by Jodi Daynard
“Lizzie, wait.” Martha took my arm. “What is it you plan to do?”
I said nothing, only moved quickly through the garden. I met one of my new day laborers, a young man named Samuel Whitcomb. He had turned up only just the week before, seeking work. He had seemed too good to be true—a young man of few words, willing to work for nothing but a promise of future recompense. I had accepted at once. Mr. Whitcomb looked at me in silent alarm. My petticoats were dripping wet, and Medusa-like locks of hair clung to my face. In my firm grasp was a loaded musket.
“My horse is dead. Kindly call upon Mr. Billings at the tannery. He will be of assistance.”
He said nothing, but merely moved carefully aside as I ran up the hill and through the dunes toward the great house. I gathered speed as I went, until once again Martha, who had been breathlessly trailing behind, took hold of me.
“Lizzie. It’s not safe. Allow me to accompany you.”
“No, I need no help to go a few feet up the hill. I’ll return as soon as I’ve ascertained the truth. For I believe I now know what that truth is, though everyone sought to obscure it from my eyes. Stay with Eliza.”
“Lizzie!” she called after me.
I ran the rest of the way to the colonel’s, heedless of her entreaties.
Ann Quincy opened the door. She took me in all in a single glance: my wet dress and my loose, wet hair, musket at the ready. To her credit, her alarm seemed one of genuine concern for my person, not my impropriety.
“What has happened? Are you hurt?”
“I’m afraid I must see your husband on a matter of greatest urgency. It cannot wait.”
She ushered me in. “Of course. But don’t you wish to change first? You are dripping wet.”
“No, thank you. It’s only from the pond.”
“The colonel is in the parlor with the others.” She pointed to the right.
When my head turned in the direction of her outstretched arm, I saw Colonel Quincy, Richard Cranch, and Mr. Miller. They sat in a tight circle and were deep in discussion, which ceased the moment I entered.
When Thomas saw me, he bounded up from his chair. Like myself, he had not had time to change out of his wet clothes. Water pooled everywhere on the colonel’s Turkey carpet. No one seemed to pay it the least attention.
“Mrs. Boylston.”
I mastered myself, though perhaps not as well as he. “I believe you dropped this in your haste,” I said. I then proffered the wet letter, but Thomas Miller didn’t move to fetch it from me. He stood there as if awaiting command.
Colonel Quincy now stood to address me.
“Lizzie, my child, perhaps you’d care to change out of your wet things?”
“I would not care to change, thank you. I merely wish—”
Here I recalled I was still holding my musket and must have appeared to Colonel Quincy and his guests like a madwoman. But I did not relinquish the weapon. Instead, I held it tighter to me. “Allow me to know what is going on.”
The musket, though not pointed at them, told them of my intent to brook no refusal.
“Please, sit,” said the colonel, pointing to a chair. But I stood firm. I continued to hold the letter before me, the letter that had been all but washed away by our impetuous frolic.
“If you refuse to answer me, then I will ask him myself.”
The colonel was silent.
I turned to Mr. Miller. “Why is it, Mr. Miller, that you had upon your person a letter from His Excellency, General Washington?”
Mr. Miller glanced at the colonel.
“I understand you demand an explanation, but time is of the essence,” said Colonel Quincy.
Thomas nodded, then glanced up briefly at me, a look of misery upon his countenance. Yet I had no pity for him.
“Lizzie,” the colonel finally began, “I’m afraid you have been deceived. But believe me when I say it could not be helped. You see—”
“What is it I see?” I cried. “That you must tell me.”
“If you only calm yourself, I shall tell you.”
“I’m quite calm. The fact that some evildoer poisoned my horse has made me quite, quite calm, I assure you.”
Here, in a gesture of good faith, I set the musket down on the carpet.
“Well, I suppose we can keep it from you no longer,” began the colonel, not looking at me. “Mr. Miller has been in my employ these three years past. I engaged him in April of ’76, upon His Excellency’s personal request.”
All eyes were upon me, a wet, trembling, devastated creature. My silence was but momentary. “How is it I am to believe such a thing?”
“Lizzie, it is true.”
The voice came from behind me. It belonged to Richard Cranch.
I turned to him. “You knew of this?”
He refused to meet my eyes. “I have known but a relatively short time, yes.”
“And you, my closest friends, have knowingly deceived me? And sought to warn me against him and treat him as the lowest criminal?”
My regard for Mr. Miller was now exposed for all to see. The “him” in question remained silent while the colonel spoke. “Elizabeth, your heart is ready to serve. I have noted it with great admiration. But your skills—a successful spy must remain unknown even to his nearest and dearest. Surely you can understand that.”
My head understood, Reader; but my heart—how it revolted! I could not tell my friends the true suffering I had experienced at war with myself over Mr. Miller.
“And Abigail? Does she know?”
“No, indeed,” interjected Colonel Quincy. “It is she most of all we seek to protect.”
“I want proof,” I said finally. “I can tolerate no more doubt. Not one more moment of it.” I didn’t need proof, not really. What I needed was for my friends to account for themselves fully.
