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

by Jodi Daynard

  “What’s the heavenly creature called?”

  “Marcia. Marcia Burnes. She is entirely beyond my reach, though.”

  Johnny recalled Miss Burnes’s parting glance at him. Then he sighed.

  “John.” Eliot suddenly yawned. “I grow tired . . .”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon!” Johnny stood up. “I shall take my leave.”

  “Nonsense.” Eliot lay back on his bed and indicated the other bed with a bony white finger. Then he stretched out and shut his eyes. “I meant simply that when I tire, I lose my breath. But I wish to listen. Tell me all about Barbados. Give me the grand tour.”

  “Very well.” Johnny hopped onto the second bed and stretched out comfortably, his arms folded upon a pillow beneath his head. “I shall begin with the topography. Imagine mountains rising up from the bluest, clearest water you’ve ever seen . . .”

  “Blue, clear . . . mountains.” Eliot yawned again.

  Johnny went on to describe the rolling hills, gentle by Carlisle Bay but becoming more dramatic as one traveled north. He spoke of the water, so clear one had only to look down to see the red and yellow fish and winnowing blue barracudas. He told of the merchant ships, large and small, and the neat rows of British soldiers enacting military exercises upon the parade by the garrison, and the green monkeys that flew through the branches of the trees, crying over their perceived losses. Johnny mimicked the deep drumming sound of the slaves on their Coromantee drums. There he stopped.

  “Why do you stop, John? Your descriptions are excellent. But you’ve not said a word about your family. You make it sound as if you were shipwrecked upon that island. Where are the people?”

  Johnny realized he could not continue without peril of revealing himself. “I probably should return to my chamber before I’m fined for my absence,” Johnny said.

  Eliot sat up. “What are you hiding, John? You’re hiding something. I can always tell these things.”

  The boy’s tone was teasing and Johnny smiled. Then he proffered his hand, which Eliot grasped with unexpected strength.

  Johnny said, “I’m glad I thought to sit by you today.”

  They began meeting in Eliot’s room after supper. At first, they mainly discussed books, and Johnny was careful to come prepared. Eliot tempered his searing insights with bursts of humor. Sometimes Johnny sang Barbadian songs, ones Cassie had sung to him as a child:

  Aunt Nancy, open da door

  Pater want de sarsop soup.

  Aunt Nancy, open da door

  Then, one evening, making certain that the door to Eliot’s chamber was firmly closed, Johnny danced for his new friend. It was a gyrating African dance the slaves always performed at Crop Over. Seeing Johnny dance in such a scandalous manner, Eliot’s eyes fairly started from his head. He cried, “Stop. Stop at once or I shall have to call the constable!”

  But then Eliot rose from his bed and tried to copy Johnny’s movements, until they fell down laughing.

  Some nights, the conversations grew serious. On one such night, Eliot turned to Johnny and asked, “Johnny, may I ask you a question?”

  “You may ask,” replied Johnny.

  “What do you most fear?”

  Johnny thought about this. “I fear . . . to leave no mark upon this earth. To come and go as if I never were. I’m very—ambitious,” Johnny admitted.

  Eliot was silent, waiting for Johnny to continue.

  Johnny went on, “My beloved papa was a good man. But he was barely literate. He knew nothing of government, or the Constitution, or the law.” Johnny suddenly felt ashamed at his own words.

  Eliot nodded his understanding. “You wish to be a great man. Like your heroes Adams and Jefferson.”

  Johnny looked down at his feet. “You mock me.”

  “Not at all.”

  Eliot recited:

  God doth not need

  Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best

  Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state

  Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

  And post o’er land and ocean without rest;

  They also serve who only stand and wait.

  “Milton?” Johnny asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a beautiful poem. But I can’t see how it relates to me.”

  “I feel it does—or shall. Be patient.”

  Johnny was not sure that he understood what Eliot meant. But instead of inquiring, he asked, “And what is your worst fear? Is it—illness?”

  Eliot smiled. “Illness? You mean death, perhaps, for I’m already ill. No. The truth is, I fear going to my maker without having been truly loved.”

