A More Perfect Union: A Novel (The Midwife Series Book 3)

by Jodi Daynard

  “You’ve missed the entrée course, sleeping as you did. But if you like, we could fetch something from the kitchen.”

  “Nay. These look like they will do excellently well.” Johnny had no wish to see the slaves working in the kitchen, though he knew they were there whether he saw them or not. He helped himself to several of the sweets and then looked about to find a chair.

  While Johnny feasted on the sweet confections, Peter went off to speak to some of the guests. A servant came around with a tray of wine in glasses; Johnny took one and drank it quickly. It made him light-headed.

  Suddenly he felt the presence of someone behind him. He turned to find the girl Frederick had left them to greet. Abruptly, he stood up, nearly emptying the contents of his plate onto the floor.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, grasping at his sweets to keep them from falling off the plate.

  The girl placed a gloved hand over her mouth to hide a smile. She was not very tall, but her posture was erect, her neck long. Soft warm-brown curls fell about a heart-shaped face, and a dimple in her chin lent a voluptuousness to the brilliant composition. Her eyes were intensely green, like emerald discs, and bemused. It was as if she found the party generally, and Johnny in particular, cause for laughter.

  The girl, whom Johnny guessed to be perhaps sixteen, wore a lavender gown with white-lace trim. For her hair, she had procured fresh lavender, which had been woven into a coronet.

  “Hello,” she began. “You must be Peter’s friend, from Cambridge.”

  Johnny might have said, “Yes, I am,” but he could not be sure.

  She curtsied. “Miss Burnes.”

  Johnny bowed, he was fairly certain.

  “Our families have known one another—oh, as long as I can remember. Mama was a childhood friend of Mrs. Fray. We live up the Potomac, in the new capital city.”

  Johnny might have nodded.

  “You’re not very talkative, are you?” Miss Burnes laughed lightly.

  Then Peter was beside them. He hooked an arm genially in Johnny’s own.

  “He is struck dumb by your beauty, Miss Burnes,” he teased. She cocked her head charmingly, and Johnny unconsciously tilted his head at the same angle, as if wanting to stay in perfect alignment with her.

  “Oh, that can hardly be true.”

  Johnny blushed.

  “Johnny is from Barbados.”

  “Barbados! I should like to hear about that. Oh, I would love to visit Barbados someday.”

  “What Johnny won’t tell you, since he can’t find his tongue, is that he’s an absolute genius.”

  “Nay,” Johnny finally managed a syllable, his own voice sounding foreign to him.

  “Try him yourself. Have him recite something from memory.”

  “Very well.” Marcia clapped her hands together delightedly. “I shall.” Here, the beautiful girl placed her fingers together as she paused to think.

  “I’d love to try some of those other cakes,” Johnny suddenly blurted. And, with a barely civil bow, he walked off toward the other side of the room.

  Peter caught up with him.

  “Say, what’s the idea? You already took a plateful!”

  “The desserts are excellent. I fancy another helping,” Johnny replied, scanning the long table, though he had not finished the items on his plate.

  “Why did you leave, and in such an insulting manner? One doesn’t simply walk away from Marcia Burnes.”

  “Why not?” Johnny asked sourly. “You of all people know that I don’t enjoy performing tricks for others to laugh at.”

  “Oh, you’re too feeling,” Peter concluded jovially, patting him on the back. “Why, I believe she liked you.”

  But Johnny was still feeling peevish. “Who is she, anyway?” Out of the corner of his eye, Johnny saw Frederick, who was endeavoring to impress Miss Burnes with ample smiles and glances, if not his wit.

  “Miss Burnes?” Peter continued, “Why, apart from being beautiful, she is also the richest girl in all Maryland, or very soon shall be. Her father, David Burnes, sold his land to Washington to make the capital city. She shall receive thirty thousand dollars.”

  “Thirty thousand,” Johnny mused. “Too bad I mortally offended her, then.”

  At this comment, both boys began to laugh, and Johnny’s dark mood finally lightened.

  Throughout the evening, Johnny caught Marcia glancing at him curiously from across the room.

  “Why does she look at me like that?” he asked Peter, not once but several times.

  “I suppose she cannot get over the enormity of your blunder.”

  “Ha!” Johnny said. He had taken another glass of wine and was now in excellent humor. The next time Marcia glanced at him, he met her eyes and grinned, which made her look away.

