Chapter Forty-One
QUINCY
Massachusetts
When I heard the carriage approach, I wanted to run to the door. Instead, I stopped by the mirror near the door to fluff the
curls of my graying hair, and to pinch color into my cheeks.
“Is it the president’s coach?” I asked the servants.
I was eager to see not only John but also my youngest son, finally returned from his diplomatic mission in Europe. Before
anyone could answer, Thomas burst into the door bearing a basket of flowers, fruits, and other delicacies he’d collected throughout
his travels.
“Tommy!” I exclaimed, trying to find some way to wrap my arms around him without disturbing the packages. “Oh, Tommy, Tommy,
Tommy . . .”
My youngest boy put the basket down and embraced me. Five years. Five years he’d been gone. He was a man of twenty-six now, with broader shoulders than either of his brothers. And oh, how
solidly comforting he was in the flesh.
“I want to hear everything, my dear boy,” I said. “Absolutely everything. About your journeys and adventures, and especially about your brother!”
Thomas laughed. “Let me go back and help get the president down from his coach first.”
By the time the two of them were inside throwing off dusty cloaks and muddy boots, I had a table of refreshments ready with
hot syllabub, peach brandy, nuts, cheeses, and maple buttered bread.
When John had finished kissing me, he threw himself into his armchair with a slice of buttered bread. “My dear,” he said, wiping a crumb from his lips and staring about the place with wonder. “I daresay you’ve doubled the size of this house whilst I was gone.”
He was not far wrong. “Meanwhile, you’ve delivered a master stroke of policy, Mr. President!”
“You’re the only one to think so,” John grumbled.
For upon announcing that he planned to send another commission of diplomats to France, my husband’s warmongering cabinet had
roared at him in impotent anger.
Our political enemies, including the vile pamphleteer James Callender, a Jefferson supporter, spat that John was a “repulsive
pedant.” Some of our staunchest allies also accused John of having a foul heart and a base mind. One even said he hoped my
husband met with a fatal accident on his way home.
John almost took perverse pleasure in this.
And with a little astonishment, Thomas reported, “They’re saying the president would never have done it ‘if the old woman
was in Philadelphia to stop him.’”
I laughed, not knowing whether to be flattered or offended. “Saucy of them to presume, since the old lady approves. Regardless of whether war is inevitable, this puts to the test French sincerity when they say they want peace.”
Though it was a different tune than the song I’d sung before, John nodded in appreciation. “And upon them the responsibility now rests in the eyes of all the world.”
I pulled my chair closer to his, thinking through this statesmanship as more became apparent to me. “Your decision to send
diplomats to France also may delay the directory from sending a French minister here. Which is not desirable, lest they stir up our populace in riot.”
John lifted his glass in toast to my logic.
“Pray am I a good politician?”
His countenance was serious. “That you are, my dear. Certainly wiser than those hotheads in my cabinet.”
“If I were in your cabinet, I’d say we should always hold a sword in one hand and olive branch in the other.”
Thomas smirked. “Mother, everyone thinks you are the president’s cabinet.”
I laughed. “I’ve never had the influence ascribed to me.”
Tommy threw a few nuts into the air and caught them in his mouth. “You have more.”
Swiping the dish of nuts from him until he could eat like a civilized person, I cried, “And here I thought we sent you to
Europe to gain sophistication!”
John pretended not to hear and gobbled his bread. Tommy just grinned. And I liked the look of him, my baby boy. He was dark
like me and compact of stature, but his looks and build were all his father. His sturdiness, too. I couldn’t stop reaching
for his hand to reassure myself that he was finally home.
“What will you do now, Tommy?” I asked.
“I was thinking of starting a law practice in Philadelphia, for I wouldn’t like to compete with my own brothers. When Johnny
returns with his wife, they’re sure to settle in Boston. And with Charlie so prominent in New York, only Philadelphia is left
to make a name for myself.”