  It was the saddest statement Johnny had ever heard. He was about to object that surely Eliot was loved, when his friend said, hands and eyes raised in supplication, “Yes, loved with the kind of burning passion such as yours for Miss Burnes!”

  “Oh, you die!” Johnny grabbed his pillow and threw it at his friend. There ensued a happy pillow fight, bird feathers flying about the room like snow.

  As winter deepened, it became a challenge to keep fires going and candles lit. One snowy night in mid-January, as the two boys were locked in conversation in Eliot’s chamber, Johnny realized that the coals had long since burned out. It was freezing. They both lay in bed fully clothed, in their coats and hats and mitts. They saw their breath float like puffs of smoke in the air.

  It was too late to fetch more coals from the buttery, and this thought led Johnny to another.

  “You know, Eliot, I have a cousin of sorts who lives nearby who would greatly enjoy our conversations.”

  “Invite him—do,” Eliot replied. “But only if he can keep up with us and has a warm coat.”

  “She’s a girl, and I’d rather invite ourselves there, as she lives in a fine, warm house.”

  “A girl?” Eliot looked at his friend with narrowed eyes.

  “Oh, it’s not like that.” Johnny shook his head. “You’ll see.” Johnny promised he would discuss it with “the girl” the following day.

  “A club?” Kate cried when Johnny had proposed it to her the following morning. “And I a member?”

  “The other member is—singular,” Johnny warned.

  “How so?” Kate looked warily at Johnny.

  “Oh, nothing untoward. He’s a dear boy, really, and so funny he will have you on the floor. But—he’s ill, Kate, a case of consumption. Though I’ve known him but a few weeks, I’ve already had the most amazing conversations with him. He’s shunned by all the thick-headed college boys, naturally. But I think you will love him. If your mother agrees, I shall fly back to Eliot with the happy news.”

  Kate was not convinced, either then or when she first set her weak eyes upon the creature. When Eliot entered the foyer of the Lees’ home, Kate saw a boy in a scandalously newfangled high hat and carrying a walking stick. He appeared to be a cross between a stork and a dandy. Seeing Kate for the first time, Eliot dropped the stick to the floor and extended his hands out from his body.

  “This must be the extraordinary Katherine Lee.” Eliot fell to one knee and tipped his hat to her.

  “Why, he’s mad as a hatter!” Kate exclaimed to Johnny.

  15

  THEY CALLED THEIR CLUB THE SLOTTED SPOON Society. It was a merciless reference to the intellectual dregs that Eliot and John believed floated atop the Harvard punch bowl. Their mission, they agreed, was to remove the dregs and savor the pure elixir of fine thought. They would discuss a different book each week; it was to be a very serious club. But each time one of them mentioned its name, they all burst out laughing.

  Some days, and at certain angles, Johnny thought Miss Lee very comely despite her spectacles and carelessly pinned hair. But then, back in his cold chamber, as he lay alone on his cot, that lurid Virginia world returned to him, and he imagined Marcia Burnes’s smile, her amused green eyes, and other attributes he dared not enumerate.

  It was now February, and Peter had not yet returned. John
ny began to wonder what delayed him. Part of him hoped he would never see the boy again.

  Then on a fair day in March, when the emboldened sun finally began to melt the mounds of dirty snow, Kate, Eliot, and Johnny gathered in Harry’s study to discuss their latest topic. Eliot reclined upon a red damask sofa, while Kate and Johnny sat in two Puritanically rigid slat-back chairs. They looked at Eliot enviously.

  He knew their thoughts. “Well, when you are dying, my lovelies, I’m certain your children shall let you have the sofa. But it’s my turn now.”

  Kate blushed, but Johnny frowned and said, “You’re not dying, Eliot.”

  “Not today,” Eliot agreed.

  “All right, friends,” Johnny began. “Let us come to order.”

  Kate’s eyes were bright; she clasped her hands together in anticipation.

  “The topic I put before us today is, ‘Whether a community can, in any sense, be justified in giving up one of its innocent members to death for the public good.’”

  “What a gloomy question!” Kate cried. “I don’t like it.”

