Chapter Twenty
brAINTREE
Massachusetts
I learned to live without John.
And as the war dragged on, my marriage also felt like a battlefield. My husband now objected when I drew a bill against his
salary. He claimed he needed the money in Europe whereas I should be able to support myself exclusively by way of selling
the goods he sent.
In light of this, I could no longer afford to merely dabble in mercantilism. I must now wholly embrace it, turning my trade into a more efficient operation. To that end, I made over
the bedroom where my eldest boys used to sleep into a place to store and catalog my wares. I wrote up pleasing little descriptions
to entice customers who were increasingly desperate because of wartime shortages. And the more attention I paid to this business
the better I profited, collecting enough to pay the exorbitant taxes, feed my children and my brother’s children, and buy
a small carriage besides.
From afar, John balked at the price of that chaise—three times more than before the war. But I paid for two-thirds of it with
the sale of lace handkerchiefs alone, so he could scarcely complain. Or if he did complain, I’d take no notice, since owning
my own chaise—and driving it myself—was a necessity to transport goods.
I could not always presume upon Uncle Tufts, who was a doctor before he was a merchant.
So, in buying that chaise, I remembered the example of Boudica, the ancient warrioress who drove her own chariot into battle. I likely made an equally curious sight on the roads of staid Braintree. Nevertheless, I harnessed our horse to the conveyance, took the reins in my own hands, and set off.
My first stop was at the new house of James and Mercy Warren in nearby Milton, bringing a little gift of cider and preserves
to make them feel welcome. Mercy had a gift for me, too: a copy of her latest essay for the newspapers, for which I’d written
an anonymous introduction.
My first published work!
I wasn’t yet so brave as to publish under my own name, but oh, those were my words for the world to see. It pleased me more
than I ever thought it could. What my husband would think, I didn’t know. Or perhaps I didn’t care because I was too happy
in my knowledge that people had read my thoughts. And seeing them in print was a very precious gift indeed.
With gratitude, I told Mercy, “I couldn’t be gladder that you’ve moved closer to us.”
“We needed a change of scenery,” she replied. “My boys need a more rural setting to keep out of trouble. We also wanted to
live in a place where we’d hear less from that buffoon who is now our first governor of Massachusetts.”
She meant John Hancock—against whom we both would’ve voted had we been able. Hancock had been patriotic enough at the start
of the war, but he was using his money to get elected, which we thought unseemly and corrupt.
Since we couldn’t vote against him, we’d had to content ourselves in counting votes and trying to dissuade our neighbors from
voting for him. But Hancock had won easily, and it taught me a powerful lesson about the nature of raw power. Money mattered.
And I needed more of it. Which was why I told Mercy, “I’m thinking of investing in land in Vermont.”
She looked surprised, for we both knew a woman couldn’t buy land. “How shall you do it?”
“I don’t know yet. My husband would respond too slowly from France for me to take advantage of a good deal.”
If, that is, John could be moved to respond at all.
He seemed altogether too enraptured with France to take an interest in my struggles. In fact, my husband now permitted me to place my orders directly to traders in Europe so that he wouldn’t be bothered playing intermediary.
“He must allow an agent to act on his behalf here in Braintree,” Mercy advised. “Perhaps some man of your family. Though Mr.
Adams has your two sons with him in France, he ought to make it easier for you to provide for Nabby and Tommy here at home.”
I dared not tell Mercy that my husband had even begun to grouse of the inconvenience of caring for our sons, writing, “Although
my boys behave very well, my affections I fear got the better of my judgment in bringing them.”
I was furious to read that, for though I’d learned to live without John, I’d never learned to live without my boys, or to
harden my heart against them. John should be grateful to have the boys with him! Especially since I was left with merely the
fond hope of seeing the return of my dear sons in some future day, improved in person and mind.
Now I sighed, confessing to Mercy, “I miss them terribly. I console myself to think that Johnny and Charlie now reside in
a place that gave birth to many great men. Surely, they must learn something in Europe that would benefit them.”
“Of course they will. Did you not say that John Quincy sometimes writes to you in French?”
I nodded with pride. “And both boys are now also learning Dutch—a thing I dutifully reported to Charlie’s little songbird.
