The Midwife's Revolt

by Jodi Daynard

  Mr. Miller smiled uncomfortably at us and asked merely, “May I come in?”

  I curtsied and led him in.

  Once inside, I introduced Thomas Miller to my brother, and they shook hands. There was nothing else to be done. Harry, who knew nothing about Mr. Miller or his loyalties, launched upon an amusing tale of his attempts to improve our farm. He was so affable, and so ignorant, that I cringed for him, and I imagined that Martha did so as well.

  Martha went to put the kettle on, but Mr. Miller forestalled her with a hand on her arm.

  “Do not trouble yourself, Sister, on my account. It is very late, and I’ll stay but a moment.”

  “You shall not stop here, then?” she asked.

  “Oh, no. I am staying at—”

  Here he thought better of divulging his lodgings and turned to me. “You are very quiet tonight. Are you well?”

  “Yes, very.”

  “Two words? Is that all you care to say?”

  “I am tired.”

  “That is three,” Mr. Miller said, a lift in his voice, but he had not the heart to joke further, as the mood around him was grave.

  “You came from the direction of Mrs. Adams’s,” he said. “Did you dine there?”

  “Why do you wish to know?”

  Martha cast me a look.

  “Oh, no particular reason.” Suddenly, Mr. Miller grew uncomfortable. “Indeed, it is too late. I see you are eager to have me gone. I was in the village and longed to see—my sister. Forgive me. It was a selfish wish. Tomorrow is her birthday, did you know?”

  “I didn’t know. She never shared that with me.” I turned to Martha. “Martha, is it true?”

  “Oh,” Martha said, looking at her feet, “I dislike a fuss.”

  “Well, I shall make an enormous fuss tomorrow,” Mr. Miller said. “For now, I retire. Good night.” Thomas Miller bowed formally and was gone the next moment. But my heart continued to pound long after he had left.

  “Seems an excellent fellow,” said my brother, helping himself to an oatcake in the kitchen.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” I whispered, for I did not wish Martha to overhear us. “More on that topic by and by. Now,” I said more loudly, “you’re keeping Eliza up.” I gave a backward glance to poor Eliza, who was nearly falling over with fatigue. She could hardly undress before Harry retired to his chamber.

  “Oh! Sorry!” My brother nodded, then made off to the dairy with a mouthful of oatcake. He returned a moment later, craving water and making choking signs at his throat.

  “Go to bed already, Brother.”

  “I’m going! I’m going!” He trailed back with a wave of his hand. Martha’s eyes smiled after him.

  45

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, Mr. Miller returned early. The very sight of him made me tremble in fear, whether of him or for him I couldn’t say. For while I had no reason to think otherwise than that Abigail’s information was correct, and that he would very soon be arrested, Mr. Miller’s face expressed an inexplicable good cheer.

  I was in the dooryard feeding my chickens when he arrived. I saw the dust lift off the path moments before his horse came into view. I held little Johnny in my arms, wanting to let his mother sleep, for Eliza had been greatly fatigued.

  Thomas alit from his horse and tied him to my post. His face when he saw me was soft, his eyes tender. About his mouth was the tiniest curl of amusement. He was, once more, the insouciant Mr. Miller I had known in Cambridge, the man who made me laugh, and with whom I was entirely in love.

  Seeing me with Johnny, Mr. Miller grinned. “A child becomes you, Elizabeth.”

  I nestled my face against Johnny’s warm head. “Have you breakfasted, Mr. Miller?” I asked.

  “Yes. They feed one well where I stay. Make you a preparation of any kind for my sister?”

  “Indeed I do. A cake of British goods confiscated by my pirate brother. I must go make it.”

  I turned to go back inside, but not before glancing up the hill to ascertain whether the colonel watched our movements, for I had come to suspect that he used his spyglass for more than watching departing British ships.

  “May I watch?” Mr. Miller asked.

  I was surprised at this request, but could not think of a quick rejoinder. “If you like.”

  “I should like it very much. I enjoy the domestic arts immensely. Watching them, I mean.”

  “Indeed.”

  For some reason, I blushed at this. We entered the kitchen, whereupon he sat himself at the table, stretched his long legs out, and said, “Show me, if you will, how to make a cake.”

