Chapter Four
PLYMOUTH
Massachusetts Bay Colony
It had been a long few years since the infamous trial in which my husband earned his reputation, for good and ill. But our
exile in Braintree came to an end when Samuel Adams told the public that his cousin John was just the sort of legalistic patriot voice needed to persuade the British of their folly and overreach. And such was Sam’s influence that people who once
threw rotten eggs at our door promptly elected my husband to the state legislature.
Since then, John had won re-election three times, earning the respect of his constituents by writing petitions to royal officers,
by suing officials who abused their authority, and by standing as a firm but reasonable voice for the colonists.
Instead of our world contracting to that little saltbox farmhouse as I’d feared, it was expanding in exciting new ways. We’d
moved back to Boston, buying a house on Queen Street, and my husband befriended patriot colleagues in the legislature, including
the powerful James Warren—of no relation to the good Dr. Warren of Boston—who had invited us to stay as guests at his house
in Plymouth while John attended a session of the County Court.
Now, seated in the carriage next to John with eight-year-old Nabby asleep on my shoulder, I chirped, “I’ve never been so far
as Plymouth before!”
“I fear it won’t be the exciting adventure you anticipate.” Eyeing his satchel of papers, John explained, “There will be much
legal talk.”
“There always is,” I replied with a grin.
“I shall not mind it.” I inhaled the fragrant summer air, my gaze taking in every detail of the landscape as we made our way south.
With four children underfoot—Nabby, Johnny, Charlie, and a new little boy we named Thomas—I was desperate for a change of scenery and adult conversation.
And having left the boys behind in the care of relatives, I was looking forward to meeting the learned Mrs. Mercy Otis Warren.
For our hostess was the rarest creature—an American playwright.
The talented Mrs. Warren had dared to take up her pen and aimed it with satire against the acting British governor. She had
published it anonymously, but it was not a secret well-kept. And I thought her patriotic play was marvelous.
How could I not, when my own husband featured in a thinly veiled role? In truth, I was nearly breathless with anticipation
to make Mrs. Warren’s acquaintance. So much so that John poked fun. “You’d think we were on our way to Buckingham House to
meet the queen.”
I laughed. “I doubt Queen Charlotte would ever welcome me as a guest. I might as well imagine visiting the moon! But I’ve
always felt a great inclination to visit the Mother Country.”
John chuckled as we bumped along the road. “We’ve scarcely traveled thirty miles and already you’re dreaming of England? Just
what business does a wife and mother have traveling abroad?”
I slanted him a glance from beneath my straw bonnet. “I could hardly have traveled to distant lands before I was a wife and mother. Thanks to the many dangers we’re subject to from your sex, it’s almost impossible for a single lady
to travel without injury to her character.”
Well, he had no argument to that!
And while he gawped in feigned offense, I added, “Women may be domestic beings, John, but we inherit an equal share of curiosity
about the world. If nature had formed me of your sex, I should certainly have been a rover.”
“A rover?” John grumbled. “You’re a saucy woman.” Then, glancing down at Nabby, who had awakened to watch our interplay, John
asked, “Did you know what a saucy mother you have?”
“What’s saucy?” Nabby asked. “Am I saucy?”
“No, you’re just as you ought to be,” her father said, approvingly. “Soft and biddable as a mewling kitten.”
I wasn’t so approving. Certainly, no mother wishes for an impudent child, but a little willfulness never hurt anybody. Nabby was a dutiful help to me around the house; she fetched eggs without
breaking any; she’d learned to churn butter, and how to swaddle her brothers. But I took her with us on this journey because
I hoped for her to learn so much more than housewifery. And I wanted her to learn it from a woman-intellectual at that . . .
Upon our arrival in front of the gambrel-roofed house on the corner of Main Street, the esteemed Mrs. Warren came to greet
us and I felt a renewed surge of anxious excitement. Oh, to meet another woman with whom I could discuss important things!
I’d been trying, for years, to foster intellectual rigor amongst the ladies in my circle—most especially with my sisters.
Mary, Elizabeth, and I had practically taught ourselves to read and write, for our parents had not thought a formal education
necessary for girls. I was still self-conscious about my spelling and penmanship, hoping that my expression of ideas would
overcome my mistakes. Now I’d have the chance to test my wits against an older educated woman, and I was as intimidated as
I was eager to make a good impression.
“For you, Mrs. Warren,” I said, nervously presenting a jar of my best blueberry preserves. “A token of thanks for hosting
us.”
“You’re most welcome,” Mrs. Warren said, eyeing the jar of preserves distractedly, her lips tight, hair pulled back severely,
countenance remote as a scholar.
I’d been told she was working on a new play. Perhaps that’s why she greeted us with such a distracted air. So I said, “I’m
a great admirer of your work.”
