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

by Jodi Daynard

  “Anything, sir.”

  “Keep those excellent eyes and ears of yours open.”

  “Of course, sir. I will.”

  “No doubt.” Adams patted Johnny on the shoulder. Then he leaned on it to stand up. “C’mon. Let’s go tackle that hill.”

  That afternoon, Johnny helped to move the dirt up the hill. Then, returning late in the afternoon as the light declined upon the water, he played with the children. He watched the canvas sails turn shades of yellow and orange.

  Oh, gossamer summer days! Knowing they would soon end, Johnny loved them all the more.

  His departure for Baltimore had been set for Monday, August 21. Just as he was enjoying his last Sunday dinner with the family and the Adamses, a messenger rode up to the cottage.

  “It’s from Kate,” Lizzie said.

  “What does it say?” Eliza asked.

  Lizzie smiled reassuringly. “She wishes to say good-bye to Johnny. She arrives this evening.”

  Eliza turned to her son and gave him such a mournful look that he was prompted to ask, “Why do you look at me so, Mama? Are you not glad I go to make my mark? Was that not the purpose of our voyage?”

  “Yes, of course. Only, I wonder: Would it not have been better to remain at Harvard another year? I fear the cities are dangerous at the moment, even Baltimore.”

  Johnny replied with some heat, “Surely you cannot wish me to remain here forever, Mama? To remain a child in the playground of Harvard Yard?”

  “No, I—”

  “Only think of it. I shall be out in the world at last, free! Surely you must know that a man can’t be satisfied with mere talk all his life. There must be action as well.”

  “I want you to be safe, my love. The shadows may be dull, but one sees not so well in them. You have more to hide than most, remember.”

  “Remember?” Johnny erupted. “Remember? How could I forget?” He slammed his hand down upon the kitchen table, startling Eliza enough so that she backed away from him. Lizzie turned from her dishes to stare at Johnny. Thankfully, the children had gone abroad, although Thomas, who sat building a model ship in the parlor, heard them. He set down his work to listen.

  “My dark secret. I’m so tired of it! I’ve a mind to shout it from the rooftops. Oh, let them know! Am I not still myself, this John Boylston everyone praises? Is not John Watson the very same being as John Boylston?”

  His mother’s eyes were wet with tears. When he saw them, his remorse was swift. “Mama, I didn’t mean—”

  Eliza was undaunted. She grasped her son’s hands fiercely. “I know something of this place, Johnny. More than something. If you’re found out, no one will care who you are.”

  Johnny’s anger was spent, and he remarked wearily, “I’ll try, Mama. I have tried and shall continue to do so.”

  “And I’m proud of you. But promise me you shall take care. Promise.” She stared into his eyes.

  Johnny sighed. “I promise.” Suddenly he cocked his head and smiled: “I hear a voice.”

  “Whose, pray?”

  “Eliot’s.”

  “Oh?” Eliza smirked. “What does he say?”

  “He scolds me for tormenting you so.”

  “You don’t torment me. This conversation was inevitable, and I’m glad we had it.” Eliza rose from the table. “Now, go pack.”

  Johnny went off to finish packing, sheepish and remorseful. Ten minutes later, he heard the snorting of horses released from their harnesses. There was a rap upon the door, and Kate entered without ceremony, followed by her mother.

  Johnny thought that Kate looked flushed from the carriage ride; her hair had come partly out of its pins and tumbled down her back. Her step was lively, and she seemed filled with an almost effusive good cheer.

  Lizzie prepared them all some tea and served it in the parlor.

  “How long shall your journey take?” Kate asked as she sipped her tea.

  “A week or so, if the roads are good.”

  All at once an unsavory vision rose up before Kate’s eyes, one she hadn’t previously considered. She saw Johnny at a provincial ball, where half a dozen beautiful Southern girls flocked about him like bees to honey.

  “Kate?” he questioned, seeing her face sink. Just then, the church bell rang out nine o’clock.

  “Oh, but regard the time!” she cried. “I must let you get ready. I know you leave for Boston this evening. Mama told me.”

