Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
“Cheer up,” I told John. “The newspaperman calling for you to be hanged thinks you are Samuel Adams.”
That did not cheer him.
If anything it made him gloomier, so I wrapped my arms protectively around his beloved neck. “Well, let our presence bite
them like a serpent and sting them like an adder. We will do our duty no matter what the newspapers say.”
And no matter how they misrepresented us to their countrymen. For I was asked by many strangers, “How can you live without
laws, Mrs. Adams? Everyone knows the former colonies are in anarchy.”
Then there were the merchants who insisted my husband would have nothing to do as ambassador even to regularize trade. “What
do we need from America anyway?”
Still others insisted there was little point in our embassy. “Mr. Adams may have authority now, but this union between colonies
will all dissolve in civil war and his acts here will be meaningless. Mark my words.”
This was the attitude we must counter at all costs. It was our mission if we wished for the United States to remain a free
nation. So, I saw as many visitors as I could, imparting to them the truth about our country, keeping too busy even to write my own letters.
“Write to John Quincy in America for me,” I told my daughter. “Tell Charlie and Tommy that we love them and that we’re sending
sweets.”
“I will,” Nabby said, diligent with her pen.
“Oh, and be sure to mention the sweets in a letter to Reverend Shaw so he doesn’t forbid it. That man would eat sawdust imagining
it might please the Lord.”
On my way downstairs, I heard a commotion in the parlor. Men’s voices raised, and I heard Colonel Smith bark, “I assure you
sir, I owe no debt.”
His visitor sneered. “You are Mr. William Smith, are you not? Here in the household of Mr. Adams, as one might expect you to be. I have here the proof of your indebtedness by way of gambling from Weymouth, Massachusetts. I’ve come all this way to collect it.”
“I assure you I have never stepped foot in any place called Weymouth,” said the colonel.
All at once, I realized the source of the confusion but was too mortified to intervene. Fortunately, the colonel didn’t need
my assistance. “You are misinformed, sir. You may take up the matter in court or let it come to fisticuffs, if you prefer,
because I certainly do.”
At this threat, the creditor sized up John’s secretary and decided against an altercation. Out the man went with a shout.
“This won’t be the end of it!”
“Oh, I rather suspect it will be,” said the colonel, who then turned and paled to see that I had witnessed it all. “Dear God!
Madam, I assure you I am no debtor. On my honor, I know not what that was about.”
“I do,” I admitted, shamefacedly. “I beg your pardon. You see, my brother . . .” How was I to explain? “He shares your name.
William Smith. How sorry I am that your reputation might ever be touched by his.”
The colonel was very gracious—promising to keep this to himself so as not to bring scandal upon my family. “My dear lady,
do not worry for a moment. In the future, I’ll be sure to emphasize that I am Colonel William Stephens Smith.”
I liked William Stephens Smith. And I wasn’t the only one. One afternoon Nabby stared after her father’s secretary with a
wistful sigh. “It is little wonder that the Marquis de Lafayette sent such a warm letter of recommendation for Colonel Smith.
Do you think him a man of honor?”
“I do indeed. And I wish I could say that of all your acquaintances.”
She stared at me, her lower lip wobbling. So long she had been holding a secret that I felt she might finally burst. “Nabby,
I know Mr. Tyler has broken his promises in writing you scarcely at all these past fourteen months. But I sense there’s more.”
She shook her head, as if unwilling to betray him. “Can a breach of honor in one party justify the want of it in another?”
“Oh, Nabby,” I said, grasping her hands. “If you’re conscious of any want of honor on the part of Mr. Tyler, I—along with
every friend in the world you have—would rejoice if you liberated yourself.”
Thereupon my daughter dissolved into sobs, fled to her chamber, and locked the door.
An hour I paced, wondering if I should knock and demand entrance or wait until morning. Just as I had decided to knock, there
was a tear-streaked Nabby in the doorway holding two letters from America. The first letter was from many months ago when
we were in Paris from her cousin Betsy Cranch, alleging much conduct unbecoming on the part of Mr. Tyler.
Betsy said he burned letters from friends that he had promised to forward to Nabby. That he flirted with other young ladies.
She shared the rumor, even, that he had impregnated two servant girls and dumped them on Phoebe’s doorstep to care for.
Now, I knew Betsy Cranch could be an imaginative and emotional girl. Her gossip couldn’t be given too much weight.
But the second letter was from John Quincy, who had let no grass grow under his feet. Upon his arrival in America, he set
about immediately to interview Mr. Tyler, and he now believed him to be both neglectful in business and deeply dishonest in
love.
Swiping at her eyes, Nabby said, “I couldn’t act based on Betsy’s rambling account. Having been promised to Mr. Tyler, I’ve
lived in dread that Papa should think me a dishonorable girl if I entertained the idea of breaking the engagement. So, I was
determined to go through with it, whatever the truth.”
I felt horror to think that a girl could ruin her life for the sake of manners and empty form. “Nabby, you mustn’t just go through with it when it comes to a husband. Your choice will form the whole shape of your life. The man you marry will have legal power over you.”
Far better to be thought a bad woman than to marry a bad man, I thought.
But I knew it was not that simple. As I rubbed my poor Nabby’s shoulder and offered her my kerchief to sniffle into, she explained, “I wanted Papa to give his assent and once he did, how could I then say I was trapped? I thought I could just bear up under it. Then the pain of it became more terrible when I met Colonel Smith, a gentleman I could truly love. A gentleman I’ve been obliged to tell that I’m already promised to another.
But now, with John Quincy’s letter, I don’t
know what to do. Do you think Papa—”
“I’ll speak to him at once,” I interrupted.
Thereupon, I awakened John from his slumber and told him everything.
As my husband blearily blinked away sleep, I took responsibility for this disaster. For I had encouraged Mr. Tyler’s courtship
without the stern scrutiny that a father would’ve given it.
John listened to everything, trying to keep his nightcap from falling into his eyes. Finally, he sat up in bed and crossed
his arms. “Summon Nabby.”
“What will you say?”
“You will hear it when I say it,” John snapped.
Our poor girl crept inside the room, timid as a mouse. John motioned her to his side. “Nabby, this is a serious matter, and
I hope it’s upon mature deliberation that you’ve come to a conclusion about your feelings. The truth is, Mr. Tyler is a perfect
stranger to me, and I gave my consent to wed only because I conceived your affections to be engaged.”
“They were,” she admitted. “But I didn’t know him capable of these things I’m now told he’s done. I would wish to break this
connection, but I’m so afraid of what people will say.”
“Fie on that!” John cried. “I tell you, my dear girl, if you have reason to question the honor of this gentleman or suppose
him capable of lying to you or your brother, well, then I’d rather go to my grave than see you married to him.”
“Oh, Papa!” Nabby flung herself into his arms. He soothed her, kissing the top of her head, patting her back, and assuring
her that all would be well.
And I never before loved John Adams more than I did that night.