  But at the end of the evening, Johnny saw Miss Burnes once more just as her family was leaving. She shot him an inquiring glance, tinged with something Johnny chose to interpret as regret.

  13

  A CEASELESS ARRAY OF ACTIVITIES LED UP to Christmas. There was a winter ball at a “nearby” plantation. It was ten miles of rough roads, and they were obliged to stop the night. There were shooting parties and bets upon quarter- or three-mile horse races at the Frays’ private racetrack. There were cockfights and countless foxhunts. These Peter participated in with great alacrity, urging Johnny to come along. “There is nothing to it,” he insisted. “Just keep your arse in the saddle.”

  Johnny had never ridden upon a saddle. “Mama would not be pleased to learn that I broke my neck chasing a fox,” he said to Fray. It seemed to Johnny that these Southerners liked nothing better than to risk life and limb and then return to the manor, where they festively celebrated their continued existence.

  “Well, suit yourself.” Peter shrugged. “But you’re missing a real thrill.” He had just turned to leave when Johnny touched his shoulder. “All right. I suppose I should see what all the fuss is about.”

  Peter grinned. “Well then, let’s go!” He wrapped an arm companionably about Johnny’s back.

  The race began upon a hill about a mile from the estate, where the hunt club had its meetinghouse and stables. An impressive crowd of men in red wool coats, reminding Johnny of British officers, adjusted their saddles and checked their bridles. A great joviality pervaded the crowd, and within the club, refreshments such as tea, cider, beer, and cakes were for the taking.

  Eventually the gentlemen mounted their horses. They readied themselves. A horn was sounded and the horses charged as if into battle. Twice Johnny nearly tumbled headfirst off his steed, having no experience of going so quickly, much less leaping across streams and fallen tree limbs.

  Mr. Fray’s hounds, imported from England, were sleek and fast, but the red fox was faster and got away. This secretly pleased Johnny, who could not bear to see any living thing killed.

  After the hunt, Peter could not stop laughing and patting him on the back. “That was close, my friend. Very close. But that’s the Southern way.”

  Johnny smiled. He had greatly enjoyed it.

  For near two weeks, Johnny spent his days abroad either hunting birds or chasing foxes. Then he retired within, accompanied by men of great good cheer. Frederick was particularly solicitous of Johnny’s well-being. He made certain Johnny’s saddle was tight beneath him and gave him advice on how to do better at the hunt. Once inside, Frederick was always the first to hand Johnny a warming toddy. And yet, there was something about Peter’s brother that Johnny did not quite like. Some self-satisfied air, as if he were besotted with pride of place. As if he believed he was very nearly lord of Moorcock Manor already.

  Gradually, Johnny began to understand the Southern way. Unlike the edgy bustle of the port cities, here, nothing moved quickly. The stone walls had not changed in generations; one bounded the brook as a boy of six and again as a man of sixty. Waking in the morning, Johnny thought, Time stands still. To live in this world is to live forever. At least he felt that it was so.

  Wi
thin the great house, the rituals were equally indolent: for hours they played cribbage, dice, or charades, accompanied by a cheering toddy or in singing carols around the pianoforte.

  And all about them, human shadows worked and worked and sacrificed themselves for their masters. Johnny managed to avoid them as best he could. But his indifference, he knew, was only skin-deep. He did not trust himself to keep his composure near them, so he stayed away. The only slave that Johnny found nearly impossible to ignore was Harriet. Mrs. Fray demanded the girl sleep on the floor in the hallway. How mortifying it must be to sleep like a dog by the mistress’s chamber door!

  Johnny had grown to like Harriet. She was bright and hardworking. He would have liked to speak to her, to ask her about her life at Moorcock. But to do so would be unthinkable. Once or twice he even approached her, but he saw the fear in her eyes at once and turned away. At such times, he felt such pain that he wanted to cry out, “But I’m not one of them! I’m not a white boy! I’m black, just like you.”

  The festivities reached their peak on Christmas Eve. A hog was slaughtered. A boar’s head dressed with bay leaves sat upon the table, as did a peacock, adorned with a headdress of its own feathers. There was carp tongue, roast goose, mince pies, and cakes of every kind. The weather was cold but clear, and Mr. Fray proposed another foxhunt. Peter accepted, but this time he could not persuade his friend to join them.