  “Yes.” Johnny stood up and moved over to her. The women scurried into the kitchen with the dishes to give them privacy. “Do not fear, Kate. I shall write so often that you will look upon yet another letter from me with disgust.”

  “Never.”

  Johnny turned away, and Kate had taken several steps toward the kitchen. Then, just as she thought she had broken free, she felt a stab in the heart that made her fling decorum to the winds.

  “Oh, Johnny!” she cried and ran back to embrace him. He hugged her hard, lifting her off the floor. Then Kate ran off to join her mother before Johnny could see her tears.

  30

  HE LEFT AT TEN THIRTY THAT EVENING to catch the post coach from Boston, which would set off at two in the morning. He didn’t relish the thought of traveling with strangers, of having to converse with them. He wished to be alone with his thoughts. The outburst at his mother still troubled him; and he was not entirely satisfied with the way he had left things with Kate.

  The coach was not as uncomfortable as he had anticipated. It had springs, and the weather was dry. They reached Weston late that morning and stopped at a fine tavern. There, they were able to rest and take some refreshment. They arrived in Worcester that evening, where they stopped the night, setting off very early the following morning for Springfield.

  On and on they rode, through Springfield and moving south on the post road until they reached Poughkeepsie, where they crossed the North River by means of a ferry.

  The country was varied and beautiful. In one place, they were surrounded by forest; in another, they crossed a river. A third road gave them a breathtaking view of late-summer hills and rolling pastureland. But even such wonder and admiration were supplanted by Johnny’s eagerness to get to Baltimore.

  They stopped the night in New York and moved on toward Philadelphia the next morning. Skirting around the city the following day, Johnny and the other passengers saw a great number of tents housing refugees. His companions turned their faces away, as if somehow the wind might blow the contagion toward them.

  They passed through Wilmington, which granted Johnny a fine view of the countryside and the Delaware River. Finally, on August 28, they arrived at the outskirts of Baltimore.

  The city was built upon a hill descending to the Patapsco River. Looking down upon it, Johnny thought it quite beautiful. Some of the area was marshland, which, from a distance, looked nearly primordial in its pristine isolation.

  The carriage came to a stop just past a large farm, and Johnny soon found himself on a narrow street with newly built brick row houses standing beside older timber-framed ones. He alighted at last before one of the row houses and waved good-bye to his traveling companions. A harried-looking woman of middle age came out to greet him. She wiped her brow with a sleeve and palmed his letter of introduction.

  “Come on, then,” she said, leading Johnny to the rear of the house. In the backyard stood a stone outbuilding, which might once have been a smokehouse or kitchen.

  “Dinner’s at two sharp,” said his new landlady. She then left him to get on with her chores. “Oh, and there’s a message for you, from a Mr. Martin.” She left and returned a moment later with a folded paper, which he opened at once:

  Dear Mr. Boylston

  As it happens, I am having a little soiree on the night of August 28th, at 6 o’clock. If you arrive in time, please honor us with your attendance.

  Yours sincerely, L. M., Esq.

  Johnny tucked the letter into his waistcoat pocket and entered the hovel. As he looked about, his spirits sank.
A low cot stood in the far corner of the room, and a desk stood opposite. It was a dark, close chamber, with but one grimy window that let in scant light. Johnny looked through it and calculated that, once cleaned, the window might let in a single ray of light between roughly three and three forty-five in the afternoon.

  It would not do.

  He needed little else, but Johnny could not live without light to read by. It would take wealth such as he did not possess to “make night, the day,” as Homer said. Or, in this case, to make day the day. He dreaded complaining to Mr. Martin, but that is what he resolved to do. Not that night, of course, but within the week certainly.

  Not bothering to unpack, Johnny went around to his landlady to ask for a bowl and pitcher. He was hot and dirty, and he needed to bathe before presenting himself to Mr. Martin.

  It was now near two. The landlady, who called herself Mrs. Jennings, was apparently overwhelmed by dinner preparations for her several lodgers. But eventually she appeared with the requested items. Johnny bathed himself and then lay down upon the cot, forgoing dinner. At once, a large bug, disturbed after a long and entitled residence, crawled skittishly out. Johnny swore and leapt from the bed.