Ugh, Philadelphia. I didn’t like to think of my boy settling in that Jacobin-infested city. But John Quincy had already written with a cheeky
warning that Tommy must be allowed to make his own decisions and that I mustn’t give him too much advice.
That night my husband retired early, exhausted and complaining of tooth pain. But I stayed up, peppering my son with questions.
How were our surviving French friends? How did he enjoy Holland, Britain, Portugal, and Prussia? And especially what was Johnny’s
wife like, this English rose, Louisa Catherine?
We conversed until I could keep my eyes open no longer and finally padded up the stairs to join my husband in slumber.
Then I startled to find him still awake.
“What ails you?” I asked, for I could tell at once from my husband’s expression that something weighed heavily upon him. “Your
tooth?”
He shook his head. “We saw Charles in New York on the way home. We found him drunk in the middle of the day in his office.”
I blinked, stunned and upset all at once. “But Tommy said nothing of it.”
“Tommy believes his brother’s excuses. That he just had too much to drink with clients in a tavern. But Charlie’s wife tells
me a different tale. One of frequent drunkenness and dissipation.”
My hands went to my cheeks. From Nabby, the loyal sister, I heard only of how Charles helped on her farm. Never a word leaked
from her pen or passed her lips that Charles was sinking into dissipation. Perhaps I’d raised my children to be too loyal to one another . . .
“The gambling is worse, too,” John said. “I’ve been sending him a little money, here and there, to keep him afloat. He’s lost
it all.”
I didn’t dare admit that I, too, had been slipping Charles money. It was meant to feed his two little daughters, our precious
granddaughters. It wasn’t to be spent on liquor, cards, and dice.
While I reeled, John said, “I remonstrated with him. I reminded Charles that he has a family. That his actions will determine
their happiness, and that his actions reflect on his parents, too. What does a nation think when the president’s son behaves
like a wastrel?”
“What did he say to that?”
“He promised he’d stop, but I put no stock in it.”
How many times did my brother swear he’d stop drinking? Sometimes he did. But always the bottle seduced him in the end . . .
Now I sank down onto the side of the bed, head hung low, wondering what we could do.
“Happy Washington to be childless!” John barked. “My children give me more pain than all my enemies.”
Now my head snapped up. “Oh, you go too far. Your children suffered all their lives under the burden of their father’s public
service. Now Charles may have stumbled, but Nabby, John Quincy, and Thomas have been nothing but dutiful. How could you wish
any of them weren’t born?”
I said this with savage anger, and John had the grace to appear ashamed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
I was not appeased. “You should be sorry to have said such a terrible thing. I do not consider George Washington to be at all a happier man because he has
no children. If he has none to give him pain, he has none to give him pleasure either. And a man of your age, president or
not, ought to remember it. Because this nation will never love you as much as your family does.”
Chagrined, my husband stubbed out his cigar—which, in any case, he ought not be smoking in the bedroom to begin with. And
now I was doubly vexed because I needed to open a window to dispel the smoke. As I flung it open and let in the evening breeze,
John came up behind me, almost meekly. “You’re right, my dear. I’ve lost my senses in Philadelphia. It’s good that I’m home
for a few months to remember myself on the farm, and to get your good counsel.”
“Indeed,” I said, stiffly.
As it happened, it was to be a relatively pleasant and restorative interlude at Peacefield, where we reacquainted ourselves
with our youngest son. Tommy wasn’t a witty entertainer like Charles. Nor was he interested in debating philosophy with his
father the way John Quincy always did. No, our youngest was a plain, hardworking man.
He mowed, sawed, manured, picked apples, pressed cider, and otherwise put his strong back into the prosperity of our farm.
Meanwhile, his father put his energies toward the presidency without all the interruptions of the capital.
John could dash off instructions and commands as easily from Quincy as he could in Philadelphia, I was certain. And I wished
it could always be this way.
In truth, Peacefield did wonders for our health and happiness. Nevertheless, Congress would soon be in session. So, after
a respite of seven months, it was time to gird our loins and return to the nation’s capital.