  “It is a most excellent question,” Eliot rejoindered, “of obvious theological as well as philosophical import.” Just then, Aunt Martha stepped into the room. She always took a lively interest in their group, though was careful not to get in their way. Sometimes, after offering them tea and cakes, she remained to listen in silence.

  “What is it you discuss?” she asked. Kate, her face stony, made no reply. It was Eliot who repeated the question.

  “I see,” Martha answered thoughtfully. “And what is your opinion?”

  “We’ve not yet begun to discuss it. Would you like to join us?” Eliot asked.

  “Yes, do you have an opinion to share, Aunt Martha?” Johnny added.

  She nodded.

  “Mama,” Kate sighed, as if she would prevent her mother from speaking.

  “I should like to hear her opinion, Cousin,” objected Johnny. “Surely it cannot influence our discussion in any great way?”

  Martha Lee said, “Convictions change, Johnny. I know mine did.”

  Poor Kate squirmed in her chair, but Johnny, eager for an explanation, urged Aunt Martha to continue. All his life Johnny had heard whispered intimations about his aunt—everything from her having been a spy for George Washington to having killed a man. Perhaps she would reveal her secret now.

  “Mrs. Lee,” Johnny pronounced formally. “On the topic of whether a community can, in any sense, be justified in giving up one of its innocent members to death for the public good, what say you?”

  Mrs. Lee slowly shook her head. “I used to believe that ends justified means. But it led me to into a dark cul-de-sac, Johnny, and I realized my mistake too late. Harry and I—well, we atoned together.” She did not explain what she meant, but merely added, “Did Christ not say that even the worst sinner may be saved?”

  Kate’s cheeks reddened, and Aunt Martha concluded, “I shall leave the rest for you young people to decide. It is a truism that each generation needs to make its own mistakes. But by my daughter’s looks, I’ve intruded quite enough. I shall tell Bessie to bring you some tea.”

  Aunt Martha curtsied then and left the room.

  “What an extraordinary woman,” said Eliot. “Do you have an idea what she’s talking about?”

  “Not at all,” Johnny replied.

  Johnny stared at Kate, looking for an answer. But Kate burst into tears and ran from the room.

  Johnny rose. “I shall go after her.”

  He caught up with Kate in the hall.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, once they had returned to the study. “It’s not something we often discuss. She—no one knows save our family and the Adamses. But Mama—something happened during the war. The younger ones know nothing of it and must never know.”

  Eliot inhaled. “Did she kill someone?”

  “Eliot!” Johnny cried.

  Kate nodded slightly, and the boys’ eyes widened.

  “Is that why she’s now a Quaker? Mama told me she had converted.”

  But Kate did not answer. She said, “Please, no more. Another time, perhaps.”

  The atmosphere in the room became awkward. Then a wicked gleam appeared in Eliot’s eyes.

  “We-ell,” he drawled. “Johnny, I suggest, since Kate shared something of a very intimate nature, that we do the same. In solidarity, as it were. We may think of it as our little society’s blood oath.”

  “That’s not necessary.” Kate frowned.

  “I’ll go first.” Eliot ignored Kate’s objection. He inhaled deeply, then let it out. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, I must admit to preferring the company of men to that of women, apart from my dear Kate here.”

  The friends knew at once what he meant but would never breathe their acknowledgment of it. They sealed their oath of silence by a solemn nodding of heads, which had the additional benefit of concealing their embarrassment. Finally, Eliot and Kate turned to Johnny.

  “What could you possibly have to share with us?” Kate asked.

  Johnny glanced at her, then took a deep breath. His mother would be horrified, but it was the only secret he had to share.

  “I’m black,” he said.

  16

  “WHAT STRANGE GAME IS THIS?” OBJECTED KATE, rising to her feet. “You are both merely trying to distract me from my own troubles. It’s very sweet of you, really, but—”

  “It’s no game,” Johnny assured her. “Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it. Oh, you can have no idea of my relief in doing so!”

  “Tell us absolutely everything,” Eliot said, eyes shining.