  He found a bolster and laid it upon the mattress, stretched out on it with his feet sticking off the edge, and fell asleep. He awoke with a start sometime later, the room several shades darker than it had been. Johnny moved to the window and peered down at his watch: half past five!

  He had brought a single good suit, which he now donned. It was abysmally creased, but Johnny did his best to smooth out the wrinkles. He rubbed a bit of pomade into his hair, suddenly wishing he had a looking glass. He rarely bothered to observe himself in this manner, but for some reason, on this occasion he wished to make a good impression.

  Had Kate been there, she would have said he already did.

  The attorney’s stately home stood on the road to Philadelphia, just across from a large new hospital. It was precisely six when Johnny arrived. He cursed himself for having to always be on time. It was awkward to be the very first to arrive at a social gathering. He decided to wait ten minutes before presenting himself.

  Johnny strode down the block, observing the solid-brick row houses in the golden light. It was still quite hot. Feeling absurd and directionless, he sat impatiently for five minutes on the courthouse steps. This was a bizarre building. It seemed to be constructed on a pair of arches or stilts, allowing passage on the road below. But the view from behind it gave out upon beautiful rolling hills.

  Johnny stood up and strolled back to Mr. Martin’s house. He hesitated another few minutes on the stoop and finally knocked. A thin man of about fifty with a full gray head of hair answered. He looked at Johnny uncomprehendingly. Then he broke into an affable grin.

  “Why, John Boylston, is it? Come in, come in. I’ve just sent the butler off on an errand.”

  Johnny followed as Mr. Martin led him up a flight of steps and into a capacious, well-appointed parlor. Everywhere Johnny looked there stood a sofa, or settee, or vase with fragrant flowers. How lavish it is, Johnny thought, compared to the stark New England parlor.

  Mr. Martin was saying to him, “My daughters are here and a good friend. The rest of our party is not yet arrived. How was your journey? Not too tedious, I hope. The roads, I hear, are much improved from what they were—”

  Johnny did not reply. For, at the end of the room, staring directly at him, stood Marcia Burnes.

  Part III

  31

  JOHNNY MUMBLED SOMETHING APPROPRIATE, HE HOPED, TO Mr. Martin. He might have smiled, although at what words he knew not. Then he approached Miss Burnes, who curtsied.

  She was as he remembered her: not tall, but with a proud bearing, her small shoulders rolled back and her long neck arching gracefully upward. Her face was still heart-shaped, and there was still a dimple in her chin. Her emerald eyes had that same ironic, bemused air that he found so confusing. She had gained flesh, but if anything, this made her appear more womanly.

  After a long pause, Mr. Martin cried, “Oh, forgive me! Miss Burnes, this is Mr. Boylston. He is just arrived from—”

  “We are already acquainted, thank you, Mr. Martin.” She smiled.

  “Oh, I see. Excellent!”

  “Mr. Boylston and I met several years ago, at the home of a mutual acquaintance. It was . . .”

  Miss Burnes paused to reflect when John said, “December 19, 1774, at approximately ten in the evening.”

  “Capital!” said Mr. Martin. “That’s one less introduction I need to make this evening. Do allow me to present my daughters.”

  Johnny had no opportunity to ask Miss Burnes—or was she a Mrs. now?—what she did in Baltimore at this very house, because at that moment, identical twin girls approached and flanked her much as two dull stones might flank a diamond.

  A sudden knocking below startled Mr. Martin into action. He flew on bowed legs across the parlor and down the stairs.

  Between Rosa and Claire, as they were called, he could perceive no great difference. They were vivacious, bright girls who smiled most of the time. They had the same light-brown hair pulled into buns, the same receding chins, the same watery blue eyes. They were of identical height and build. Claire had a slightly longer neck, perhaps, but that may have been the effect of her gown’s having a lower-cut bodice than her sister’s. Fortunately these gowns were different colors, which was how Johnny would distinguish them for the rest of the evening.