  “I think I’ll write some letters home,” Johnny said.

  “How very dull of you!” Peter exclaimed, and went off to prepare for the hunt.

  Within Johnny’s chamber, a fire was lit. He sat at his desk. Through the window he could see the hunting party heading off down the footpath to the lodge. He took a pen, opened a bottle of ink, and endeavored to write his mother.

  Dear Mama

  I find myself

  Johnny got no further. In truth, he didn’t know how he found himself. How could he describe the lavishness of daily life, the warmth of the hospitality, or the beauty of the surrounding countryside? New England had its charms, but it was nothing compared to this. Then, how could he describe how he felt about Harriet? Not what he saw in her but rather what she saw in him? Johnny’s pen dried as it remained poised above his paper.

  Finally he set the pen down. Writing was hopeless. In the chamber’s enrobing warmth Johnny grew drowsy and moved to his bed. He lay down for a brief moment and told himself he would doze for a few minutes. When he woke, he found himself in complete darkness. He rose, lit a candle, cleaned his teeth, dressed in his blue coat, and pomaded his hair. Then he descended with a long sigh.

  The guests had already arrived. They stood in groups, magnificently attired. The rooms’ windows, freshly washed, reflected the luxuriant fire’s red glow. All the mantels and newel posts were festooned with fresh green holly branches, and bunches of mistletoe hung in the doorways.

  For a brief moment, Johnny expected Miss Burnes to appear out of the crowd. But she did not. Instead, looking about, he saw Frederick, who stood among a group of other young men. When he saw Johnny, Fred smiled and winked conspiratorially.

  “Finally!” Peter swaggered up to him, a glass of rum punch, clearly not his first, in his hand. “What have you been up to?”

  “I fell asleep,” Johnny admitted.

  “Well, thankfully, you haven’t missed Jefferson.”

  “Jefferson? Where?”

  Peter placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders and turned him about. “Just there.” He pointed to the library on the other side of the hall. “He’s with Papa. Go and introduce yourself.”

  “Introduce myself? Not on your life.”

  “Oh, very well.” He sighed. “Come with me.” Peter linked arms with his friend and led him to the library.

  As a child, Johnny had imagined long conversations with Jefferson in which they discussed the new nation, states’ rights, and the Constitution. What would they discuss now, now that it was no dream? His heart pounded with anticipation.

  Within, the sound of voices was muted, as if the men discussed something of a sensitive nature. Hearing the boys approach, they fell silent. Johnny found himself standing before a very tall, slender man in his middle fifties. He had a full head of graying red hair. Careworn creases lined his long pale face.

  “Mr. Jefferson.” Peter bowed. “I’d like to introduce to you my good friend John Boylston. He rooms with me at school.”

  Johnny bowed deeply.

  “Mr. Boylston, is it?” Jefferson bowed in return. “That school you speak of—that’s over in Massachusetts, is it not?” His voice was remarkably soft, almost inaudible.

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “How do you enjoy it? The college, I mean?”

  “Very much, sir,” Peter replied for his friend. “Though it is very cold just now. We had a great storm last month. Nearly two feet of snow, I believe.”

  If Johnny had thought that Jefferson would launch upon a discourse concerning the French Revolution or Jay’s Treaty, he was to be disappointed. The weary man merely said, “I wonder if Mr. Adams had more luck with his wheat this year than I did.”

  “Let’s hope not, sir!” replied Peter, and they both laughed.

  Johnny bowed and left the library. Mr. Jefferson sent him a bemused smile as he returned to his conversation with Mr. Fray.

  “You were very dull,” Peter said once they had met up in the hall.

  “I know,” said Johnny. “I couldn’t manage a single syllable.”

  The rest of the evening passed in singing carols, making toasts to health, and lively conversation. But Johnny continued to brood upon all the things he might have said to Mr. Jefferson, and all the things he dared not say.

  Late that night, he awoke with a start from a deep slumber. He had drunk two glasses of wine and a cup of punch as well. He thought he had heard a noise, though at the moment there was only silence. Johnny lit a candle, rose from his bed, and crept down to the place where Harriet slept. Her thin pallet and bedding were there, but the girl herself was not. Had Mrs. Fray sent her on an errand in the dead of night? It seemed unlikely.