  “If you truly wish.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, one must go about it in an orderly fashion,” I was moved to say, as if somehow Mr. Miller might otherwise believe me to be disorderly. “I dislike waste immensely. And chaotic habits in the kitchen breed waste.”

  Mr. Miller nodded gravely, and I glanced at him to know whether he mocked me. His countenance remained perfectly sober.

  “Orderly, no waste. Go on.”

  I continued. “First, you mix the wet and the dry separately.”

  “Wet and dry separately.”

  I stopped my narrative and placed a hand on my hip. “Shall you repeat everything I say? For then this shall take twice as long, and it is a hot day, Mr. Miller.”

  “How else am I to remember it?” he objected petulantly, looking up at me with a disconcertingly serious expression.

  I sighed and proceeded. “For this cake, I use four eggs. And a glass of milk. Excuse me.”

  I moved into the dairy to fetch my eggs and milk. His eyes followed my every step. Returning, I continued.

  “You break the eggs thus, then beat them smooth. Should you wish for a lighter cake, you must separate the yolks from the whites and beat them separately.”

  “Separate whites, fluffier,” this tall, serious man repeated. It might have made anyone else roil with laughter.

  I kept my bearings, however, and would not be thrown off.

  “Add the milk and stir. Then you add your spices.”

  “Spices?” he asked. “What use you for such a purpose? To add spice, I mean.”

  Forgive me, Reader, but I could not help but feel that every one of Mr. Miller’s utterances contained a secondary meaning. But neither did I wish him to stop. No, I told him of cinnamon, and nutmeg, and baking powder. When the time finally came to mix the dry with the wet, I was scarlet in the face, and Mr. Miller stood abruptly.

  “Allow me to help you. That looks demonishly difficult.”

  He rose to his full height and walked toward me. I remained rigidly still as he came behind me, taking the spoon from me to stir. At the same time, little Johnny crawled into the kitchen and sat by our feet. He was playing with a silver spoon. Mr. Miller pressed into me from behind, so gently one might almost call it inadvertent. But only almost.

  “Like this?” he asked, beginning to stir.

  I felt his breath on my neck and shivered. His arms began to fold around me, and I could feel the circular movement of his torso as he stirred the bowl.

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly Martha appeared at the door. I blushed as if caught in some sinful act. I had thought her still asleep. She herself looked flushed and excited. Hearing her, Mr. Miller turned, spoon in hand, and Martha literally leapt into his arms.

  “Birthday felicitations, Sister,” he cried. “How you grow! You must be, what—forty-seven, now?”

  “Nineteen, you idiot.”

  I looked over at Harry, who stood watching in the doorway. He leaned casually against the frame, watching Martha and her brother. Had he seen me and Mr. Miller stirring the cake? And had I seen him release Martha’s hand upon entering the kitchen?

  When Martha looked up and saw the red coals in the hearth, she scowled. “A
re you mad, to be baking on such a day? It is not struck nine and already an inferno in here.”

  “It’s nearly finished, and you’ll be thankful and eat it without complaining, if you please.”

  “I have a suggestion that should please us all very well,” interrupted my brother, who was in unusually high spirits. “As the cake shall keep well enough, and as it is very hot—”

  Eliza suddenly appeared, looking agitated, in search of her missing son. When she saw him playing happily with a spoon by my feet, she sighed.

  “Johnny, where did you go off to?” she cried, not expecting an answer. But to our mutual astonishment, Johnny looked up and pointed at me: “Izzzzie!”

  “You went to Izzzzie?” She turned to me. “Lizzie, did you hear him?”

  We were all so overjoyed at this new word that for a moment we just stood and clapped our hands together, crying, “Izzzzie! Izzzzie.” Johnny clapped and shouted my name as well.

  I glanced at Thomas Miller, but he merely kept his affable, unreadable smile as he stared down at Eliza’s child.

  “A remarkable boy.”

  “Yes, we love him dearly. But I must get this baking immediately.”

  I poured the batter into a tin and set it upon a trivet by the coals.

