Monday, April 2, 1787

Mrs. Adams, ma’am!” A scurry of feet in the upstairs hall, as a mob-capped head poked around the door of the little second-floor parlor that Abigail had taken over as her office at 8 Grosvenor Square. “Becky’s just come from Miss Nabby’s—Mrs. Smith’s,” the maid Esther hastily corrected herself, and the tall, wide-shouldered form of Jack Briesler appeared in the doorway behind her. In spite of everything the Adamses’ very proper English butler Mr. Spiller could do, he couldn’t get Briesler to understand that he must don his powdered footman’s wig every time he came upstairs.

To Briesler’s credit, reflected Abigail, folding her hands over the pages of her sister’s letter and regarding her footman with an expression of mild enquiry that she was far from feeling. Briesler had served under Washington at Trenton and Brooklyn Heights; he wasn’t about to wear any sissified wig if he didn’t absolutely have to.

“Her time is on her, Miss Becky says,” Briesler provided, and Esther’s head bobbed in confirmation. Like Briesler, Esther had come to England with Abigail from Massachusetts four years ago, and the excitement in her face was as great as if it was her own sister, and not her employer’s daughter, who was about to bear a child.

“Is she all right?” Abigail stowed the letter and her reply in their drawer, locked it, wiped her pen, and capped the ink-well with gestures as swift and automatic as smoothing her hair before she stood, shaking off the pinching cramp of rheumatism in her legs and back. Really, I’m getting as stiff as an old lady.

And why not? This day, God willing, I shall be a grandmother.

And as Esther nodded again, Abigail remembered her own pain, her own panic, the day her own first child was born.

But her mother, and her sixteen-year-old sister Betsey, had stayed with her all the previous week, she remembered, as she crossed the hall to her husband’s study door, the two American servants right on her heels. Her sister-in-law had been just across the little dooryard of that small brown house on the Plymouth road: in and out of each other’s kitchens all day the way everyone was in the tiny Massachusetts town of Braintree. There had also been Granny Susie, John’s sweet-natured, bouncy, busy mother. I wasn’t alone in a foreign country, much less a country like England….

John wasn’t in the corner room, whose wide window displayed the wet gray spectacle of Grosvenor Square’s bare trees. The fire was embers in the grate, scruffy little Caesar curled in a tight gray ball before it with his nose hidden in his disreputable tail. The door to the gloomy cubbyhole generally occupied by John’s secretary stood open, and that room was empty as well. “Mr. Briesler, please go downstairs and see if Mr. Adams is in his office. Let him know I’m going over to Mrs. Smith’s right away. I shall probably be there all day, so he’ll be on his own for dinner. And please tell Mrs. Stubbs and Mr. Spiller so.” Even after four years, it felt strange to have to inform one’s cook and one’s butler (of all things!) if one was going to be away at dinner-time.

It crossed her mind to wonder if Nabby still had a cook. Nabby’s husband Colonel Smith had been threatening for weeks to sack that wretched woman, and wasn’t the man to think about the inconvenience of finding another, to a woman in the concluding stages of pregnancy.

In many ways, Abigail reflected as she ascended the stair to the front bedroom, things were a great deal simpler in that four-room farmhouse on the Boston-Plymouth road, war or no war.

War or no war. Another woman would have paused at the recollection of the phrase she’d used uncountable hundreds of times during those eight appalling years: War or no war, this family has to eat; war or no war, you have to do your lessons, Johnny; war or no war, you have no excuse for punching your brother….

It wasn’t in Abigail’s nature to pause. Yet the phrase rang in her mind, as she collected a stouter pair of shoes from the wardrobe, plucked warmer stockings and a heavy India-goods shawl from the highboy—it was always freezing in Nabby’s house—and sent Esther flying down three flights to the kitchen for the bag she’d packed last week. War or no war…

The inner contradiction of those words came home to her now, and she realized she could not even imagine her life, her world, her children’s lives, had there been no war.

The War had shaped her life and theirs. Everything had been a part of it, related to it. She was here in London because of the War. Her first grandchild was going to be born on enemy soil, because of the War.

Because of the War, she had not seen her two youngest children in almost three years.

Nor had those children seen her.

For eight years, there had been nothing but the War, and all that the War had brought. But it troubled her a little now to reflect that she literally could not imagine, No war.

That in her heart of hearts, the War was all there was.



That hot July morning in 1765 when she’d felt the birth-pangs of her own first child, she’d sat down for a moment after the milking, to read over the draft of one of John’s articles for the Boston Gazette. For weeks John had been writing protests against the British Parliament’s decision to levy a tax on all court documents, college diplomas, books, real estate certificates, newspapers—anything comprised of printed paper, even dice and playing cards. At the same time it had announced the tax, Parliament had informed the colonists, from Massachusetts down to Georgia, that they were now responsible for housing and feeding the ten thousand British soldiers who were to be sent to guard the colonial frontiers, either in their own homes or in barracks built at their expense.