Chapter Thirty-Five
QUINCY
Massachusetts
After four years of the vice presidency, I could no longer afford to accompany my husband to Philadelphia. Though I couldn’t
regret our service to the country, neither was I willing for us to go into debt just so I could stand on the dais next to
Mrs. Washington and let guests eat us out of house and home.
Besides, as the lady of only second rank in the capital, I was superfluous. I longed to be useful in preparing for our eventual
retirement, so after Washington’s re-election, I remained in Braintree—or at least our precinct of the same, which had been
renamed Quincy.
Oh, the relief not to rise too early in the morning. To spend my days gardening, tending livestock, and increasing our investments.
For my dream now was to have a home in which all our family might one day be reunited happily under one roof.
For the moment, however, our children were scattered to the winds. Thomas in Philadelphia. Charles in New York. And Nabby
back in London of all places, where her husband had decided to pursue some mysterious financial opportunity.
They’d lost their infant son Thomas to an unknown childhood disease. We’d mourned that tragedy with them but could not solace
Nabby’s wounded mother’s heart. So, while I hadn’t liked the idea of Nabby going overseas, I hoped a change of scenery might
help mend her heartbreak. London had, after all, been good for that once before.
Now only John Quincy, practicing law in Boston, was close enough to visit. One fine errand day, walking on his arm through a crush of shoppers in Faneuil Hall’s marketplace, we looked for bargains on writing paper and sealing wax.
In the stall next to us, a merchant was doing brisk business selling French wine, though it was the rustic peasant kind of
no good quality. Nevertheless, these days the tide of popular sentiment ran in favor of all things French.
Having thrown off their monarchy and beheaded their king, the revolutionaries sent a new minister to the United States: Edmond-Charles
Genêt. And as he made his way to Philadelphia, he’d been hailed as a hero by American crowds crying Vive La République!
Now I noticed women of the middling and lower sort wearing tricolor cockades. Even the better sort dressed with ostentatious
republican simplicity, making me over-conscious of my embroidered neckerchief and powdered hair. And we found ourselves nearly
trampled when a hawker near a sign that advertised fresh clams cried, “Get your tickets to the Civic Feast of the Citizen!
Three dollars a head.”
“Who would pay so much to attend?”
“I wouldn’t pay half that,” Johnny said with contempt. “But refusing to attend such festivities gets one labeled an aristocrat.”
“Better an aristocrat than part of a mob.”
Glancing at the Phrygian cap atop the clam vendor’s head, John Quincy murmured, “We should be careful what we say in public,
Mother. We have Jacobins enough on this side of the ocean to worry about.”
“Are you afraid to lose clients?”
“I’m afraid to lose my head!”
We laughed darkly, for such was the spirit of the times. Despite the violence in France, my countrymen took her struggle as
proof our revolution was spreading, elevating the lot of the common man, extending the blessings of liberty, and breaking
chains of tyranny around the globe.
But Nabby’s letters from London told a different tale. “Shiploads of poor, distressed, penniless priests and other victims
from France are daily landing upon this island, carrying tales of massacres, arrests, summary trials, and executions.”
One such refugee was the Vicomte de Noailles, who gave Nabby the news of Lafayette’s imprisonment and the persecution of his family.
What had been unleashed seemed less like liberty and more like anarchy. More worrisome was that the French were no longer
content to war amongst themselves. The revolutionaries had declared war against Great Britain. And knowing my daughter might
well be caught in the conflict, I couldn’t rest easy until she returned home again.
But the war between Britain and Revolutionary France did not confine itself to the other side of the ocean. Soon it had the
United States in the crosshairs.
President Washington declared neutrality, forbidding Americans to take any part in a conflict.
John believed it to be the only prudent course to avoid being devoured by Scylla on one side or dragged down by Charybdis
on the other. And certainly the proclamation of neutrality was welcomed by merchants, who didn’t want trade disrupted by another
war.
But the general citizenry was outraged at what they took as a betrayal of both our allies and our principles. The French had helped us against the British during
our darkest hour; many believed we ought to help them in return. It was an understandable position, but I was appalled at
the way newspapers like the Aurora egged on the rioting that erupted in our own cities over it.
The whole world had gone mad.