She only nodded. “Thank you, dear. A servant will take your bags up.”
Her demeanor might’ve set me back on my heels, but as we spent time together that week, I realized that Mrs. Warren simply
didn’t feel compelled to indulge in the usual petty pleasantries. And I found that refreshing.
After giving a withering criticism of a book we’d both read, she said, “Honesty is far more important than pleasantry. Honesty being the first thing one must teach a child.”
She had definite opinions—especially about children’s education. And so did I. “Mr. Adams plans to send our boys to Harvard.
But I daresay he’s given no thought to Nabby’s education. It’s a fearsome responsibility to entrust to me in our changing
world.”
“As well-equipped to teach her as I’m sure you are . . .” Mrs. Warren looked me up and down. “I imagine it’s difficult with
little ones always underfoot.”
I flushed, glad for an older and wiser new friend who understood my difficulties as a mother. “It’s true. I cannot give Nabby
the attention she deserves when I’m forever chasing after little boys.”
“I have only boys. I always wished for a girl to educate. Perhaps when Nabby is older, you might leave her with me for some
tutoring.”
It was commonplace to send one’s boys away to learn, but not girls. This was a remarkable opportunity—all the more so because
the Warrens were such prominent people. Leaders of the state legislature swept in and out of Mrs. Warren’s parlor, where she
held court—and held her own—against the greatest patriots of Massachusetts, including her own brother, the formidable lawyer
James Otis Jr.
I liked the way Mercy spoke her opinions boldly without ceding an ounce of femininity. And always, it seemed, with an eye
toward advancing her husband’s career. One evening, when the gentlemen went off to smoke their cigars, she told me, “Mr. Warren
is a great and honest man who has exerted every nerve. It is the least I can do to help him in every sphere.” And when I nodded,
she added, “Your Mr. Adams is also a man on the rise. I liked the speech he gave, in which he said we should ‘trust no man
living who has the power to endanger public liberty.’”
I smiled a little, for that line was as much about my husband’s general misanthropic nature as it was about politics. “People
have praised it . . .”
“Indeed, and he may collect more laurels still. But he won’t get far without your support, my dear.”
“He has it,” I insisted.
“Be sure you mean it,” she warned. “If you encourage him in his rise, don’t imagine that you’ll only be called to endure flaming
horse offal and angry neighbors in the future. I foresee a struggle ahead that will demand far more sacrifice. Remember the
heroic Roman matron Portia. Would we have her courage in a day of trial?”
I blinked, having read all those old Roman stories. “You think we may one day be called upon to follow our husbands into the
grave?”
She shook her head. “For myself I dare not boast that much courage. I do not mean that we’ll be called upon to die by our own hands like Portia. I mean that we’ll be called upon
to heroically struggle with the calamities of life. And to patiently resign ourselves to evils we cannot avoid rather than
shrink like cowards from the post allotted us by the Great Director of the Theater of the Universe, before we’ve finished
our part in the drama.”
I ruminated upon that for the rest of the evening.
Later, in the privacy of our bed in the guest room, John asked, “Does the educated lady live up to your expectations?”
“Oh yes,” I said, still considering her words. “I only hope I’ve made a good impression on her.”
“Abigail, you cannot fail to have made a good impression. You may be younger and less schooled than Mrs. Warren, but I think
your mind is sharper.”
My eyes widened at this unsought compliment. “Oh, John, that is not true. Do not flatter me.”
“I flatter myself,” John replied, laying his head down with obvious discomfort on the unfamiliar pillow. “A man of my towering intellect needs a wife who can exercise his brain. The smarter I am, the smarter you must be.”
I laughed at his pomposity. “Well, then I’m sorry to say Mrs. Warren is not only smarter, but more courageous, too. Do you
know she travels alone to see her husband when he works in Watertown? I should like to have such audacity and independence.”
“Would you?” John asked, with narrowed, sleepy eyes. “Next you’ll tell me she rides astride a horse with a spear like an ,
visiting lands far and wide to satisfy her wanderlust.”
Poking him in the ribs for such teasing, I said, “I’m the one with wanderlust; I think Mrs. Warren is satisfied to experience the world through her books, wielding a pen instead of a spear.”
I then shared Mrs. Warren’s offer to help educate Nabby, to which John said, “I wouldn’t object, since it pleases you to imagine
our daughter as a lady scholar.”
“Doesn’t it please you to imagine it?”
“I’m not much given to imagination,” my husband admitted. “But perhaps one day I shall indulge you and we’ll travel abroad
to slake your wanderlust and encounter marvels like lady scholars.”
It was only a dream, but it cheered me to dream of the ways in which my children might come of age in a better world.