Perhaps I had been breathing too rapidly, for I very suddenly felt quite unwell. “I am most grievously tired,” I said.
Ann came toward me. “Please. Allow Ginny to change you. I have something suitable, no doubt.”
The room had begun to spin. As we moved down the hall, Thomas Miller approached to steady me.
“You look faint, Lizzie. Please—allow Mrs. Quincy to help you out of your wet clothing. When you return, you may read this.” He showed me a large folded parchment.
“Is that proof of your stainless heroism?” I said mockingly. I was then overcome—by grief, fear, betrayal, and self-pity, all at once—and burst into long-delayed tears.
“Come,” implored Mrs. Quincy, “I insist. The letter shall wait.”
But I said suddenly, “I shall move no farther until I read what Mr. Miller has offered.”
I had walked toward the stairs, where I stood waveringly. My tears had ceased as quickly as they had begun. I had reached that point of unmooring within my mind that would brook no contradiction, that cared nothing for consequences. Oh, how hard and steely this thing was! And yet, it seemed to consume my flesh as it galvanized my spirit, for I felt truly weak now and sat down upon the steps.
Mr. Miller addressed me. The awkwardness of this address I shall never forget, since all present now knew of my feelings for him, yet he did not express the slightest affection for me. Indeed, so correct was he that I entirely doubted that he shared my feelings—another grief, another mortification, to add to the rest!
“Mrs. Boylston, I understand your wish to know all, and yet you must also understand it is not safe to know everything.”
“Safe?” I laughed mirthlessly. “My house has been raided. My beloved horse is dead. Think you that I have cowered in my chamber all these months? You of all people know otherwise. Give it here.” I took the parchment from Thomas Miller’s hand.
In faint brown script, it read:
To the honorable Jos. Q,
I was heartened to l
earn that the situation in Braintree has been contained and that Traitors T. and H. have been removed. But we know there to be others, both among us and among you. I have only now had a Communication from Gen’l S. that the Man who presented himself to you as his Aide Cleverly is one Benjamin Thompson of Stonington, New Hampshire. We believe him to be among the leaders of the planned attack on J.A. and J.Q.A. I have also had communication from Dr. F. in Paris, who has lately heard from his Contacts in England that this Group will stop at nothing to achieve their Aims. My profoundest Thanks to T.M. for his untiring Vigilance and strong Intelligence, particularly regarding the imminent arrival of La S. upon your shores. You must remain ever-vigilant until our great citizen is safely arrived with his most precious cargo. I know you to have spent every waking Breath to protect our Cause and our brave Citizens, and I have Faith that you shall continue to do your best in this most treacherous of Times.
Your obedient, Geo. Washington
Reading the letter, I let out a crazed laugh. So, gloomy Mr. Thayer, who had always been at his lap desk, had in fact been Mr. Stephen Holland, the counterfeiter whose whereabouts had long been sought—in our very midst. All along, in our midst! And Dr. Flynt, that paunchy, affable man who had said he was from Philadelphia, had been Holland’s partner, Mr. Tufts.
As for Mr. Cleverly, that truth at least felt like some vindication. He was in fact Benjamin Thompson, the notorious scientist and wife-abandoner from Stonington. The leader of this band of traitors. About him, at least, I had been entirely correct. I had known Mr. Cleverly’s treachery when General Sullivan himself had been duped.
As I sat, wet and shaking, on the back steps of the colonel’s house, the final image wavering before my dizzy eyes was of Mr. Cleverly and myself, hand in hand among my fruitful orchards. I then fainted, thus mercifully closing the scene.
47
I AWOKE IN a dry shift and a cool bed. It took me a few moments to realize that I was not at home but in the house of Colonel Quincy, in Dr. Franklin’s room. I knew not how long I’d been asleep.
“Ginny!” I called at once, rising. “Ginny!” Ginny soon came running, alarmed.
“I wish to dress at once.”
She nodded and soon returned with fresh stays and a fine gown of European origin. I thanked her and bade her leave. My head cleared slowly.
Thomas Miller, in the employ of Colonel Quincy these three years past. An intimate of His Excellency. My beloved Star dead, most likely poisoned by Mr. Cleverly, either out of pure spite, or as punishment for my attempts to glean information.
Unbidden, a key turned in my brain. I must have been working at the lock in my long sleep. Suddenly, I knew who had killed those men.
“God forgive her!” I moaned, sinking back onto the bed. Hearing me, Ginny and Ann came running to see what was the matter.
Mrs. Quincy sat beside me. “It is a grievous loss you suffer, Elizabeth. What a horrible, unconscionable act.”
But I was not then weeping for Star. My grief was for someone else entirely.
She had changed out of her wet clothes and was working calmly among the rows of flax. From a distance, and through her weak eyes, I might have looked quite like Mrs. Josiah Quincy. Recognizing me at last, Martha stood as if she would run toward me. But I was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. When she saw my countenance, she stopped, turned back, knelt to the ground, and resumed her work. I knelt beside her in the field and began to pull the flax with her, without a word, tying them into bundles and placing them aside to dry.
“I thought you were Mrs. Quincy,” she said at last.
