Chapter Twenty #2
“In Russia.” I shivered at what little I knew of this place—a forbidding, savage empire of ice and snow. This is where my
husband had sent our Johnny, now fourteen years of age, to serve as the private secretary to Mr. Francis Dana, our minister
in the court of Catherine the Great.
Due to my son’s fluency in French, the language of diplomacy, Johnny was thought to be a fit apprentice. I ought to have been
proud. I was proud. Still, how was a mother to reconcile herself to the idea of her young son being sent off without family into a country
as far away as the moon?
Then there was Charlie—a boy of only eleven, sent in the other direction toward home, braving British warships, to say nothing
of storms, by himself.
Uncharitably, I wondered if my sons, who had been all but torn from my arms and dragged across the sea, were now such an inconvenience
to my husband—in all his importance and pomposity—that he’d simply put them on ships and scattered them to the winds!
And when I wrote to my husband, it was a struggle to keep the venom from my pen. “Charlie’s desire to return home must have
been great indeed to induce the poor fellow to cross the Atlantic without father or brother. I cannot say how much the anxious
heart of a mother feels upon this occasion. I would have felt easier if you had at least written to me about it before doing
it.”
What was done was done. I promised myself that if I clasped my middle son again in my arms, I’d make up for every moment we
spent apart. His ship, the South Carolina, departed Amsterdam on the twelfth of August. If the seas were fair, I could expect my boy home in September, so I tried
not to fret.
But September came and went.
Then most of October, too.
No one had any news of the South Carolina.
In the eyes of everyone I met, I could see pity. Ships often foundered at sea and were swallowed up whole. And now I was left
to hope that my boy had merely been captured by one of the British warships prowling our shores.
Finally, lest I go mad, I took the carriage on snowy roads into Boston myself to interrogate sailors on the docks of Boston
Harbor. “Have you any word of the South Carolina?” I asked officers, common sailors, and even dockhands alike. “My son is on board. A boy of eleven. Charles Adams. Have you
heard anything?”
“Nothing,” was the usual reply, given with a sorrowful shake of the head.
But one day in mid-November, I received a different answer. “The South Carolina?” asked a sailor just come from Bilbao, his breath puffing steam into the cold air. “She’s in Spain. Or at least she was.”
My knees threatening to buckle in relief, I asked, “You’re certain, sir?”
“Aye, madam. I was on that frigate. I went ashore one day, and they sailed without me. But before that I saw your boy. Memorable
little fellow. Golden curls, dimpled smile, always singing a tune or feeding the seagulls at the rail.”
“Yes,” I said, brightening. “That is Charles! But I don’t understand. Why is he in Spain?”
“The captain of the South Carolina turned privateer mid-journey,” the man explained. “More profit to go after prizes while the war is still on.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. A privateer was simply a licensed pirate. Dear God, my husband had put my eleven-year-old son aboard a pirate ship that, according to the sailor, had indeed attacked,
boarded, and seized the cargo of enemy ships.
Seeing that I was on the verge of swooning with fear, the sailor hastened to reassure me, “With the rumor that the war might
soon end, the captain is surely making his way from Spain to Philadelphia.”
I’d not sleep a full night until Charles was safely home in my arms again, but I clasped this kind man’s hands in thanks for giving me news of my boy. Then I thanked God for preserving Charles thus far.
Though what I might do to my husband, John, if his neck was near enough to throttle, I could not say . . .
In the meantime, I’d do what I could to provide the best homecoming a boy could want—enough Indian pudding to make Charlie
burst. For that I’d need coin, but my trade goods weren’t selling so easily now.
“Your prices are too high,” Mercy warned. For she had herself been unable to sell the goods she took on consignment, going
into my debt.
I didn’t press her for repayment, nor did I point out that though she might be a very fine playwright, her salesmanship was
decidedly lacking. For example, she refused to believe ladies wanted white handkerchiefs, not black, which she deemed more
practical. So, she wouldn’t take my advice to discount the black ones and sell the white for much more.
Rather than let her go further into debt, I advised that she surrender her unsold goods back to me. I was sure Dr. Tufts and
I could find buyers at my price. Admittedly, it was harder than before. And it didn’t help that the Massachusetts legislature
was about to devalue paper currency, of which I had too much on hand.
For that mistake, my husband found the time to scold me. “I am heartily sorry to hear you have a sum of paper. How could you
be so imprudent?”
Imprudent?
Firstly, I was tempted to point out that no other housewife in the colonies would be expected to know so much about currency
that she might be called imprudent for not anticipating this financial turn. And in the second place, I was tempted to point out that nearly everything he knew about wartime economy he’d learned from me. Finally, I was even tempted to tell him that because of my pin money, I
had a much greater sum of paper than he supposed.
But I said none of these things, because in scolding me, John had given me just what I had needed to buy that land in Vermont. Now all I needed to do was take my carriage to Weymouth and visit Uncle Tufts.
“Mr. Adams wishes for me to invest,” I said.
Tufts lifted a snowy eyebrow. “Does he?”
Because it was not a lie, I brazened it out. “He does. He thinks it imprudent not to.” When I suggested the purchase of land with our paper currency, my husband hadn’t forbidden it. He hadn’t answered
at all, so I’d do as I liked. “But a woman cannot buy land, and certainly not in her own name. So, we’d need you to make the
purchase in trust.”
Eyebrow still aloft, Dr. Tufts said, “For Mr. Adams, of course.”
I saw that we understood each other. “Yes, for Mr. Adams. Of course. It’s too difficult to manage his affairs from his new
house in Amsterdam. Will you do it?”
“Yes,” Dr. Tufts said. “I rather enjoy helping you get around these obstacles. I approach it as some manner of surgery. A
corner cut here. A little stitch there, and all will be sewn up in your favor.”
“For a small commission, of course,” I said. To get around the law, women had need of friends like these, but I wouldn’t take
advantage of him.
He smiled indulgently. “We’ll find a way to put your money to good use.” I liked that he said it was my money—for he knew who earned it. And when I wilted in relief, he added, “Don’t fret, Abigail. You have enough other worries.
How fares your boy in Russia?”
“Johnny arrived safely, praise God.”
“No doubt already doing credit to the family. But no word yet from Charles the Charmer?”
“Not since learning he’s in Spain. I’ve written Mr. Lovell but have nothing back yet.”
He made a sound at the back of his throat. One of discomfort. “Well, your friend Mr. Lovell has other troubles at present.
Given the rumors.”
“Oh, Cousin Cotton,” I scolded, crossly. “Surely people aren’t still harping on that business about his intercepted letter
saying he didn’t wish to return home to his wife.”
“Oh, he’ll be forced to return to her now. Too many are calling for his resignation now that it’s said he’s having an illicit affair with his
landlady!”
I went rigid with both shock and humiliation. If it was true that Mr. Lovell was a rake, neglecting his wife and seducing
his landlady, all while sending flirtatious letters to me, then I’d blot the man from my memory with shame that I’d ever been
flattered by his attentions.
And even if it wasn’t true . . . well, there was a pattern in the man’s conduct that made this easier to believe. It didn’t
reflect well on my own character that I’d ignored his flirtations and continued a correspondence. That would end now. Whatever
my husband might be up to in Europe, I’d give him no cause to doubt my fidelity.
I had learned to live without John. Now I’d have to learn to live without Lovell’s help.
I’d simply rely upon myself more than ever before.