Chapter 11
You will say, is not this sudden? But I can assure you that there have been several happy events between your niece and Colonel Smith.
He has behaved with strict forbearance during the agonizing months while Nabby sorted her feelings for that Tyler boy, and I know nothing but praise and fondness for him—and of my certainty that he is her dearest wish.
I do not, for one moment, worry about her choice in spouse.
It will be very hard for me to part with her.
Any agitation of mind, either painful or pleasurable, always drives sleep from my eyes. Satisfied as I am with the person she has chosen, the event is too solemn and important for me to not feel an agitation equal to what I experienced for myself when my own lot was cast.
Abigail
Abigail paced the corridor of their home in Grosvenor Square just outside of John’s study, aware that she looked like a madwoman for doing so.
But it was their daughter’s wedding day, and the meeting happening on the other side of the door was the last item that needed to be completed before the ceremony could take place. It was the only thing completely outside of Abigail’s control, and that was more maddening than anything else.
It was a simple detail: Nabby was not yet one-and-twenty and, as such, still required parental consent to marry.
John was meeting with a notary public, and it was taking much longer than Abigail would like.
Nabby was preparing in her rooms with the maids tending to her, the bishop of Asaph would be here shortly, and Colonel Smith was waiting in the sitting room, looking as anxious as any bridegroom ever had.
As hostess, Abigail should be waiting with him, but she needed to ensure for herself that this final detail was complete.
The bishop of Asaph was doing them a favor by agreeing to marry the couple, as dissenting ministers were not permitted to perform weddings.
He and John had become friends during their time in London, and it was a kindness that he was here for them.
And John had gone one step further, given that Nabby and Colonel Smith did not wish to have a large wedding, by getting special permission from the Archbishop of Canterbury to have the wedding in their Grosvenor Street house.
It would be the wedding Nabby wished for, even if it was in London and away from her brothers and extended family. Nabby had agreed to allow Abigail and John to invite a few guests, as she and Colonel Smith were as timid as partridges and would gladly have only had the bishop present.
They deserved more celebration than that.
All was in readiness apart from this notation of consent and the remaining arrivals.
The day was going exactly and perfectly right.
So why was she so desperately anxious about it?
She had no objections to Colonel Smith. He was totally enamored with Nabby, and she with him. His prospects were good and his determination strong. He would make a fine husband.
No, her issues—such as they were—had nothing to do with the man her daughter was marrying. It was that her daughter was getting married. Today. She was stepping away from childhood entirely and starting a life of her own. A family of her own.
Had Abigail taught her everything she needed to know?
Had they raised her as they’d hoped? Did she know enough to become the woman she’d always wished to be?
Was she prepared to set out on this new path?
Would she feel comfortable taking on the roles of wife and mother?
Did she have any fears about leaving the bosom of her family and establishing her own?
Abigail suddenly doubted everything she had ever done as Nabby’s mother. As the mother to any of her children.
No one had prepared her for this. No one had told her what to expect from raising a child to adulthood, let alone an adult daughter.
No one ever explained that her heart would suddenly be outside of her body and at risk of being trampled beneath her feet.
No one had informed her that she would feel so tossed about and at sea, down to the very same nauseous sensation in her stomach and tingling within her kneecaps.
Abigail Adams rarely found herself questioning anything about herself and the life she had lived. She had always felt true to herself and to her values, her education, her good sense. She was confident, trustworthy, calm, agreeable, capable.
And now she felt none of those things.
All she knew was a crippling worry that she had failed her daughter and somehow left her wanting as this young woman, this bride, this wife-to-be, this future mother. There was still so much to tell her, to teach her, to show her, and there was no more time.
Why had no one told her how quickly this time would pass? Or how much she would feel its passing?
Even with all things in readiness, an emptiness rested within her chest. The notion that something was not complete. Missing.
Lost.
She was lost.
How could one feel this way while still feeling filled with joy?
