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

by Jodi Daynard

“I’ll see you out,” said Miss Burnes, who had come up behind him. As they walked down the steps, she asked, “And your lodgings, are they acceptable?”

  “Abysmal.” He laughed. “But fortunately not far. I was thinking of speaking to Mr. Martin, actually, in a few days’ time.”

  “Really? What mean you?” Miss Burnes looked concerned.

  “I have no wish to complain, but it’s a dark hole. I believe it was once an old smokehouse, and has but one grimy window. I don’t know how I shall see to study. All the lamps in the world will not brighten it.”

  “That won’t do!” said Miss Burnes, and Johnny found even her pouty frown charming. “I must satisfy myself that you do not exaggerate.”

  “I never exaggerate.”

  “How do I know that this itself is not an exaggeration?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Well, then, I shall come around tomorrow, before dinner, to satisfy myself on this point. They do at least feed you, where you are?”

  “In theory. We shall see what is meant by that tomorrow. I expect it shall be a dog’s portion.”

  “Well, then, ’til noon. Where are you being smoked, by the way?”

  “Gay Street, off of Pratt. A brick row house with a blue door, in a warren of similar houses.”

  “Until tomorrow, then. At your lodgings.” She curtsied, glanced at his stained waistcoat, and fled up the stairs before she could laugh again.

  Johnny knew not how he found his way back to his lodgings. It was a moonless night, and his thoughts whirled like leaves in a storm, driving his body will-he-nill-he through the darkness. Marcia Burnes! He had seen no husband; she had said something about spending a few months with her friends. He had hardly listened.

  And how solicitous she had been of him! He thought he understood better now why she had lingered in his consciousness for so long. It was not merely her beauty, or even her charm, but how she made him feel when he was in her presence. It was as if they shared a thrilling, dangerous secret. And perhaps it was true, too. How shocking that she proposed to come unescorted to see his lodgings!

  Johnny overshot the house and found himself at the edge of the river along Pratt Street. At the harbor, the road smelled like a sewer, but at the sight of the boats rocking gently on their moorings, oil lamps casting long lines of flickering light across the water, he felt a nearly ungovernable excitement. This, certainly, was a new chapter, though he could not guess what would be written there.

  32

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, AFTER PROCURING A BISCUIT, a pat of butter, and a bowl of coffee, Johnny set off to his first day as an apprentice at the offices of Luther Martin, Attorney-at-Law. But first, he strolled to the water to watch the thick mist rise off Rowley’s Wharf and the dockworkers loading and unloading heavy wooden crates. In the light of day, he noticed many Negroes. Whether these were freemen or slaves, he could not glean. That they were strong and used to hard work was obvious.

  Once again, Johnny was assaulted by the harbor’s appalling odor. He turned away, up past Baltimore and Market Streets, where old wooden houses vied for space alongside smarter shops and row houses. After five minutes, he turned onto New Church Street, where he passed the courthouse once more. Just beyond this building, he found Charles Street. He turned right and soon saw number fourteen. A dull brass plaque read “L. Martin, Attorney-at-Law.”

  The door was locked, and all was dark within. It was only eight in the morning; he was half an hour early. Johnny had dressed once more in his best and only suit, now stained by the wine Marcia had spilled on him. He returned to the courthouse and sat down on its steps. The air had already grown thick with rising humidity; and as the fog began to rise it left behind a mist that dampened his clothing and made his hair curl wildly about his head.

  From the courthouse steps, Johnny gazed out over the city and the boats in the harbor. He saw a ferryboat arrive, pull close to the dock, and release half a dozen horses and their carriages from its deck.

  The night before, Miss Burnes had made free to ask him whether he was married. He cringed now to think of his answer.

  “Nay.” He had smiled. “I am but nineteen—or very near it.” The words were true enough, yet what volumes he had omitted! While he and Kate were by no means engaged, he could not deny that there was something unresolved between them. And yet, each time Johnny endeavored to puzzle out his feelings for Kate or hers for him, he found himself grasping at air.

  “What a fool I am,” he muttered aloud.

