Spirit of the Nation ★ Female America

8. Meeting the Great Powers

May 10, 1836

Port of Deauville

Deauville, France

My eyes scanned the crowd as I gripped the wooden railing. Only a few people had gathered to welcome transatlantic passengers aboard the French merchant ship. Though I wished it so, I knew that France would not be among them.

Our uncomplicated relationship had been tainted by political squabbles, financial woes, and the passage of time. However, none of that prevented me from accepting my very first invitation to a state dinner.

A queue to see the port inspector naturally formed. I nervously held my papers in one hand and my overstuffed carpetbag in the other. It was my first time traveling overseas without a State Department delegation.

All too soon, the inspector waved me forward. "Nom."

"Um, I—I'm sorry," I stuttered. "English?"

His vacant eyes never left his notebook. "Name."

"Mary Johnson," I chirped, offering my papers.

He waved them away while writing. "Birthplace."

"USA."

His pencil hovered over the page. "...Hn?"

"The United States...of America," I said hesitantly.

He scribbled it down. "Travel purpose."

My eyes fell. "Visiting a friend."

"Name."

"Mary—oh." I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember the code name on France's last letter. "Louis de...Rosier."

"Rosier," the inspector corrected emphatically. He briskly waved me through and summoned the next person in line.

The servants at the palace were much more welcoming. After the long carriage ride to Versailles, I was tired, lightheaded, and overall a bit muddy. I soon found myself in a room full of women who stripped off my clothes and scrubbed me from head to toe. They then left me in a perfumed bath for about an hour, much to my relief.

Evening quickly approached. The ladies crammed me into a ball gown and fussed extensively with my hair. The dress was the most hideous thing I had ever worn—the corset was much too tight, the crinoline was much too wide, and the neckline was much too low. I berated myself for not bringing a footlocker of clothes from home.

As they finished my hair, their hushed conversations in French made my anxiety return with a vengeance. Will everyone be speaking a foreign language tonight?  I worried the inside of my lip as I pictured the embarrassment. Shall I enter the ballroom alone?

The door to the dressing room suddenly opened, drawing the surprised attention of all. I stood from my seat as the servants retreated from me, curtsying as they went. France himself stood in the doorway, wearing a fine velvet coat with a lace cravat.

Trying to discern his neutral expression, I approached hesitantly. "Hello, France."

His eyes swept over my outfit. For a moment, I thought he looked pleased. "Even in a French gown, you still look Américaine."

I swelled with pride.

"Do not worry. Most of us believe you wear feathers in your hair."

My smile faded.

With an amused smirk, he offered both of his hands. I hurried forward to accept them, and he pulled me in to place a kiss on each cheek. I beamed up at him, his once-familiar touch an instant comfort.