If John had ever entertained the thought of not stepping down, of not leaving the country to the mercies of a Jacobin demagogue, he never spoke of it. And since John spoke to her of whatever entered his mind, it was safe to believe that it hadn’t. At one point he had considered resigning in protest a few days before the inauguration, but Abigail had talked him out of it. It would not do, she said, for him to appear a bad loser.

“I am a bad loser,” he’d replied. “Tom…Well, Burr would be worse. Tom may be a Deist, and a Jacobin, but Burr is…Burr is nothing.”

He’d come down to the great East Room where Abigail was taking down the laundry, which took two days to dry in the clammy cold. Only politicians could have designed this house, Abigail reflected, flexing her aching shoulders. It had no service courtyard, nor even a fence around it, and the stables were nearly a mile away. Going back and forth to the Presidential Necessary-House was bad enough. Weeks of rain aside, she wasn’t about to hang the Presidential linen out in full view of the likes of James T. Callendar’s spiritual brethren.

“Burr is all technique.” John’s breath puffed white in the silvery window-light. “All slick cleverness. He’s the kind of lawyer I used to hate coming up against in court because he’s half an actor. He has all the facts but moves them around like chess-pieces, to whatever angle will look best to the jury. Tom, at least, there’s a real man inside. A good man. But whether that man’s decisions can be trusted…”

His breath blew out in a sigh. “Well,” he said after a moment, “I’ve done what I can. And will do what I can.” At the far side of the great chamber, Charley’s tiny daughter Susie ran giggling among the clothes-ropes, hotly pursued by little Caro Smith. It was a relief, to see how John’s eyes brightened at the sight of the girls.

He went on, “At least the Senate approved the treaty with France. Jefferson can’t tamper with that, though the Good Lord only knows what other tricks Bonaparte has up his sleeve. And, thank God, they passed my proposal to increase the number of circuit courts, so at least there’ll be responsible Federalist judges to interpret whatever laws the Republicans dream up. Including,” he added, with the grim ghost of a smile, “John Marshall as Chief Justice, now that Ellsworth has resigned.”

“John Marshall?” Abigail stood for a moment, sheet over her arms, startled out of her depression. She remembered how the handsome Virginian had bent his head to listen to John at the New Year’s levee—how furiously Tom Jefferson had protested when his enemy (and third cousin) had been named one of the chief negotiators of the French treaty. A slow smile spread over her face. “Well. There’s one Mr. Jefferson won’t be able to talk his way around.”

“Nor,” said John, handing her the laundry-basket, “without dismantling the Constitution—the very thing he accused us of wanting to do—will he be able to get rid of him.”



Now, as she folded the crisply ironed petticoats into her trunk, Abigail heard hooves on the hard-frozen gravel of the drive. Looking out, she glimpsed her nephew Billy Shaw—Betsey’s boy, hired as John’s secretary and assistant—limping up the makeshift stair. So it’s done, she thought, and whispered a prayer, because John was perfectly right about Burr. Was an honest Jacobin more to be desired than a man who’d sell his support to the highest bidder?