  “My father, as your own parents will attest, was a slave for the first twenty-six years of his life. A most excellent man he was, a shipwright at Colonel Langdon’s yard in Portsmouth, a great aid to the Rebels during the war, and yes, Mama’s lover.”

  “Mrs. Boylston? You can’t be speaking the truth.” Kate had met the tall, fair, imperious woman twice now. While personable, Eliza Boylston retained the superior and standoffish air of a wealthy merchant’s daughter.

  But Johnny confirmed it with a nod. “They were very happy together,” he said, “when they finally could be. Not here, of course. In Barbados.”

  “But you were born here.” Kate suddenly realized the significance of Johnny’s admission and cried, “Oh, goodness!” Then she blushed.

  “He’s a bastard,” Eliot affirmed rather too gleefully.

  “Well, my parents were married on the ship that left America,” Johnny said.

  Johnny went on to recount his mother’s story: her life as a spoiled girl who lived just up the road from where they now sat, and the terrible death of her brother Jeb at the battle of Breed’s Hill.

  Kate and Eliot hardly breathed. Johnny went on, “After Jeb’s death, my family fled to Portsmouth, where they remained for three years. Soon after their arrival, Mama, nearly dead with grief, became drawn to John Watkins, her uncle’s slave. He was an able shipwright hired out to Colonel Langdon at his shipyard on Badger’s Island. Papa was rather fair-skinned. His own father was a white man. Anyway, they fell in love, although I believe they tried hard to break it off. When Mama came to be with child, Grand-mama’s rejection was total. Only her papa eventually forgave her before his death. Then Tom Miller, Aunt Martha’s brother, brought her to Quincy, where Lizzie and my Aunt Martha delivered her of a child. Me, that is. The rest I believe you know.”

  When Johnny had finished his story, his friends were quiet for a moment. Finally, Kate asked, “Who else knows?”

  “The Adamses. Your parents. The Millers. And now you. It must remain our secret.”

  “Obviously,” said Eliot. Then he clasped his hands together in triumph. “Oh, but I knew it!”

  “You did not.” Johnny frowned.

  “I knew there was something. All those Barbadian songs and dances—”

  “Dances?” Kate asked.

  “You must ask him to show you sometime.”

  J
ohnny blushed. “Never,” he said.

  Just then, Bessie brought in their tea, and the gathering fell silent. She looked at the three friends with suspicion, as if they were up to no good. Once Bessie had left and they’d finished their refreshments, they spoke earnestly, as friends. Eliot spoke of having always felt different, of being shunned and ridiculed by other boys.

  Johnny shared his experience of Virginia, of how helpless he’d felt pretending indifference to the suffering he witnessed. He did not mention Harriet’s rape in front of Kate. But he did tell his friends about the seduction of that place, the timeless feel of the hills and stone walls, and the brooks wending through grassy pastures, of waking up in his chamber imbued with a precious sense of privilege. Most of all, he endeavored to express how he felt when he woke up in the morning surrounded by such beauty and comfort, and that very nearly made him wish he were a Southern white boy.

  Johnny concluded sadly, “There was much I loved about the place.”

  “Well, who wouldn’t?” Eliot said.

  “Sounds like heaven itself,” Kate added. “Apart from slavery.”

  They soon said their good-byes, agreeing to read Plato’s Symposium for the following meeting. What no one except Kate knew was that, while she had shared her mother’s secret, she had not shared her own.

  That she had loved Johnny Boylston—Watkins, she now knew—almost from first sight had, for a long time, been an undeniable fact of her young existence. She loved his kinky hair and warri beads and even that vulgar ruby pinkie ring he insisted upon wearing. Or rather, the way he wore it so unapologetically until they forced him to remove it. She had not needed him to be handsome, but that he was, was no great demerit. Nor had she needed him to transcribe Common Sense from memory to appreciate his profound intellectual gifts.

  But the revelation of Johnny’s astonishing secret, that his father had once been a slave, and that he himself was perforce black—a “quadroon,” some called it—illuminated her own feelings. Not because of what he had said, or even because of how proud she was of him, to always carry such a heavy burden, but because of how her own heart responded to this news. It beat on steadily, moved neither by revulsion nor fear.