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

by Jodi Daynard

  Marcia felt Johnny’s pity. She turned away and left the chamber, her shoulders pulled back proudly. She moved down the hall, fighting tears. Johnny moved after her, his remorse as swift as his judgment had been.

  “Marcia! I’m sorry. Forgive me, please. I’m a fool.”

  She waited for him to continue.

  “It’s just—we don’t know each other well yet. You cannot know—that is, I see I must explain how, and among whom, I grew up. You can’t understand my loyalties.”

  Marcia pursed her lips and replied, “I fear you are too good for me, Johnny. This has long been my fear.”

  He began to object, but she moved away from him with a tearful gesture that said, “Leave me be.”

  Johnny returned to his chamber and paced. He had no wish to ask his mother for the money. But neither did he relish the humiliation of having to ask Mr. Martin to waive his fee. Finally, he sat down and wrote a letter to Mr. Martin so that he could buy a new suit.

  At the Fountain Inn, upon the arm of the stunning Miss Burnes and flanked by the two affable Martin daughters, Johnny felt like a foreign dignitary. He wore his new blue suit, the jacket of which chafed slightly beneath the arms. The wine flowed. There were toasts to Johnny’s health and prosperity, and overall the party was so elegant, laden with delicacies, and hospitable, that it reminded him of Christmas at Moorcock.

  On this night, Johnny met some of the luminaries of Baltimore, most notably the editor of the Federal Gazette. Johnny and this editor struck up a lively, forthright conversation, in which Johnny admitted that as a student he’d written several pieces for the Columbian Centinel.

  “Indeed! Well, send me anything that strikes your fancy, Mr. Boylston. I’ll read it with pleasure.”

  Johnny bowed and thanked him.

  Marcia, who had been standing just behind Johnny, said, “You didn’t tell me you wrote for the papers. That’s a great accomplishment for one so young. Why did you not tell me?”

  “My feelings about writing for the papers are—mixed,” he admitted. “On the one hand, I wish to support the president; on the other, I feel that writing for one side or another serves only to broaden the rift between them. Then, to remain in the middle seems increasingly irrelevant. I would like to discuss my doubts with you sometime, Marcia.”

  “Oh, do!” Marcia replied, but already her eyes were wandering about the room to see whom Johnny should meet next.

  36

  THE WEATHER, WHICH HAD REMAINED UNUSUALLY TEMPERATE throughout the fall, finally turned wintry. Baltimore took on a self-protective air as tents were taken down, ships brought in from sea, and market stalls covered with canvas. People began to hunch against the wind as they made their way through the streets.

  Philadelphia was finally declared fever-free, though this time the disease left more than three thousand dead. Mr. Wilson, Johnny learned, had also died, though not of the yellow fever, taking with him Johnny’s hopes of living in Philadelphia.

  Johnny had now lived in Baltimore for more than a year. He knew he stayed only for Miss Burnes. While Mr. Martin was forever producing fresh reams of paper for Johnny to sort, as yet there had been no systematic study of the law, no discussion of legal cases or history.

  Johnny continued to read the broadsides. He had not forgotten Adams’s request to “keep an eye out” for any information that might interest him. Johnny sometimes wished he would stumble upon something to share with Mr. Adams, but as yet, nothing had struck him as particularly important. There were the usual excoriations in the Republican press against the “monarchy-loving” Federalists, rants that Adams no doubt read himself.

  Then, one morning that December, before Mr. Martin had arrived for the day, Johnny was reading through the broadsides as usual when his eyes lit upon something peculiar. In the Albany Centinel dated December 18, Johnny read an article reprinted from a June edition of the Gazette of the United States, which somehow he had failed to peruse that past summer. It was an article written by editor John Fenno, called “Fruits of the French Diplomatic Skill,” in which Fenno both published the Kentucky Resolutions and railed against them. These resolutions, passed in the Kentucky legislature, essentially asserted Kentucky’s right to ignore a federal law if the state deemed it unconstitutional. But behind the Resolutions was an even darker agenda: the threat of secession.

  Now, Johnny read the article carefully. As he did so, he noticed something oddly familiar about it. When he realized what it was, he paced Mr. Martin’s office in a paroxysm of indecision. Then Johnny took a pen and paper from Mr. Martin’s desk and hastily wrote,

  Dear Mr. President

  Forgive, if you would, this hasty letter, but I find I shall be in Philadelphia this coming week and would be grateful for a brief audience with you on a matter of some urgency.

  Johnny sealed his letter and walked the several blocks to the tiny shack that served as Baltimore’s post office. As he walked back to Mr. Martin’s residence, his agitation grew. Oh, if only he could tell someone what he knew! An hour later, at dinner, Johnny told Mr. Martin that urgent business called him away.

  “Away? To where, pray?” asked the attorney. He had been reading upon a broadside and removed his spectacles, the better to look at Johnny from across the table.

  “To Philadelphia.”

  At this pronouncement, the other girls, who had been engrossed in a discussion of a friend’s coming-out party, stopped to listen.

  “Philadelphia? Whatever for?” asked Marcia. “How long shall you be gone?”

  “A week at least, perhaps longer. I’ll do my best to resolve the business speedily.”

  “I don’t know that I can do without you that long,” Mr. Martin grumbled. Immediately, Johnny cringed with guilt. Mr. Martin had kindly agreed to waive his fee so that Johnny could buy a new suit, and now Johnny was asking him leave to go to Philadelphia. But the good man asked merely, “Well, but shall you take the carriage?”