“No,” I replied. “She lent me a change of clothing.”
“That was kind of her. It’s too good for flax-picking.”
Martha paused, then added, “I am deeply sorry for Star.” She did not look at me and continued to work.
“I know you are. You loved him near as much as I.”
“I did, Lizzie!” She grasped my arm. “You must believe that. I should die if you thought otherwise.”
“I know,” I said again. I kissed her on the side of her head, which calmed her. Though she might soon be abandoned by all who knew her, I would not abandon her now, or ever.
“Where are the others?” I asked.
“Eliza is within, exhausted. I changed her out of her wet frock and put her to bed. Our brothers have gone to town.”
“To town?” I asked. She stopped pulling flax for a moment and turned to me.
“Harry has gone for his ship. John Adams arrives tomorrow or the next day, and they shall be ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Did the colonel not say?” A thin, wry smile began to play about her lips, as if she had expected me now to know everything.
“No, indeed. They allowed me to read a letter from His Excellency, which confirmed the plot we had all suspected. Can you believe that Mr. Cleverly is not John Cleverly at all, but that famous scientist Benjamin Thompson? Or that Mr. Thayer was the counterfeiter, Mr. Stephen Holland?”
“Of course I can believe it.” She took my hand. “I could not have done what I did had I not been convinced of these things. I’ll admit, I did not know about Cleverly until this very moment. But Thomas and I deeply suspected it.”
“And your Thomas is not what he appeared, either.”
“Nor am I.” She smiled, but it was no happy smile.
“Oh, Martha. I have many dozens of questions, but I lack the heart for conversation just now. Answer me just one thing: What are the enemy’s intentions regarding John Adams?”
Martha looked at me gently. Or rather, this stranger I called Martha Miller, spy for General Washington, killer of two men. Men who were no patriots, but dangerous enemies to the Cause and to our most beloved friends.
“The intentions of these men from the beginning, Lizzie, have been to force Adams home and to assassinate him upon his arrival. An earlier plan had been to kidnap Abigail to force John home. I put a stop to that one. The attack scheduled for tomorrow is to be but one among numerous assassinations.”
“God,” I muttered.
Martha continued. “They have known about me for some months and have sought to silence me without revealing themselves. It had little to do with you or your activities. Although,” she added, looking away momentarily, “your meeting Cleverly this last time, and recognizing him as you did, alarmed them enough to act swiftly against us.”
“Am I responsible for Star?” I said after listening to Martha’s horrifying explanation. “If so, tell me at once. I would rather at least have that upon my head than upon yours.”
“I know not,” she said, and I believed her. “It is possible that they were plotting retaliation for many months and your actions had nothing to do with it. However, consequence is the price of involvement. The only certainty in choosing to act is that there will be consequences.”
Martha was right. The notion that I could do good and suffer no consequences, create no victims, was a naive and dangerous one. I felt deeply ashamed, though I knew not what I might have done differently.
“In any case,” she continued, “regarding La Sensible, rest assured: Our men are forewarned. They shall be here tomorrow. Scores of them, along with several trusted officers of the Continental Army. We shall finally apprehend the villains.”
The Martha who spoke this most privileged information was someone far tougher, far more worldly, and far more competent, than even I had known her to be.
My heart grieved for Martha and for what she had done. But part of me could not help admiring her as well. All this time, I thought she had been my apprentice; but, in some ways, I had been hers as well.
“And Abigail? Does she know John returns tomorrow? And the grave circumstances under which he does so?”
Martha reached out and grasped my arm with preternatural force. Her eyes were hard and dark. In them I now recognized t
he cold, knowing look that had so wounded me when she warned me away from her brother.
“For her safety and that of her husband and child, she must know nothing. Do you understand? Breathe a word, and our months of hard work shall be for naught. Promise me. Swear it.”
I swore to it at once. “But has she really no idea he’s to arrive tomorrow?”
“None, I assure you. Though you very nearly gave us away with your apt conjectures the other night.”
I fell silent then, and we both gradually sank back down to the rows of flax. I could not yet make myself pass the barn and enter the house. As if reading my mind, Martha said, “Mr. Billings and two other fellows came round with a cart about an hour ago.”
She gave me no further details, and I sought none, but merely replied, “Oh, that is good.”
We bundled flax in silence for a while. The hot sun was finally going down beyond the hill, giving us respite. For some reason, the low sun made me think of Abigail, and I smiled.
“Why do you smile?” Martha asked.
“I was thinking how, bringing you to Abigail’s the other night, I had in mind to put ideas of marriage and children in your head.”
“You thought it an auspicious time to marry me off, then?”
“I’m ashamed to say I saw you in an entirely different light then, Martha. Someone who perhaps could do better than to be a poor midwife.”
I thought she would object, but she seemed to have her own thoughts upon the matter. “In a sense you are right, Lizzie. I’ve had no thoughts for the future until now. They seemed—yet seem—an impossible luxury. Perhaps there shall be time enough to be happy, but where? In what place? I cannot imagine it.”
I had not the lie in me to contradict her.
“I had a taste of happiness, once.” I smiled wistfully. “It was very good.”