  “Your papa seems most affable,” Johnny spoke at last.

  “Our dear papa is kindness itself,” said Rosa (blue gown), “but you will find him slightly—”

  “Distractible,” finished Claire (rose gown).

  “Yes, a most excellent attorney but a rather pitiable—”

  “—secretary.”

  They both laughed their identical laughs.

  “But I suppose that’s where you come in?” Rosa glanced up at Johnny and blushed.

  “Secretary?” Johnny frowned. “Nay. Or, well, perhaps in part. I’m here to learn the practice of law.” Johnny’s words came out sounding more self-important than he’d intended.

  “The practice of copying, I should say,” joked Claire. “And I’m afraid you shall first have to find things before you copy them.”

  “You exaggerate, surely.”

  They began to giggle, but then someone entered whom the sisters felt obliged to greet, and Johnny was left alone with Miss Burnes. She led him to a table where he could take a glass of wine, but he shook his head. “I don’t usually drink.”

  “Oh?” She looked surprised.

  “I never acquired a taste for it. Besides,” he said, and glanced down at his feet, blushing, “the world as it is renders me quite delirious enough at times.”

  Miss Burnes merely laughed. It was an easy, pleasing sound. “You’re lucky. Many men waste their fortunes on the stuff.”

  “But what do you do here, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”

  “Oh, of course. I suddenly realize my presence here must shock you.”

  “It does, a little,” he admitted.

  “Then allow me to explain. Last year, Claire and Rosa became good friends when we all attended Madame Latrobe’s School for Ladies, in George Town.”

  Miss Burnes glanced at Johnny and continued, “We shared similar circumstances, being raised by our fathers, and our mothers having died when we were very young. I hardly remember my poor mama. Anyway, when they left, I felt so lonely, and I told them as much in my letters. They insisted I come stay with them. Papa refused at first, but I wore his objections down.”

  “Ah,” said Johnny. That explained the matter sufficiently. But it didn’t make him any less confused.

  “And what do you do here? At Mr. Martin’s, that is?” Miss Burnes asked.

  “I was meant to be in Philadelphia, actually. But when news reached us of the fever, I”—here, Johnny hesitated, wondering whether he should mention Mr. Adams—“I procured a different posit
ion. Somewhere safer.”

  “Yes, I hear it’s very bad there just now. But you know,” she lowered her voice. “My own poor brother died of a fever just here in Baltimore two years ago.”

  “Yellow fever?” Johnny asked, uneasily.

  “No. Potomac fever. I believe they call it typhus elsewhere.” Miss Burnes returned to the subject of their reunion. “Uncanny, is it not?”

  “Yes.” Johnny blushed. “I thought—I thought I’d never see you again.”

  Miss Burnes grinned. “So you did think of me.”

  “Well, I—”

  “That’s all right.” Her green eyes were warm when she moved closer to Johnny and whispered, “I thought of you, too. I thought I should never see you again. It made me sad.”

  He did not reply for some time but, seeing her take a sip from her glass, finally managed, “How’s your wine?”

  Miss Burnes giggled, sending the wine splattering directly upon Johnny’s blue waistcoat.

  “Oh, God!” She put her hand to her face. “I’m terribly sorry. Do let me call a servant. How awful!”

  But Johnny looked down upon his now burgundy-spotted waistcoat and began to laugh. “Nay, never mind. I care nothing about it.”

  “You shall do, when the other guests think you a leper.”

  It wasn’t true. Johnny easily forgot all about the dark stains on his waistcoat. Indeed, for the rest of the evening he noticed only the person who remained in the periphery of his vision, even as he spoke to the jovial Mr. Martin or his twin daughters. Always, when their eyes met, he saw that slightly bemused look, as if they both knew something others did not.

  But Johnny had traveled all day, and by nine in the evening he was tired. He took his leave of Mr. Martin with a deep bow. Mr. Martin said, “Well, lad, stop by tomorrow morning bright and early. Say half past eight? There will be a great deal for you to do. You know where to find my offices?”

  “On Charles Street, at the cross of Baltimore.”

  “Just so.”