  Johnny retrieved his dressing gown and began to wander through the house, listening, ears keen. The hall below was silent. Beyond the windows, trees swayed in the moonlight. The moon was full, or nearly so. Johnny passed Mr. Fray’s library and approached a green baize door. He heard nothing there, either, and nearly turned back. Then he made the decision to head to the kitchen. It was in a separate building, at the end of a long covered passageway.

  Moving through the passageway, Johnny thought he heard a rustling sound as he approached the kitchen door. He opened it. Through the windows, bright moonlight shone upon the naked globes of a man’s buttocks.

  The man’s trousers were pulled down to his ankles; his boots were still on. Beneath him was Harriet. Her gown had been hitched up to her waist. Her bare legs were splayed, and her body had gone limp as a rag doll. Her face was turned to the side, and her closed eyes leaked two steady streams of tears. But not a single sound came from her.

  Hearing the door creak, the man turned and stopped his motions upon the girl.

  “Bloody hell—who’s there?”

  It was Frederick. Johnny propelled himself into the kitchen but then just stood there, not two feet from Frederick.

  “Oh, it’s only you. Thank goodness. Go back to bed. If you’re hungry, you may ring your chamber bell, and another servant will bring you something.” Frederick lifted himself off the girl with a grunt and descended the table.

  Johnny made no reply. He cast a final, pitying look at the girl, who sat up and tugged her petticoat down over her legs, and then fled the scene.

  He stood in the middle of his chamber, breathing hard, heart pounding. The way she had looked at him! Her look displayed no relief at Johnny’s appearance, no sense of having been rescued by a good and noble man. It said only, Oh, God, another one. Johnny thought he would never get those frightened eyes out of his mind as long as he lived.
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br />   Suddenly his stomach heaved, and with a loud, involuntary groan, he ran to the washbowl in time to hurl his sweet supper into it. He took the dirty bowl and pitcher of water and crept down the back stairs. He didn’t want anyone knowing he’d been sick. He was able to exit by a back door, toss the bowl’s foul contents, rinse it, and return to his chamber.

  For the rest of the night, Johnny paced his room in a torment of indecision. Finally, after the sun had risen, he sought out Peter. His friend was enjoying breakfast at the dining table in the hall. Frederick, mercifully, was not present. Johnny had little appetite, but he took coffee and a sweet roll, alert and on edge, expecting Fred to enter at any moment.

  “How’d you sleep, old mole?” Peter asked. “The sun shines—we should go for a ride.”

  “I didn’t sleep. Or hardly.”

  “Why on earth not? Surely the bed is comfortable?”

  Johnny nodded. Then he leaned across the table and whispered to his friend, “I must speak to you.”

  “About what?” Peter’s pale eyes flinched. He disliked it when Johnny was intense about things.

  Johnny leaned into him. “About your brother.”

  “Ah.” Peter nodded. “I suspect I know the subject. Does he keep you awake with his amours?”

  “Amours, you call them? I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “Saw what?”

  Johnny inhaled, then let it out. “It was—beastly.”

  But instead of being shocked, Peter let out an amused laugh. “Serves you right for snooping about at that time of night!”

  Then, reluctantly, Johnny remembered his solemn promise to his family.

  “I’m sorry to bother you with it. It’s just—their footsteps woke me.”

  “Oh.” Peter smiled. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll tell him to be quieter next time.”

  Peter and his family went off to church, but Johnny said he was indisposed and remained behind. For a few moments after they had left, he just stood there, unsure of what to do. His agitation grew the more he endeavored to suppress it. Finally, he retrieved his coat and stepped abroad. For nearly an hour, he wandered the estate, making his way through the beautiful arbors and down to the slave quarters. As he passed the rough, floorless huts, he held his shoulders high, as he’d been taught to do. But a cry threatened in his throat as eyes stared out at him from the huts’ dark interiors. Before one of them, two small children in dirty white blouses stood holding hands. It was cold enough for Johnny to see his breath, but the children wore no more than the blouses. They watched him pass them by. Suddenly, Johnny turned back and moved toward them, bent on asking them their names. But at the sight of him approaching, they shrieked and scurried back into their noisome dwelling. Johnny made his way back to Moorcock in a state of great confusion.