  It would not do. Johnny vowed to correct the false impression he had given Miss Burnes the previous night. He stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants. Then he strolled in leisurely fashion around the corner to Mr. Martin’s office.

  Waiting for him was not Mr. Martin but Miss Burnes. She was dressed in a lovely lilac gown, a fetching broad-brimmed hat, and ivory kid gloves. Above her head she held a lilac parasol. She might have been the study of an enchanting painting. That she had already been painted by the greatest artists in the land, Johnny was blissfully unaware.

  “It’s you,” he said.

  “Obviously.” She smiled. “I fear you shall get that inspection of your lodgings sooner than you anticipated. Mr. Martin has sent me to tell you he feels a cold coming on and shan’t be in the office today. He sent Rosa along with me—” She did not finish the sentence. Johnny blushed at the thought that Miss Burnes had clearly contrived a way to come alone. “He bade us give you a key, however. Not that he expects you to know up from down.”

  Miss Burnes handed Johnny the key. Her gloved hand grazed his naked one. He turned his back to hide his confusion and opened the door.

  “I’ll just wait here,” she said. “Shall you be long?”

  “Oh, no. I mean simply to get the lay of the land.” Johnny entered and looked about. The office contained a large double desk, four tall shelves, and half a dozen candleholders. Apart from that, it was hard to know where papers ceased and books began. He observed everything much as one observes a patchwork quilt: unfinished letters, banner headlines, and gold-leaf book titles assaulted his vision simultaneously. Cicero, Seneca, and Grotius were mingled with ink-smeared Republican broadsides. He shut his eyes, but the room’s image remained: papers on the floor, on the shelves, the double desk, papers even resting upon the window ledges.

  A door led to a small back chamber that housed a cot, a bowl and basin, and a chamber pot. As he left the office, Johnny saw a book he had wanted to read before leaving Harvard, Adam Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments. He picked it up and placed it beneath his arm, exited, and locked the door.

  “Already stealing from your employer?” Miss Burnes teased.

  “A loan. I’ll return it first thing tomorrow.”

  Miss Burnes lightly touched the thick tome.

  “If you return it tomorrow, you shan’t have finished it.”

  “I shall have.”

  “How can that be, Mr. Boylston?”

  “I read quickly.”

  “You exaggerate.”

  “As I mentioned last night, I never exaggerate. I may be guilty of many things, but exaggeration isn’t one of them. I find the world strange enough without embellishment.”

  Miss Burnes allowed herself a coy smile. “Well said. Now let us see if this holds true for your lodgings. If so, you’ll have made a believer of me.”

  They strolled in silence down Market Street, now bustling with shopkeepers, workers driving loads to and from the harbor, and ladies going about their chores, shading themselves from the sun with colorful parasols.

  On the streets, just as at the harbor, many black faces mingled with the white ones, some in fine costumes. Never had Johnny seen Negroes so finely dressed in Boston. But then, one would not encounter a woman such as Marcia Burnes there, either.

  As they walked, Miss Burnes told Johnny about Baltimore: “There is a new theater in town, just over there.” She pointed to a building on Holliday Street. “And a marvelous library. It’s round—imagin
e that! There are all manner of balls and parties, too. The Fountain Inn is charming. I don’t doubt but that you shall be invited there within the week.”

  Johnny found Miss Burnes’s lively approbation of the town touching.

  “You’re smiling,” she said. “Why is that?”

  “I was only thinking how you are hardly less a stranger to this city than I. Your delight is contagious.”

  “You think me unworldly.” She frowned. “Admit it.”

  “Nay.” Johnny grinned; his aqua-blue eyes seemed lit from within.

  “You’re a bad liar.” Marcia swatted playfully at his arm.

  “So my friends have told me. But I cannot believe that anyone acquainted with Mr. Washington can be accounted unworldly.”

  “And Hamilton, mind you. And Burr and Madison, too. Papa knows them all.”

  They had arrived at his lodgings. From where they stood, they could smell the fish from the wharves. Marcia covered her nose. Johnny led her around to the back of the house, where a few scabrous chickens were pecking at one another.

  “It’s just there,” Johnny pointed. “Be quick. Here’s the key.”

