“We’re to be the only ladies in attendance?” my daughter asked.
I nodded. “Ambassador Mellimelli is unaccustomed to the calming presence of women in political society, and we’ll have to ease him into it.”
There was much bowing and greeting when the ambassador and his two secretaries arrived, and upon seeing me and my daughter, he begged our pardon, through an interpreter, to retire to smoke his pipe.
“Feel free to smoke here,” Papa said, and the gold-and-scarlet-clad ambassador stroked his long beard, thoughtfully. Looking first to his two secretaries, who wouldn’t partake of wine, he nodded, then lit his wonderfully unusual four-foot pipe.
I was painfully worried of giving offense—especially considering the company. Amongst our American guests—John Quincy Adams and our own snarling kinsman, Congressman Randolph of Roanoke. After making snide quips implying that my husband and Jack Eppes held their congressional seats only through my father’s influence, John finally leaned over to me at the table and whispered, “I’m so glad you didn’t bring the vampire with you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nancy,” he hissed. “She’s sucked the best blood of my race.”
Whether he was accusing her of murdering his brother or making some lewder accusation, I couldn’t guess. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m sure you do. You and your husband are harboring her. Don’t think I’ll forget it.”
He had the Randolph. He was irritable, jealous, suspicious, and habitually indulgent of the meanest little passions. But I was a Jefferson, so I merely announced, “Ann and I will retire now to leave you gentlemen to your business. Ambassador Mellimelli, I look forward to spending a lively winter with you.” Having observed that even a perfumed man wished to be thought manly, I added, “I’m sure you’ll be the lion of the season.”
Lion. The ambassador liked that word. He liked the comparison. I could see the pleasure of it light in his eyes when the interpreter whispered it in his ear. And later, he joined me and Ann in the drawing room, leaving the other gentlemen behind.
Ann and I started to rise, but he waved us back into our chairs and surprised us with nearly perfect English. “We’re not the only delegation here in Washington, no? I’ve seen bands of people, not so fair.” For a moment, I thought he meant the slaves. But then he gestured to the feather in his turban. “Ornaments and buckskin. Long dark braids.”
“Indians,” I answered. And when he squinted, I added, “Our Indians. They’ve come from the western territories to speak with my father.”
“Which prophet do they follow?” he asked, showing Ann a diamond snuffbox to charm her. “Moses, Jesus, or Mohammed?”
“None,” my timid Ann offered, and I was so proud of her for finding courage to speak to the man. “The Indians worship . . . the great spirit, as I understand it.”
The ambassador took a pinch of the snuff, which smelled like roses. “Then they’re vile heretics. Another thing interests me, Mrs. Randolph. In your Congress, where your husband serves, everyone has the right to speak?”
“The members do, yes,” I replied.
He laughed. “Then it will take years to finish any business! In my country, all matters are decided swiftly and with final resolution. In fact, if I don’t succeed in my mission here, they’ll behead me.”
I wasn’t sure I believed him, but he was such a colorful character that everyone was eager to meet him. Invitations to every fashionable ball in Washington City were extended to the delegation, and curious onlookers gawked near the hotel to get a peek at turbans, long mustaches, and ceremonial garb. Given the fascination, I worried we wouldn’t be able to admit all the guests who flocked to Papa’s annual New Year’s Eve gala.
“Will you dance?” Tom asked at the gala, dressed in his best blue tailcoat.
“I’m quite near my time now,” I told my husband. “I’d feel like a stampeding buffalo.”
Tom brought my fingertips to his lips for a brief but very earnest kiss. “Never.”
Nearby, Jack Eppes was laughing with a flirtatious woman from Annapolis. He was courting again, and Papa said we must be happy for him. I agreed, because I feared we might never see my sister’s children again if we didn’t lavish approval on her widower.
But Jack’s laughter—and the music—were interrupted dramatically by the ambassador of Tunisia, who stopped dancers midtwirl. With a flourish of his colorful cape that mesmerized the crowd, he let his interpreter speak for him. “The ambassador has heard that the Madisons desire children, but have been unable to conceive them!”
Rarely shy of attention, Dolley smiled and murmured something about how she’d welcome any blessing God were to bestow.
Striding to her, the bearded ambassador said, “If you want a child, I’ll give you one.” Then he wrapped the cape around her with such intimacy that her husband, the diminutive secretary of state, stiffened and went white.