Epilogue
QUINCY
Massachusetts
What good long letter is complete without a postscript?
Like so many of the missives I wrote or cherished to receive, it seems my story, too, will close with a tender trailing note.
Here I am still alive at the age of seventy-two. And John at eighty-one. My thinning hair is entirely white, and what few hairs he has left are white, too. We are stooped. Our steps are slow and shaky. John naps often by the
fire, and I am never to be found without my shawl, even in summer.
Except for today, when I am warmed with an inner conflagration of joy.
At long last, my son is returning to me. And when John Quincy steps out of the carriage at our gate, I feel light-headed,
nearly faltering to see his beloved face—a face I believed I’d never see again.
It has been so long since last I beheld him. And as he comes into my arms, I weep. “Eight years! Eight long years . . .” I
clutch him tight as pride and gratitude fill the ancient vessel of my person to the brim. “My darling boy.”
John Quincy is now a man of fifty, the roundness of his face all his father. Those penetrating eyes still all mine. And he
holds me tight, as if he knows I’m close to a swoon.
Now John reaches to share in our embrace. I remember when my husband’s voice boomed through a courtroom, but now his voice
is a thin reed. “My son! Johnny, my son, my child . . .”
What a reunion it is, with tears and laughter. Our grandsons all but dance with excitement. Even their stiff English mother, Louisa Catherine, beams with happiness, looping her arm in mine to help me back up onto the porch.
Once we are seated in our rockers, I follow John Quincy’s gaze as it sweeps over Peacefield and its weather-beaten shutters,
overgrown hedges, and the stone wall in bad need of repair. After so long abroad, he’s taking it in. His country, his state,
his family, and what will one day be his house.
John and I are both embarrassed that in our old age we can no longer maintain it to our liking. “I’m afraid that like its
owners, Peacefield has gone to decay. But not the less ready or willing to welcome and accommodate you until, like a bird
of passage, you again take flight.”
Like his father, I believe he is destined for greatness, our son.
After a loss of more than twenty thousand American and British soldiers, John Quincy Adams ended our Second War of American
Independence by negotiating the peace treaty at Ghent. And for his reward, our son was recalled home, having been nominated
and unanimously confirmed as President Monroe’s secretary of state.
The country will soon claim him, but for this month’s respite, he will be all ours.
Johnny, his wife, and his children stay a month with us. And we savor every moment. The butter on our toast tastes sweeter
every breakfast we share together. The fire glows brighter at night as we listen to all the news from Europe that is fit to
share. And there is even a lessening of our griefs as we share an accounting of the family.
Having abandoned his wife after a drunken quarrel, Tommy’s whereabouts are not known to us. My sister Elizabeth, Uncle Tufts,
and Colonel Smith are all gone to their graves. John Quincy and his wife, too, share their pain of having lost a little daughter
while abroad.
There is too much loss to make sense of.
But there have been gains, as well.
I tell my son the news of his nieces and nephews.
How Nabby’s daughter, Caroline, made us great-grandparents, having forged a brilliant marriage match with the wealthy Mr. John DeWindt, a businessman and investor in the new Erie Railroad along the Hudson River.
Nabby’s son Willy also has a daughter now, albeit in circumstances far less financially secure.
His brother, Jack, is yet childless but earning good money.
And both of Charlie’s daughters have married well.
The seeds John and I sowed have multiplied. And whilst I know I won’t live to see how each will bloom, I take great satisfaction
to witness them take root.
I want to keep Johnny with us forever, but as the month stretches on, I sense that he is tarrying. That he dreads to take
up his place in Washington City.
“I must get my boys established at Harvard first,” he says. “And I must have advice from my father on how I shall proceed
as secretary of state.”
He lingers with John in the study for hours.
But not all nights are for his father.
Tonight, I find him at the fire, his brow furrowed as he waits for me. And I know something weighs upon his mind. John Quincy
has always been a prodigious thinker—more so, even, than my husband, I suspect. I am sure he feels the enormity of his new
office. Like his father before him, he will be shaping the future of the nation. It need not be said it is firm tradition
now that the position of the secretary of state leads to the presidency.
“John Quincy Adams,” I say, reaching for his hand in reassurance. “I know you doubt yourself at times. But I remind you yet
again that there is no one better qualified. You personally witnessed the opening scenes of the revolution not far from where
we now sit. You’ve traveled the world, contending with international intriguers in more countries than many of your fellow
citizens even know exist. You mustn’t allow worries about what the future holds, because there’s no one in this entire country
better prepared to help America meet that future.”
My son smiles without looking at me, his fingers lacing affectionately with mine. “I’m less worried for the future of the
country than I am for my parents.”
Surprised, I ask, “What worries you?”
“Upstairs just now, my father told me that in all the vicissitudes of his fortunes, through all the good and evil of the world,
in all his struggles, and in all his sorrows that the help and encouragement of his wife was his never-failing support, without
which he’d never have survived.”
I flush as these words linger in my mind with pleasure. “Does not Louisa Catherine do the same for you?”
I ought not have asked it, for my daughter-in-law struggles at times with my son’s emotional reserve. But time seems to have
sanded the edges of their relationship, dulling the misunderstandings and sharpening the shared sense of purpose. So, I’m
relieved to hear him say, “Indeed, she does. She’s the delight and pride of my life.”
“Then what troubles you?”
“It is that you, Mother, have been the hub of the wheel in this family. And if I take my wife and children to Washington—if we leave you
again—I fear you’ll sink under it, as I’m told you did when Nabby . . .”
He trails off, staring into the fire, suddenly unable to express himself, as if he’s eloquent in all the languages of the
world but that of emotion.
Lowering his head into his hands, he asks, “How can I leave you again, knowing all that I owe you? Knowing that you’ve been
more to me than a mother, that all that I am is what you have made me?”
My son’s words fill me with the sweetest pain—love and pride swelling to burst. “I’m honored to know you think so. But I did
not make you all that you are. You’re what I made you, what your father made you, and what you made of yourself thereafter.”
His throat bobs under my scrutiny until I realize what I must promise him. “I won’t sink in parting from you this time. I
shall soar.”
“Soar?” His expression turns wry. “Have I overstayed my welcome?”
“Never,” I say, pulling his hand to my lips to kiss. “I am greedy for your company, but you’re no longer a world away in snowy
Russia. I shall have the nameless satisfactions of knowing that you’re within reach. And that you carry all my hopes and dreams
within you.”
I press my lips to the top of his head, marveling at the fine mind held within it, and the even greater heart below. Like the country he will serve, he has such a great capacity to do good in the world. And there is no sacrifice of my life I regret to have helped make it so.
After all, a mother can never know if her children or country will survive. She cannot know if her struggles and sacrifices
to defend them will ever be known or appreciated. She cannot guarantee that teachings she gives or the faith she cherishes
in them from infancy will take root. Nevertheless, she must create, defend, guide, and put her faith in what she loves. For
the Lord has given us this one life to sow goodness for mankind, even if we don’t live long enough to partake of that harvest.
It is all for a purpose. None of it for naught.
Not a single moment for naught.