Against all odds, I have managed to keep the sparrow alive and singing sweetly. A poor substitute for my cherub, but still
a comfort . . .”
“I cannot but smile to think of your Charlie,” she said. “That cheeky little creature! Whenever I saw him, I wanted to stuff
him with candies.”
“I suppose it’s good that he went with his father, then. For he would’ve been spoiled by the fondness and caresses of all
his acquaintances.”
“Indeed. In your next letter, please tell Charlie that Mrs. Warren sends her love. Though perhaps it is wiser not to commit
any thought to paper these days.”
Mercy leaned forward in the way she did when she had gossip to share. “Have you seen the intercepted letter from Mr. Lovell that was published?”
My throat tightened, nervous it may have been one of his flirtatious letters to me. “Do I wish to see it? I pray it was not
intended for my hands.”
“Thankfully not! It was a letter to his congressional colleague Mr. Gerry. But there are things said in it that will make
his wife miserable.”
“What things?”
Mercy’s expression tightened with disapproval. “He wrote that he had no desire to go home and see Mrs. Lovell, even after
leaving her three or four years altogether. I believe he cares very little for his wife.”
Given that my own husband was now three years absent, I cringed. “Pray do not measure a gentleman’s regard for his wife by
how long he is absent. You’d wound me if you think thus of my own dear partner.”
In truth, I was already wounded by my husband’s disregard. But this was nothing I wanted Mercy to know.
Now she fanned herself. “The case is different with Mr. Lovell. He’s only in Philadelphia. It’s in his power to visit his
wife without much hazard.”
“Perhaps he has reasons to stay away from his wife that he does not wish to share with the world,” I said, not wanting to
reveal that Mr. Lovell had already told me he couldn’t afford to return home because he relied entirely upon his wages in
Congress. And he also feared that his wife might get with another child he could not support.
But Mercy insisted, “I think it more that this gentleman looks upon our whole sex as common prey and plunder.”
“Oh, I cannot think he has so bad a heart!”
Mercy eyed me with suspicion. “Why do you defend him, even after the way he has written to you? I know this man has been a
line cast to you in a turbulent sea. But I believe he’s formed an attachment to you, Abigail. To indulge it may be your ruin.”
I didn’t want to believe this—perhaps because Mr. Lovell had been a line cast to me in a turbulent sea. He forwarded news, packages, letters, and even procured for us supplies when we
were in need. But if Mercy suspected an improper attachment, then there might be gossip I must fend off.
To that end, I issued an invitation to the lonely Mrs. Lovell to come to Braintree and stay as my guest.
To my consternation, she refused the invitation.
But then a letter arrived that erased this snub from my mind.
Though it was addressed to Mrs. Adams, I soon realized it wasn’t intended for me.
I was about to seal it up again and take it to Mrs. Samuel Adams when I noticed my husband’s name mentioned on the page.
Scanning the news reported by a woman friend in Philadelphia,
I discovered that the French—and Benjamin Franklin, too—were unhappy with my husband’s independence as a diplomat.
There was a plot afoot to recall John or order him to defer to France’s wishes in negotiating a peace with Great Britain. Well, this would never do. We couldn’t trade the
bullying of an English king for the bullying of a French king!
However hard I’d made my heart against John, I couldn’t simply ignore this letter, which threatened not only his career but
also our country. So, I sprang into action, writing a blizzard of letters to Mr. Lovell, Mr. Gerry, and every other person
of importance I knew, asking them to exert their influence in Congress on my husband’s behalf.
Fortunately, my swift action had good effect. Friends took up John’s cause, defending his honor, patriotism, and good service
until no one in Congress would dare recall him.
Of course, I’d soon have cause to regret this good deed. For by autumn there was talk of naming my husband to be the American
minister to the Netherlands to secure a loan from the Dutch in support of our war effort, and to convince them to recognize
American independence.
It was a prestigious post and a worthy mission, but would mean at least another year apart.
A younger, less-disillusioned version of myself might have put up a protest, but I wrote indifferently to John. “You will do what you esteem to be your duty, I doubt not, fearless of consequences.”
He accepted the post as I expected. But never did I think he would then send my sons away—news that came to me like a bolt
out of the blue. And as I tried to explain the whereabouts of her brothers to Nabby, she wanted to know, “Where is Saint Petersburg?”