  “I say it’s too hot for baking,” my brother continued, looking at me. “You shall melt away.”

  “Well, what have you in mind? Go on.”

  “I suggest we all go and jump in the colonel’s pond.”

  Cries of both opposition and assent broke out then in my kitchen. Johnny banged the floor with the spoon.

  I put my hand to my ears. “All right. Anything! But allow me twenty minutes for my cake.”

  And with that everyone dispersed to prepare for a swim at the colonel’s pond, otherwise known as Black’s Creek. Mr. Miller exited the kitchen with his sister. I lifted up little Johnny, who insisted on bringing his spoon with him.

  Twenty minutes later, I had removed my cake to cool, setting it on the kitchen table by the open window. I wiped my hands and ran outside, for by this point I was drenched and could have plunged headfirst into the pond.

  Dying of the heat, we all ran into the dunes, which shivered in golden, mid-summer fullness. Soon, I thought, perhaps that afternoon, we would need to begin cutting the flax. Then the corn would need harvesting, and a great deal else. But today was Martha’s birthday, and a spirit of incautious joy had seized us all.

  I had never had much occasion to swim and hardly knew how. I had certainly never swum in the colonel’s pond. As it was saltwater, it was not a true pond. And as it was an inlet of the ocean, it was not truly the colonel’s, but we called it the colonel’s pond nonetheless. Once or twice, I had gathered herbs there—Seneca root and rushes for the lamps. It had never once occurred to me to throw myself into it, and I had no real intention of doing so now.

  But as we approached the pond, stopping to observe the wildflowers and other fragrant and medicinal plants that bordered it, a wild recklessness took hold of our brothers. They ripped off their shoes and began to remove their shirts, though we all called, “No, indeed! Should you wish to strip yourselves naked, go around to the other side of the rushes!”

  “Other side? Bollocks!” my brother cried.

  “Harry!” I said, aghast at his foul language, but everyone else merely laughed. We were so hot, the sun pounded, and the pond looked like pure ecstasy. Its surface was cool and glassy. I sat Johnny down, and he crawled to the water’s edge, heedless of the rough stones and sharp shells. Then, without warning, he threw my silver spoon into the pond.

  Thomas Miller glanced at my brother. The two of them took Johnny’s toss as a signal of fate.

  “That’s it, Tom—go!” my brother cried out. “I’ll race you for the spoon!”

  The two men, clad now only in their breeches, ran straight into the water with pained cries of “Ah!” and “It’s cold! Dear Lord!”

  We looked at them disapprovingly, but only for a moment. They dove under and emerged dripping, wiping the salty water from their joyous faces. Never had I seen Thomas Miller so happy, so entirely abandoned. Compared to this, his earlier insouciance appeared studied. He tipped his face up toward the sun, let his hair fling back behind him, closed his eyes, and laughed freely. To accompany this joyous image, I had the recent memory of his body pressed against mine in the kitchen. And while he did not remove his clothing now, I could imagine full well all that lay beneath it.

  I cannot recall which of us followed the men first, but within moments we had kicked off our shoes and gone running in after them, our petticoats rising up and ballooning to the water’s surface.

  “Ah! Ooh!” we gasped as our muscles constricted, taking our breath away. But it was too late to back down now.

  “Go all the way!” cried my brother, no doubt the most used of all of us to taking a cold dip. I let myself sink down, down, into the water, before popping back up with a yelp of delight. The cold on our hot scalps was a joy unto itself. Life was good. And war? Well, as my brother had rightly exclaimed: oh, bollocks!

  All but Eliza got her head under water. She did not wish to take her eyes off little John, who played so close to the water’s edge. I ran, drenched and laughing, and gathered Johnny up as Martha tackled Eliza, bringing her under the now roiling surface of the pond.

  “Oh! No, indeed!” Eliza cried. And then, in another moment, she was under.

  “Look, Johnny, water!” I gently introduced the boy to the water as he, expressing the shock of his life, began to squeal and flail his arms and legs as naturally as if he might swim away from me. I kept a tight grip upon him.

  Our cries of joy might have sounded like a sudden conflagration from afar. Soon, numb with cold, we panted toward land and fell laughingly upon the ground.