  Marcia took the key. She opened the door and ducked her head, placing a gloved hand above it to shield her from falling dirt.

  “Goodness!” Johnny heard her cry.

  After a scant minute, Miss Burnes emerged. The bright sunshine made her blink. Then she said, “Pack your bags at once.”

  “But where do I go?”

  “I shall speak to Mr. Martin. He is a particular friend of Papa’s.” Miss Burnes then blushed. “Anyway, I believe he shall be more than happy to help you.”

  “I hate to impose.”

  “It would importune him more to have to find you other lodgings, I’m sure. But here—some letters for you.” She proffered a packet of perhaps half a dozen letters, all tied neatly with string. His landlady must have placed them beneath his door. “You have a secret admirer, I see.”

  Johnny looked down at the letters with a jolt of horror. They were all from Kate.

  33

  HEARING MISS BURNES’S ACCOUNT OF JOHNNY’S LODGING, Mr. Martin offered his profuse apologies and called at once for his carriage. He sent two servants, and by mid-afternoon they had transported both Johnny and his belongings to Martin’s own home.

  The guest chamber down the hall was but a closet; there was room enough for a bed and desk. But it was as sunny and hot as the other had been dark and dank, and Johnny felt it to be a vast improvement. There was only one problem: now that he was beneath the same roof as Marcia Burnes, how would he ever concentrate?

  That afternoon, Miss Burnes took herself off with the twins to the market, and he found himself alone at last. Sitting upon his comfortable, bug-free bed, he opened the first of Kate’s letters. It was dated a few days after he had left.

  I returned to Quincy last night with Mama, who had an errand to do. The little ones are very glum with no one to play pony with. Miriam complains that she wants to go to Harvard University, too, and doesn’t see why she can’t. Poor Lizzie has had a time explaining things in a way that does not depress the child’s naturally high spirits . . .

  When he had finished reading the letters, Johnny felt as if his parched soul had been nourished by the news of home. He set them aside with a sigh, took up the book he had borrowed from Mr. Martin, and read for the rest of the afternoon. He fell asleep in his clothing and did not wake till morning.

  He rose as dawn broke, descended, and sat in the parlor while the servants readied the buffet. These were free black servants, he learned. It seemed Mr. Martin owned no house slaves, which relieved Johnny immensely.

  The parlor was bathed in morning light, illuminating the gemlike reds and blues of a thick Turkey carpet. A silver tea service adorned the center of the buffet, and the table was set with silver as well. Mr. Martin, a servant told him, had already left for the office, having missed the previous day. When Miss Burnes entered, Johnny rose and bowed. He had hoped that the shivery feeling he got in her presence would have abated after reading Kate’s letters, but it had not. Miss Burnes espied the book he had been reading, which sat on the empty seat next to him.

  “And, have you read it?” she challenged.

  “I have.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Shall I test you?”

  “If you like.” Johnny shrugged. He had resolved to display neither warmth nor coldness to Miss Burnes. He carried his plate to the buffet, where he helped himself to ham, eggs, and a biscuit.

  “Very well,” she said, taking up the tome. She turned to a random page. “Describe, if you would, the second paragraph of the first page of chapter one, entitled ‘Of the Sense of Propriety.’”

  Johnny closed his eyes and saw one line, and then two. In the act of speaking, several more came into view:

  Though our brother is on the rack, as long as we ourselves are at our ease, our senses will never inform us of what he suffers. They never did, and never can, carry us beyond our own person, and it is by the imagination only that we can form any conception of what are his sensations.

  “Bravo!” Marcia exclaimed. She then added in a low, velvety voice, “So, you weren’t exaggerating.”

  “I told you I don’t exaggerate.” Johnny grimly attacked his second helping of food and said he was late for work.

  Work that day consisted mainly of organizing Mr. Martin’s papers. The twins had been right: many court documents needed copying, but Johnny had first to find them. He did not return that day to the house for dinner, but strolled to a place called Kaminsky’s around the corner, where he had a fine oyster stew in sherry and a mug of cider. Then he returned to the office, where he sorted through Mr. Martin’s correspondence, making a list of all those letters in need of a reply.

