“Don’t fret yourself about the cook.” In Abigail’s opinion William Smith should have been looking for a new cook since Christmas. She said instead, “It’s all right.”

Nabby shook her head, blond hair tangling against the pillows. Tears sprang into her eyes. “It isn’t! I’ve tried—I’ve tried so hard…”

“Child, what are you talking about?” Abigail demanded, gripping her daughter’s swollen hands. “You have done all that can be asked of any woman: to love and obey your parents, to be a good sister to your brothers, to marry a good man and bear strong sons and daughters for the new Republic. She’ll be a new little American, you know,” she added, with an encouraging smile. “One of the first of the new generation.”

“Like those stories you used to tell us.” Nabby managed a smile in reply. “Remember? I always liked Cloetia, escaping from the enemy and swimming across the Tiber under a hail of spears.” Her breath caught and her fingers tightened on Abigail’s. “But I always felt like I’d have been one of her friends, who got left behind as a hostage because Cloetia chose to free the young men, knowing Rome would need the soldiers. I always felt—”

“I daresay the Romans carried their patriotism a bit too far,” responded Abigail firmly, looking down at her daughter’s taut face. “Any woman who bears a child, of either sex, is doing far more for our country than the bravest soldier ever did, and enduring more pain as well. But you’ll come through it, dearest. You’re a Smith—my family Smith, as well as William’s. And we Smith girls are tough as ponies.”

Nabby’s eyes pressed shut, her breath coming in gasps and her hands crushing Abigail’s now as the wave of pain swept over her—Where on earth is that miserable midwife? The pains, though sharp, were still some minutes apart, but who knew how long that would last?

“It won’t be long before she’ll go home—we’ll all go home—and see our country again,” Abigail continued, remembering how desperately she’d needed to hear a friendly voice while she herself had been in labor. “Even your father knows what a waste of his time it is, trying to deal with Parliament. They have no more intention of living up to the terms of the treaty than they do of going back to wearing loincloths and painting themselves blue, though I daresay with the fashions I’ve seen here this season it may come to that. They haven’t made a single reparation for American property seized at sea during the War. Your father has sent to Congress asking for his recall. If they do as they’ve said, and reorganize the government, they’ll need him there. And if he goes, almost certainly Colonel Smith will be called home as well.”

Nabby’s body was racked with an aftermath of sobs. She whispered something, Abigail thought she said, “New York.” Meaning, she guessed, that William Smith’s mother, sister, and younger brothers lived outside New York City, a week’s hard travel from Braintree. But when she leaned close and asked softly, “What did you say, dear?” Nabby asked brokenly, “Did I do the right thing, Ma?”

Tears streamed down her face. As Abigail dried them with the clean spare handkerchief she invariably carried, she felt her own heart contract with guilt. She knew exactly what her daughter meant.



In the spring of 1782, Royall Tyler came to board with Abigail’s sister Mary, who had by that time returned to Braintree to live. Nabby was sixteen.