  Swimming in that cold pond on that hot day, the world fell away from us. No more were we Patriots and Tories, spinsters and widows and mulatto bastards. We were young and happy to be alive on this God-given earth. We were all hopelessly in love as well, but for just this one moment it was joy merely to feel that love within us, without hope of its realization.

  We lay on the ground laughing and gasping for breath for as long as we dared. The sun warmed our faces and the icy garments that clung to every bend of our limbs and torsos. Then, one by one, we gradually rose and made our way back to the house. Harry said he was ravenous and wished to sample the cake. Laughing, I told him he would need to wait until after supper, as I had not frosted it. As we neared the house, passing by Thaxter’s former cabin and the barn, I thought I heard a noise and stopped. The others stopped behind me.

  “What is that?” asked Martha.

  “Shh,” I hushed her.

  It was a groaning noise, coming from the barn. The groan sounded agonized and nearly human. At that moment, Thomas Miller heard it and ordered us back with a wave of his arm. “Stay here!”

  Along with my brother, he swiftly but quietly ran to the barn.

  After a moment, I heard Harry exclaim, “Dear God.”

  “Oh, my good Lord,” added Thomas Miller.

  The two men then spoke to each other in tones too low for us to hear.

  “Ladies, remain where you are,” one of them called. “Do not approach.”

  But I would not remain where I was, not on anyone’s orders. I ran to the barn at once just as I passed my brother running in the other direction, toward my house, with great celerity.

  Inside the barn, all was dark at first. Then, as my eyes adjusted, I saw Thomas Miller bent down over a large, dark, writhing form on the ground.

  It was Star. He was lying on his side, endeavoring to raise himself up. His eyes, gleaming wild and white in the darkness, soon caught mine. They were filled with agony and entreaty.

  “Star!” I shrieked. I bent over him and hugged his neck as he endeavored, with all h
is ebbing strength, to pull himself toward me. He seemed unable to breathe. His breath came in groaning gasps. Blood leaked from his mouth. He continued to look at me imploringly with his huge brown eyes.

  “Star! Star!”

  Hearing my voice, his nose pressed into my neck in a loving, familiar gesture. I lay upon him; feeling me, his breathing eased. Oh, what agony for me as well as him!

  “Stand away,” said Thomas Miller, pushing me aside.

  “I shall not,” I said.

  I felt his hands upon me, moving me aside by force. A powerful shot rang out, and Star fell back. His eyes rolled up, almost in relief. He was dead.

  46

  CLOTHING DRIPPING, I sat for a moment on the ground by Star’s side. My beloved, my faithful companion, was now silent forever. He had been my one true companion. I could have wailed like Hecuba, made milch the burning eyes of heaven, but I did not. No, there was no time for mourning. I felt a hand on my shoulder, which I shrugged off at once. I must have appeared beaten down, at a loss for words. At a loss for life and even reason.

  Far from it. It took but a few moments before I was on my feet. I looked about briefly. My brother stood there, panting and wild-eyed, Martha by his side. Eliza, having shielded Johnny’s ears, had moved swiftly into the house to protect him from the horrible sight: a noble beast stilled in a posture of utter torment. Thomas Miller had set the musket down beside Star, along with its flask of powder, and disappeared. Presumably he had gone to fetch help.

  I stared at the musket and reached to pick it up. I gazed about me again, hoping I might catch a clue as to the author of this evil. Nothing was out of place. I did not then see the powder residue at the bottom of his feed pail; Martha told me of it only later. But I did notice a folded paper lying upon the ground just to the side of the path that led to the colonel’s. It must have fallen from Mr. Miller’s pocket. It was but a small, wet rectangle, upon which brown ink had run. I at first thought little of it and stuffed it in my skirt pocket to return to its owner. Then, a moment later, curiosity got the better of me.

  I picked it out of my pocket with one hand and unfolded it. I expected to find a bill of sale or an account of expenses. Instead, I saw traces of a letter in ink that had been washed away by the pond, but the telltale signature had not been entirely erased. I stared at it a moment longer before placing it back in my skirt. Slowly, I lifted the musket from the ground. Slowly, I loaded it.