Thomas Moore was responsible for fanning the flames of the Sally Hemings scandal with depraved poetry; I doubt my father knew either.
But when it came to the English, Papa seemed to give offense quite deliberately.
First, he invited to dinner both the British emissary and diplomats from France, with whom Britain was at war. Then, when dinner was called, I quite nearly panicked when my father casually escorted Mrs. Madison to the table instead of Mrs. Merry. I knew it would be considered by her husband, the British ambas sador, to be an utter breach of protocol. And I wasn’t wrong. He was as outraged as if a treaty had been broken. But unlike the matter of the overlooked poet, my father’s glance to me showed that he had done it with every intention.
It was in the highest pique that the ambassador’s angry wife asked me, “How shall I address you, Mrs. Randolph? Do you prefer the distinction of being the president’s daughter or the congressman’s wife?”
Given her fury, I carefully considered my reply. “Why I claim no distinction whatever, but wish only for the same consideration extended to other strangers.”
She huffed as if I’d spat in her soup.
But I couldn’t find it in myself to be sorry. I hadn’t forgotten that the British tried to capture and hang my father as a traitor. That they’d chased me and my family from our home, captured our slaves, and destroyed Elk Hill. That they’d taken the opportunity of the chaos in France to make such mischief that a power-mad Napoleon had risen. I might have to smile and pretend I didn’t know about the vile attacks of my own countrymen on my father’s presidency, but I didn’t have to pretend to be a monarchist just to accommodate the pride of the ambassador’s wife.
There’s no place for an angel in the capital, William had said.
And I wasn’t here to be my father’s angel, but his Amazon.
“I CAN’T DO IT ANYMORE,” Maria said, peeping out the wide, paneled door. “I can’t go out there. The salon is filled with ladies and gentlemen!”
“My dear,” Dolley chirped, fastening a green satin ribbon under my sister’s bosom. “That’s the point of a New Year’s Eve gala. An open invitation to the President’s House is meant to make everyone in Washington feel welcome.”
But my sister’s expression was one of undiluted panic. “I can’t bear another party with these sophisticated strangers. They think me quite backward!”
“Nonsense,” Dolley said, tugging the ribbon tight. “They think you’re very beautiful.”
My sister was a beauty—especially in a white neoclassical dress that bared her arms and stretched tight over her bosom with ornate gold pins at each shoulder. And she was still pale enough from her ordeals in childbirth to make her resemblance to a Roman statue complete. “People only praise me for beauty because they cannot praise me for anything better,” Polly said. “Patsy is suited to this. Not me.”
My sister had a distressing habit of comparing herself unfavorably to me—determined that my father mustn’t love her as much. I harbored a suspicion that my Aunt Elizabeth had put this notion in her mind, and I was determined to stomp it out, but Dolley wasn’t to be distracted by family jealousies. Clucking about us in her exotic silks, she said, “Nonsense. You and your sister are both beautiful and suited for society.”
It was a lie, of course, with regard to my beauty. I’d always been more handsome than beautiful, but I looked dignified and elegant in my gown of deep blue with long white gloves. This was to be our first truly formal occasion at the President’s House at which we’d be expected to stand in as hostesses. And I knew my sister’s anxieties were not to be soothed with compliments. “Won’t you give us a moment?” I asked, smiling at Dolley.
Dolley bobbed her head. “Just don’t dally too long or the whole schedule might be thrown off. You don’t want your father to have to serve melted ice cream, do you?”
With that, she ducked out the door, and I took my sister’s hands in mine. They were cold. Shaking. “My sweet sister, you’ve done so well up until now.”