So I was relieved the day a magnificent carriage pulled up to our gate and out stepped my daughter in an elaborate periwinkle
robe à l’anglaise and wide-brimmed hat festooned with yellow ribbons, blue tail feathers, and an ostrich plume.
Goodness, what a sight. It was as if an English noblewoman had fallen from the sky, and her husband with her, in a silk-embroidered
waistcoat, sporting a diamond-tipped cane, his cravat fussily tied and fastened with a jeweled pin.
Why, not even Alexander Hamilton dressed like this. But my son-in-law, as I was soon to learn, could well afford it, having
returned from London with a fortune.
After hugging my grandsons close, I kissed my daughter and congratulated her on what a fine lady she made. Embarrassed, Nabby whispered, “Mama, I should like to get out of this finery before the neighbors think I’ve gotten above myself. But Colonel Smith insisted . . .”
“On his first meeting here with your friends and relations, no doubt he wished to make an impression.” Of course, he could
hardly fail to, with the team of sleek horses pulling that gilded carriage.
But how could I begrudge my son-in-law his triumph? After toiling so long in government obscurity, he’d somehow become wealthy.
He wasn’t keen to share details but did boast of his forthcoming plans. In the comfort of my dining room—which thankfully
no longer bore any marks of Royall Tyler’s neglect—Nabby’s husband explained, “I’m buying land in western New York to divide
and sell to settlers. And, of course, I’ll be building your daughter a new house.”
A new house! How excited I was for her.
I only wished Nabby seemed half so excited. Later, alone with my daughter in the parlor, I poked at the logs with the fireplace
tongs. “Is it your natural reserve, my dear, or are you somehow unhappy with your newfound prosperity?”
Nabby winced. “You didn’t raise me to live in luxury. Even wearing silks in foreign courts, we economized.”
I teased her; I couldn’t help it. “Well, I’m sorry to have imbued you with too much Puritan sentiment. The Bible does say there’s a time to rejoice, and after all you’ve suffered, I think this is the time.”
Knowing I was referring to the loss of her baby son, Nabby lowered her eyes. “Does the grief for a child ever go away?”
“Never. But you find a way to survive it, just as people survive the other tragedies of the world.”
Nabby took a deep breath at that. “Mama, the tragedies of the world creep ever closer. We left such a scene in Europe as you
would not believe . . .”
The hour was too late to say more. She’d save it for morning when John Quincy came from Boston to accompany us to the Sunday meeting and take supper after.
I was so happy to see them reunited. Though Nabby doted on all her brothers, her relationship with John Quincy was deeper.
Both were old enough to remember the war. Both remembered our time together in England and France. And knowing John Quincy
would understand the pain she felt over it, she reported, “All is swept away in France now. Lafayette is in a dungeon, and
I’ve heard from refugees that his wife is under house arrest.”
My heart ached to hear this news of our friends. I could all too well remember the kindness of the Lafayettes, and I could
not countenance the morals of any person who might harm them.
Meanwhile, John Quincy wanted to know, “What of Americans there? Our ambassador, Gouverneur Morris?”
Nabby’s hand trembled as she stirred sugar into her tea. “The French complain that we Americans do not step forward in their
cause the way they stepped forward in ours. Not one American officer has joined them, nor do they hear a word of comfort.
And our ambassador, Mr. Morris, refuses to pay what we owe from the war, so they won’t permit him to quit Paris.”
“But of course it must be paid,” broke in Nabby’s husband, who had, until now, listened quietly. “We did borrow the money and are honor bound.”
“But who must we pay?” asked John Quincy. “We borrowed it from a king. We cannot know who the sovereign authority of France
is now. It seems to change every day.”
My eldest son had given the matter much thought. Simple lawyer he might still be, but since his essays as Publicola, he’d
been writing more, his words circulating even in England, reaching the eyes of the prime minister there. He was getting a
reputation as a fine political thinker, but his sister wanted to know, “What does Papa say? What about Mr. Jefferson?”
I snorted. “That last question we do not want answered. For on this matter, the opinions of Thomas Jefferson do much mischief.”
“How so?” Nabby asked.
Either Jefferson had changed much during his years in the administration, or perhaps we hadn’t understood how radical his philosophy had always been. Whilst offering wise counsel in many matters of our government, he seemed always to be distressed by the shape of it.
Indeed, despite the adoption of a Bill of Rights, I believe he’d begun to fear that with our Constitution, we’d merely replaced