I nodded.
“Then you’ll need a new wardrobe entirely. We can’t get it all done today, but I’ll draw up a list.” She said I was to have shoes with decorative buckles and bonnets with flowers. I was to have new undergarments and a side-hooped petticoat to give me the illusion of hips in the case of a very formal occasion. I was to have a cape and handkerchiefs and maybe even a chemise gown of pure white muslin like the kind made popular by the French queen. I was to have at least one gown immediately, made of the scraps and bits that the dressmaker sent her assistant to fetch, so that I could go out into proper company while the other dresses were being made.
Standing in the middle of the whirlwind as the seamstress took measurements, I was shy of the attention. But Mrs. Adams encouraged me to stand up straight. “You’re going to be tall like your father; there’s no help for it. Still, your red hair is lovely and your soulful eyes are sure to be some man’s undoing, so never shrink down into yourself.”
Her direct manner might have been off-putting but I perceived a compliment. Maybe two. “My thanks, Mrs. Adams . . . but you’re sure Papa will consent to the expense for my clothes?”
At this, Mrs. Adams softened. “What a sweet girl you are to worry. The truth is, you’ll have to help your father make do. The policy of our country has been, and still is, to be penny-wise and pound-foolish. The nation which degrades their own foreign ministers by obliging them to live in narrow circumstances cannot expect to be held in high esteem. Here in Paris, my dear, appearances are indispensable.”
I liked that she didn’t speak in the falsetto voice some adults do with children. She talked of grown-up concerns as if I was old enough to understand. She was too loquacious to remind me of my own mother, but I felt mothered as I hadn’t been in years. Though Mrs. Adams offered very firm guidance, she didn’t bully me. When the friseur came and I declined to have my hair styled in the high plume of fashionable Parisian women, Mrs. Adams said that I should have my own way and I left my copper ringlets down, tied in a simple ribbon.
Eventually the dressmaker’s assistant returned with a gown of lilac satin that had been discarded by some other girl. I was virtually sewn into the dress on the spot. When the seamstress was finished, I stroked the fabric, which was soft as peach skin. I’d never owned anything so lovely. Excitement fluttered in my belly that the dresses made for me would be even prettier. In my new gown of draped sleeves, I scarcely recognized myself in the mirror. Indeed, I preened so long that I feared Mrs. Adams would think me vain. But I no longer appeared to be the rustic girl I knew.
Abigail ushered me into the parlor, where we found Papa with a book in his hands, pointing something out to Mr. Adams.
“May I present Miss Martha Jefferson,” Abigail said, clearly pleased.
Papa glanced up, his eyes widening. “Why, Miss Jefferson, you have become a miniature lady.” He looked to Abigail. “I thank and congratulate you, madam.” He pressed his hand to his mouth and shook his head. “Plainly, a woman’s touch was just what was needed.”
Perhaps not sensing the sadness I heard in his voice, Mrs. Adams clasped her hands and gave a self-satisfied smile. “Indeed.”
Their praise made my cheeks heat, but I enjoyed Papa’s astonishment so much that I didn’t mind the attention. Especially when, after Mrs. Adams left, Papa turned to me once more. “Let me see you,” he said. “Spin ’round.”
Like a dancer, I held out my arms and twirled, the long skirts swishing around me. And Papa smiled. The first open smile I’d seen in so very long.
I was afraid to pinch myself for fear that I’d wake up in Philadelphia, alone and afraid. But no. I was awake. And I dared to hope that the charms of the Old World had awakened us both from our nightmare of grief and madness, at last.
PAPA’S FRENCH FRIENDS who had helped us during the Revolution were also eager to get us settled. In fact, it was the Marquis de Chastellux who arranged for my enrollment at the Abbaye Royale de Panthemont, a convent school where two of the French princesses took their education.
Fearful of being boarded with strangers yet again, I pleaded, “Can’t I have tutors? I promise to attend my studies. I want to stay with you, Papa.”