She saw the delight in Nabby’s face whenever Colonel Smith was around.
She knew full well how he made Nabby smile and laugh in a way that no one else ever had.
She could bear witness to Nabby’s care for him, her tenderness, her adoration.
She also saw their support for each other, their sensible natures, their excitement for the future.
It was everything she could want for her daughter.
And yet it did not feel enough.
Her baby girl. Her only living daughter.
Had little Suky and baby Elizabeth survived, there would be other chances to perfect mothering a daughter, but the Almighty had not deemed that necessary for Abigail’s mortal experience.
This was it. This was all she would have.
She would only have sons to bring to this same moment, provided they found suitable brides one day. Raising them had been so different, and John had had as much, if not more, influence in many regards.
But Nabby was hers. Yes, she adored John and was likely his favorite child, but the bond between mother and daughter could not be replicated in any other relationship. Could not be explained in the same way.
Did that bond weaken or strengthen when the daughter left home for the last time?
Terrifying prospect.
Abigail glanced at the grandfather clock at the end of the corridor, noting the time and twisting her fingers because of her nerves. It was growing closer to eight in the evening, when they would have the ceremony, and the consent had not been completed.
Eight in the evening. What a ridiculous, if novel, idea. Though, she supposed, it was an Anglican ritual, and they were in England. The rituals were different in America, as they had separated from the body of the Anglican church long ago, but they did not have the freedom to do so here.
Nabby had not minded an evening wedding at all. She had had good presence of mind throughout the entire affair, not complaining once that the ceremony would have been simpler in America.
All they would have needed to do there was assent to the minister’s words. Here, they would have to repeat them all, and they were lengthier vows. And, as it was an Anglican service, there were parts that were quite offensive to Abigail, as her family had been among those who dissented ages ago.
Fortunately, the bishop of Asaph was a good enough friend to John to omit those unwelcome passages. And, as it was a ceremony in their home and not in a church with several ardent Anglican parishioners, no one would object.
Truly, it was the best situation they could have hoped for.
But it was all immaterial if the consent was not official before the ceremony began.
The door to John’s study opened, and Abigail exhaled with relief at the smiles on both men’s faces as they exited.
“Will you stay for the ceremony?” John asked the notary with all politeness. “There will be a meal afterward.”
He smiled broadly. “I thank you, no, Mr. Adams. Please give my felicitations to the happy couple.”
They shook hands, and the notary nodded at Abigail as he passed, exiting quietly through the front door.
Abigail looked at her husband with a hopeful, eager expression. “Well?”
John chuckled. “What do you think? It was a simple matter of recording my consent, which you know I have given.”
“I know, but I need all to be done so we can tell our daughter that she truly can marry the man of her choice.” Abigail felt a sudden tension in her throat and burning in her eyes at saying those words aloud.
But she would not cry. She would not.
John cupped her cheek with gentle fingers.
“She can, Abigail. And she will in a few moments.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head.
“Are we losing her, Abigail? Are we about to lose our little Nabby? What if we never see her? What if she is so taken up with her new husband that she has no time for her doddering old father?”
“Oh, John.” Abigail tried not to groan at his overblown worries, but she could not restrain it entirely. “They will not be far away, just in Wimpole Street, so we shall see her quite often.”
“You don’t know that,” John retorted stubbornly. “She may find she enjoys being Mrs. William Smith more than she ever enjoyed being Miss Nabby Adams.”
Sighing, Abigail looped her arm through his and led him toward the sitting room.
“There is a great deal to like about being a wife,” she allowed.
“I myself prefer being Mrs. John Adams to being Miss Abigail Smith. Would you have my father resent you for taking me away from him? Or be so piteously put out that I have such great love and affection for you that I prefer being in your company to his?”
“I could say several things about the differences between your father and myself that would illustrate the fruitlessness of this argument,” John grumbled, “but I presume it would not help my case.”
“Learning the value of only speaking when it will work in your favor, John? Will wonders never cease?”