Chapter 6
I have repeatedly recollected the frenzied fervor that accompanied Mr. Jefferson when he relayed the news that John had been appointed to be the first official envoy from America to England, especially given the passion with which John had been, once, an enemy of that particular monarch.
How might the exchange of conversation be conveyed between such men in a fashion that shall not end in echoes of bloodshed?
I shall have some regret, I assure you, in quitting Auteuil, since I must leave it for London instead of America, that being the destination that Congress has assigned us.
In many respects, I think I shall feel myself happier in London, but that will depend much upon our reception there, and which course the politics take.
For without politics, none of us would be in this position, would we?
Abigail
England.
They were moving to England.
After everything they had been through with England in the last several years, now they would be setting foot in those grand palaces and marble halls as representatives of America to the Court of St. James’s and before King George III.
Well, John would be representing America. Officially, at least. Abigail would only be his wife and on some sort of grotesque display for every English man, woman, and child when she left their abode for social or entertainment purposes.
But how could they possibly face England after that horrendous war, all the bloodshed and torment, the lies and the deceit, the brutality and betrayal from a nation that ought to have treasured and protected them? And to now stand as apparent—but despised—equals?
She knew John was fully aware of the honor, but also cognizant of the momentous task ahead of him: to restore some semblance of trust and goodwill with their mother country and king, the very ones they had fought like the devil to be freed from.
Abigail had consoled and advised and listened to John’s thoughts and ideas and deeply troubled fears every night as they lay in bed together, and still neither of them were at ease.
Nor had they wanted to leave Auteuil.
Abigail had shed tears over leaving the gardens she had come to adore.
John bemoaned the loss of his walks on the grounds, as London would hold nothing of the sort for them.
Nabby was not so distressed at leaving France, which had dimmed in her estimation since John Quincy had departed for Massachusetts and Harvard, but the upheaval was still an inconvenience.
John Quincy would certainly be hearing from his sister about far more details than he’d ever wish for, but as the relationship between the two siblings was closer than ever, Abigail suspected he would cope rather well with it.
It had been bittersweet indeed to leave Auteuil.
The maids had been in tears as the carriages were loaded, and Abigail had felt her own tears brimming.
How things had changed since her arrival, and the life she had once considered a trial!
Now these good, kind, industrious people would be separated from her, and she would be forced to endure new faces, new difficulties, and new obstacles of a different residence—one not particularly inclined to welcome her.
As if to bemoan their departure, France itself had looked and felt grimmer than it ought to.
A cold drought had settled in, and poverty had struck the rural areas hard.
There had hardly been any grass in the fields, grain was scarce, and the animals were shockingly thin.
There was no prosperity in sight, and Abigail had felt a chill of foreboding.
Was the omen for France as they left it behind or for England as they approached it?
They were crossing the Thames on a day when the sky held no color for as far as the eye could see. It had been gray from the moment she had seen it this morning, and she had no doubt it would be the same shadeless hue until the sun had disappeared and darkness fell.
She hated days like this. Time passed without any physical indication, and there was no natural brightness to improve one’s mood or prospects.
And with her mood already soured by the chore that was crossing the Thames—reminding her all too well of the difficulty that crossing the Channel had given her—she could have used a hint of sunshine or blue skies.
And then there was the noise. She had experienced the din when she and Nabby had arrived from their Atlantic crossing, but it had not seemed so very different from the world they had left behind in America, and she had been so relieved to be free of the sea that it had not given her any grief at the time.
But now, compared to the sounds of Paris, London was an assault on the senses.
Noisy and bustling, damp and smoky, whiffs and puffs of unpleasant odors and stenches, and a certain gloominess that could not compare with the ease and light that permeated places like the Bois de Bologne in France.
No, England would hold very few pleasures for them, but all things must yield to business, and John was entrusted with a very great matter.
They would simply have to make the best of it.
“Mama, you are glaring at London again.”
Abigail pulled herself from her morose line of thinking and looked at her daughter with a hint of a smile. “I am not. I was reflecting on the transition from France to England and missing all that we left behind.”
“And glaring at London,” Nabby repeated without a hint of remorse.
Pursing her lips, Abigail forced her attention on the approaching shores of London, a tingle of apprehension pulsing at the base of her spine. “And glaring at London,” she admitted in a low mutter.
Nabby smirked. “And you have been so encouraging with Papa. You don’t really believe this will go well, do you?”
“I have never given your father any indication that this would go well, as you say,” Abigail defended easily.
“Only that his fear over the situation would become a stumbling block to its potential.” She glanced about the ferry for any sight of John.
She did not see him, but she still lowered her voice.
“I am under no illusions about this assignment for him, Nabby. It will be a challenge to be viewed without animosity, let alone with any fairness or equality. You know your father’s nature as well as I.
He possesses neither tact nor patience, and his talent for flattery is nonexistent.
He is as honest a man as any New England man could hope to be, and twice as direct.
He is a powerful speaker, but only to those who will listen.
He is noble and great, but only to those who feel the same.
We have been through a dreadful strife with these people, and forgiveness may be decades away.
Yet we are here to open trade negotiations and form an alliance with the very hands we sliced off.
We shall be mocked, Nabby, if not ignored outright.
And yet we could not refuse, and we cannot go home. ”
Nabby’s amusement faded completely from her features, leaving behind only compassion and concern.
She had learned all too well the cost of her father’s involvement in all things political from the years of the revolution, the formation of the Continental Congress, and the endless letters that Abigail and John had traded during that time.
The strain John felt about what had taken place, or gone nowhere, during those sessions was obvious whenever he returned home.
The lack of letters from his early days in France and Holland spoke to his strife and despair.
He had struggled during his time in France due to his lack of social graces compared to what was desired at the French court.
Mr. Franklin was a better social diplomat, and Mr. Jefferson, when he had arrived, possessed a captivating charm that made him agreeable to everyone.
But John was the sort that improved on successive occasions and with greater understanding and connection.
Second, third, and fourth impressions were required for his presence to become one that was sought after rather than tolerated.
And that had been with those who had been favorably inclined toward America’s wish for independence.
How in the world was he going to make any headway with King George III and his people?
People who had once been their countrymen on other shores.
Both John and Abigail came from those who had left England generations earlier, but that did not stop the tenuous bonds of allegiance from forming, making the separation from the English monarchy awkward and confusing.
Even if it had been something they had both passionately wished for by the end, it had not started out that way.
Not until it became clear that England would not listen to their concerns.
Not until the hand of dictatorship smote them.
Not until war and separation were the only options to preserve their dignity, their self-respect, and their rights.
Liberty.
And now they must try to convince the English that resentment did not and should not exist between them. That friendship with America was possible. A future could be bright. No grievances would remain.
Was any of it true? Abigail could not say, nor, more likely, could John.
But that was what ambassadors and emissaries were for. To see if the seemingly impossible things could be possible and relationships formed, mended, or maintained.
John Adams, an ambassador.
Terrifying prospect.
She’d felt that way when he had gone to France, but this was far and away a worse option.
“At least you have your new songbirds, Mama,” Nabby pointed out, yet again drawing Abigail from a rather morose contemplation.
Abigail’s mouth curved into a pleasant smile as she considered her most unexpected gifts, carefully caged nearby. “Yes, I do, and that must be a sign of something fortuitous, yes?”