Chapter 13 #2
John Quincy had always been a responsible one, prone to full-on contemplation before deciding on a course of action.
Charles, on the other hand, was reckless and almost wild at times.
Headstrong and impulsive, bearing a quick temper and strong feelings.
Her youngest boy, Thomas, might have been her sweetest. Curious, inquisitive, and dedicated to his studies, he was at Harvard with the others now, even if he was a trifle young, but he was excelling and exceeding all expectations there.
Time would tell how he might fare as an adult.
She prayed for them daily and thought about them even more.
Being apart from Charles and Thomas for almost three years was agony, and she craved every letter they could send her.
John Quincy had taken up the mantle of a father figure to them, but he did not bear the same intimidating figure as John, and she suspected that Charles, in particular, did not respect him as such.
They were all very politic in their writing to her, sharing only the best about themselves, she was sure, but again, her oldest did not forsake her in that regard.
Whatever he knew about his brothers that might warrant her attention, he shared with her.
She was unable to do much but advise from here, and even that was likely delayed for the post. Perhaps her words would be rendered irrelevant by the time they reached the recipients, but it soothed her heart to write as often as she could.
Mothering from across an ocean was a challenge she had not foreseen.
None of this was what she had foreseen.
William began to fuss, and she resumed her bouncing and pacing. But when his face scrunched up and his tiny fists began to wave in warning, Abigail suspected he would not be soothed by anything within her power.
“Mama?”
The soft call brought Abigail around to see Nabby entering the parlor, hair loosely plaited, and bearing the look of a new mother not yet adequately rested.
“Nabby, darling, you must stay in bed for longer than that,” Abigail scolded gently.
She recalled only too well the difficulty in those first few weeks with trying to tend to a new infant, recover her own strength, and somehow manage to sleep for a reasonable amount of time, while feeling as though she was failing in all of those ways.
In retrospect, it was impossible to recollect when things had improved, only that they had.
Nabby smiled at her with a tired expression. “It is nearly feeding time again. He will be intolerable until he is sated.”
William wailed rather pointedly, proving his mother correct.
With a lighthearted chuckle, Abigail handed her grandson over, and Nabby quickly situated the two of them for feeding.
Once William was quiet and nursing, Nabby looked up at Abigail. “Have you heard from Papa?”
Abigail shook her head. “No, but I do not expect to for some time. He won’t write until he is settled in the Netherlands. You know how he hates travel.” She rolled her eyes but smiled affectionately.
Nabby chuckled. “Indeed, I do. And what of Mr. Jefferson? We sent him notice of little William’s birth. Have you heard from him in Paris?”
Abigail brightened considerably. “As it happens, I was told we have a letter from him today. Let me fetch it.” She moved to the writing desk where the post had been delivered and sorted through the handful of items before plucking out the message from their friend.
She turned as she broke the seal and began to read.
“He is doing very well, but he misses our company and conversation. Congratulates us on the arrival of a healthy grandson and prays for your continued health and safety.” She paused to smile at Nabby pointedly, which she received with a prim nod and a playful twinkle in her eyes.
Mr. Jefferson had become like an uncle to Nabby in Paris, and parting from him had been a wrench for certain.
Abigail scanned through the rest of the lines quickly, smiling at the wit and candor of their old friend. But then she frowned, that same wit and candor delivering an unexpected blow.
“Mama?” Nabby pressed.
“He says . . .” Abigail paused, needing to read it again.
“He says that the incidents of public disrespect for the royal family have caught many by surprise, and all tongues have been let loose. Placards are all over the city, and though mobs have ceased, the queen received a general hiss while attending the theater.”
Nabby gasped sharply, startling her son, who cried out. “What?”
Abigail wet her lips and steadied the letter. “He says, ‘The king, long in the habit of drowning his cares in wine, plunges deeper and deeper; the queen cries out, but sins on.’” The letter crumpled slightly in her fingers as she held it tighter.
“That is cruel,” Nabby whispered. “Why does he sound . . . pleased?”
“I do not believe he cares for monarchy at all,” Abigail replied, feeling cold.
“But we’ve met them—the king and queen of France—and I cannot think of any great sins that should cause such reactions, either from Mr. Jefferson or from the French people.
And to receive a hiss at the theater, which I know the queen adores .
. . Unthinkable.” She shook her head firmly. “I am going to write her a letter.”
“The queen?”
“Yes. She was kind to me, and I will write in the spirit of friendship and our alliance. She deserves no less.” Abigail turned on her heel and strode back to the writing desk, pulling out a pen and paper at once and setting immediately to work.