We stayed that night at a cheerful little inn. The next morning, Papa was up early to shop for wine and a map of the city, and to look for servants. He hired two men straightaway.
That afternoon, we were paid a visit by one Mr. Adams—a member of our delegation in Paris—and his wife, Abigail. What a relief it was to be in the company of Americans after even a few days of being surrounded by people who spoke only French!
The stout Mr. Adams greeted my father with the warmest friendship.
It was Mrs. Adams, however, who commanded our attention. In a gray gown with few ruffles at the sleeves, she rolled into the room like a summer storm. “Oh, poor Mr. Jefferson! I’ve seen the new house you intend to lease and it’s even emptier of furnishings than ours. There is no table better than an oak board, nor even a carpet.”
“We’ll have to shop for furnishings,” Papa allowed.
Mrs. Adams beat back the hotel draperies for dust. “You’ll also need table linen, bed linen, china, glass, and plate. Our own house is much larger than we need; forty beds may be made in it. It must be very cold in winter. With a smaller abode, you’ll have the advantage.”
She wasn’t an elegant woman, Mrs. Adams. Nor was she deferential in the way Papa taught me good women must be. I looked to him for signs of disapproval, but when it came to Abigail Adams, he wasn’t able to muster it. “I won’t need many beds,” he said. “There will only be me and my daughter and a few servants. And, of course, my secretary, Mr. Short, when he arrives . . .”
I hadn’t heard Mr. Short’s name in quite some time. Not since my fall from the horse, when he chastised Papa. The mention now was a pleasant surprise. Almost as pleasant as learning that Mr. Short would be joining us here in Paris.
As I absorbed the happy news, Mrs. Adams turned her gaze to me. “You must be your father’s dear Patsy.” Then her dark eyes narrowed over a beak of a nose when she saw the stain upon my calico dress. She looked me up and down and when she reached my feet, I wiggled my toes nervously in worn shoes. Mrs. Adams spun to face my father. “Oh, dear. Oh, no. This will never do. Your daughter can’t set foot in Paris looking like this.”
How provoking! She made me sound like an urchin. My father looked positively mortified, and Mr. Adams grumbled.
Immune to our general discomfort, his wife continued, “For that matter, Mr. Jefferson, it might be well for you to have some new clothes made, too. We Americans must represent ourselves well, and you’ve no idea how these Parisians worship fashion. Why, to be out of fashion is more criminal than to be seen in a state of nature . . . to which the Parisians are not averse.”
I blushed and so did my papa, but I didn’t think it was the mention of Parisians in the state of nature that embarrassed him most. He looked down at his own waistcoat, self-consciously fingering one of the loose fastenings. “Is there no advantage to remaining uncorrupted by sophistication?”
Mrs. Adams smirked but insisted with an innate sense of authority, “You must send immediately for the stay maker, the Mantua maker, the milliner, and even a shoemaker!” In a few hours, merchants of every variety overran our quarters and Mrs. Adams marshaled them this way and that, lecturing my father on the cost. “I could’ve furnished myself in Boston, twenty or thirty percent cheaper than I’ve been able to do here. I cannot get a dozen handsome wineglasses under three guineas, nor a pair of small decanters for less than a guinea and a half.” When the dressmaker arrived, Papa allowed the garrulous Mrs. Adams to herd me upstairs. “Poor motherless girl. We’ll get you in proper order straightaway.”
It was a comedy after that, for the dressmaker knew only a little English and neither Mrs. Adams nor I spoke French very well. My apprehension grew when the dressmaker’s assistant displayed bolts of cloth for our perusal. Mrs. Adams asked my favorite color, and looking at the samples before me, I hesitated, afraid to give the wrong answer. I’d never been good at keeping my clothes tidy, so I hoped to choose something that might hide the stains.
“The blue silk would suit you,” Mrs. Adams said, then seemed to reach into my thoughts and snatch them from the air. “Girls keep their clothes tidier if you let them choose the colors and fabrics they like.”
Under her expectant gaze, I tentatively asserted myself. “I am fond of the blue, but yellow, too.”
Mrs. Adams nodded. “A lovely combination. Perhaps a pale yellow petticoat beneath the blue silk and some yellow bows on the sleeves.” With hand motions, Mrs. Adams made the dressmaker understand. Assistants rushed in with a dizzying array of shiny ribbons and frothy lace. Meanwhile, Mrs. Adams looked through my trunks, quite uninvited. “You’re nearly twelve?”