  That evening, as the heat of the day dissipated and the sun waned to the west, the twins proposed a walk. He and the three girls strolled up Capitol Hill, where he saw all of Baltimore, its brick buildings and pretty harbor glowing in the declining light. Cattle grazed in pastures at the ragged edges of town, and the outer harbor appeared before them like a blue bowl upon which canvas napkins, folded into triangles, rocked from side to side.

  “This marvelous view reminds me of my home, Johnny,” said Marcia. “Oh, I grow homesick.”

  “Where is home, exactly, Miss Burnes? You must forgive me. I’m a stranger in a strange land.”

  “Home is Maryland, by the Potomac. But it is changing so quickly I soon shall hardly recognize it. Our home is quite modest, but it sits upon the loveliest bank of a river, and from it, one has an excellent view of both the President’s House and Alexandria.”

  “I should very much like to see it,” Johnny said.

  Miss Burnes glanced at him meaningfully. “Would you? Then by all means do.”

  The following day was a Sunday. After church and dinner, Johnny and Miss Burnes strolled down to Fell’s Point, beyond the wharf and its fetid smells. The twins had meant to join them, but at the last moment, Mr. Martin had an errand he would have them do, and so Johnny found himself strolling alone with Miss Burnes.

  At the Point, the air was fresh and slightly salty. There, the water was deeper and the boats larger. Johnny wondered why the founders of Baltimore had chosen a shallow spot for their harbor, when a much deeper one existed here. Yet the town flourished despite its shallow harbor.

  There was a cool breeze and a touch of autumn in the air. Johnny was aware of Marcia Burnes’s warmth as she stood beside him. A sudden gust off the water made her shiver, momentarily sanctioning their closeness.

  As they made their way back toward town, Miss Burnes sighed.

  “Why do you sigh?” he asked.

  “You do have an admirer. Is that not true?”

  Johnny stopped walking and turned to her.

  “I have a—friend. A good friend, who is very nearly related to me. That is all.”

  But Miss Burnes continued cannily, “Were she to see us now, at this very moment, what w
ould she say?”

  “She would say nothing, for she is far too well-mannered,” Johnny replied with some pique.

  Still undaunted, Miss Burnes asked, “Say nothing, but feel . . . ?”

  “She would feel—” Johnny noticed Miss Burnes’s knowing smile, and it irritated him. “Miss Burnes, do not ask me to speak of this.”

  Offended, Miss Burnes did not reply but walked quickly ahead of him toward home. Johnny did not endeavor to keep up with her. For her part, Miss Burnes did not believe Johnny’s words. Though hardly more experienced than he in such matters, she sensed that a boy with no feelings toward a girl should have no trouble speaking of her. And yet, Johnny did—a great deal of trouble. The question was, what should she do about it?

  Johnny continued to walk behind her, having settled into the discomfort between them. Just before they reached the house, Miss Burnes stopped walking and turned around. She moved close to him and looked up expectantly, the complicit gleam in her eyes having returned. He bent down and kissed her. He held her close, feeling her chest rising and falling against him, pressing against his body.

  She pulled away, smiling. “You feel it, too, at least.”

  “I do,” he said miserably. “I always have.”

  34

  HE TOLD HIMSELF NOTHING WOULD COME OF it, for several reasons. One, Miss Burnes would soon return to Washington, where she would be courted by the most powerful men in the land. Two, Johnny had nothing to offer her save his good nature and excellent prospects, and three, he believed Miss Burnes took their relationship for a pleasant dalliance, no more.

  The temporary nature of their affair was given confirmation when, one morning at breakfast, Marcia said, “I’ve had a letter from Papa. He misses me greatly and hints at a weakening of his health. He asks that I return as soon as may be.”

  “When will that be?” Johnny asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I must make further inquiries.”

  Meanwhile, Johnny continued to receive cheerful, informative letters from Kate. Ben’s front tooth fell out and, as he very much wished to keep it, he was upset to discover that someone had purloined it. He and Elizabeth got into a fight until Aunt Martha caught and scolded the real culprit, poor little Hannah.