  “A good horse would serve, if you can spare one, sir,” he said.

  “Of course. You can take Betsy. Shan’t it be too cold, though?”

  “The cold shall spur my haste.”

  Johnny left very early the following morning, Marcia having bade him a cool good-bye the night before. The weather, much like Marcia, though cold, was not frozen, and the sun shone, promising a warmer afternoon. The roads were passable, although in places the clay soil made for slow going. Along the way, Johnny passed a bleak landscape of barren wheat fields and ruined fences. Several newly built settlements infused the air with the smell of pine sap.

  Johnny traveled through the pretty, hilly town of Abingdon and then Havre de Grace, with its tranquil views of the Susquehanna. In late afternoon he arrived at Elkton, where he spent the night at an inn along the main road.

  Finally, late the following morning, he found himself trotting down the road to the city of his childhood dreams: Philadelphia. Johnny stopped Betsy to take in the panoramic view from the hill above the Schuylkill River. It was a clear, bright day, and from this vantage point he could see all the way to the Delaware, wild forests giving way to a most rational grid of homes and shops. Here, stately brick buildings mixed with busy shops, and people of all classes strolled the cobbled streets. Johnny looked upon it with admiration. It was orderly yet industrious—nothing like chaotic Bridgetown or tightly buttoned Boston. How beautiful he found this city!

  Johnny did not remain long on the hill, however, for the wind bit into his neck where a thin cravat did not fully cover his naked skin. As he made his way down the hill and onto the main road, the neat brick homes grew larger and more refined until he reached the State House and the President’s House across from it. A moment later, he arrived at his destination.

  John Francis’s hotel, at 13 South Fourth Street, was a small yet elegant townhouse just off High Street. Johnny was shown to his room, from which he could look down upon the goings-on of the busy main street. A bowl and pitcher of fresh water stood in one corner, and Johnny grat
efully washed and changed his dirty clothing. He was soon walking up High Street toward the President’s House.

  For several minutes, he simply stood before it and gaped. It was a tall, stately home with twelve windows fronting the street, all clean and glimmering in the bright wintry sunlight. Above the windows, triangular pediments lent an orderly air to the edifice.

  Suddenly an unbidden doubt seized him, and he nearly turned back to his hotel. What delusion had allowed him to believe he had something of vital importance to tell the president? Surely Mr. Adams already knew whatever there was to know about the villainy surrounding him? Worse than his presumption was the nagging suspicion of his own motives. Perhaps this was no altruism but an ugly bid to ingratiate himself.

  Johnny shook his head. He knew that such was not his motive. He believed he had discovered a deceit of the highest order. Despite disagreeing with Adams over the recent acts passed by Congress, Johnny’s first impulse was to protect him. Taking a deep breath, he walked up the broad marble stoop and rang the bell.

  He heard the rattle of heavy bolts, and an old butler appeared, stooped and bald. A few gray wisps of hair waved above his ears. Taking one look at Johnny, he said, “Parcels around back, lad.” He pointed to the gate off to the left of the entranceway.

  Johnny stood firm. “I have business with the president.”

  The butler pursed his lips. “Citizens’ hours are on Monday. Today is Thursday.”

  Johnny contained his impatience. “Please tell Mr. Adams that Mr. Boylston calls from Baltimore on urgent business. Tell him I stay at the Francis Hotel and may return by and by, if now is not convenient.”

  The butler, ever dubious, shut the door in Johnny’s face. He returned two minutes later wearing an officious smile.

  “Come in, please,” he said, granting Johnny a shallow bow. Johnny bowed shallowly in return and entered.

  The first thing he noticed about the interior was its great height: thirty feet, he guessed. Next, he noticed its opulence: The ceiling contained three dramatic arches supported by fluted columns. A rich green carpet covered the wood floors. To the left, a finely carved mahogany staircase rose, bending twice on the way to an impressive gallery.

  The butler led Johnny into a parlor at whose far end stood a massive fireplace. Three tall windows on the left of the fireplace looked out onto High Street.

  “The president shall join you momentarily,” the butler said. He bowed again and left Johnny alone in the parlor.

  Johnny was just perusing a bookcase that stood to the right of the fireplace when he heard a cry:

  “Johnny! Dear boy!”

  The president moved toward him and did not stop until he had hugged Johnny warmly. Then he pulled back to stare at him.

  “Why, I think you’ve grown since I last laid eyes upon you. You’re nearly as tall as Washington!”

  “And you, sir—” he began, indicating his admiration for Mr. Adams’s silk costume.

  “Quite presidential, eh?” said Adams, patting his chest. “Well, I can’t very well strut about Philadelphia in my farmer’s weeds, now can I? Though I should dearly like to.” He stuck a pudgy finger beneath his vest, as if trying to pop a button. “This waistcoat is as tight as a corset, ha ha. But sit, do.” Adams gestured to a wing chair by the fire. Then he fired off three questions: “Tell me, what brings you here? What news of home? How fare Mr. and Mrs. Miller, and all the children, and your dear mama?”

  “They are all well, and the harvest, they say, was excellent this year.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. You’ve been in Baltimore—with Luther Martin, is it? Excellent.” The president called for his butler. “Bartlett! Bring us some coffee. And a cake or two.”

  Adams looked at Johnny sheepishly. “My cook makes the most excellent cakes, which is perhaps not unrelated to the tightness of this waistcoat.”

  Bartlett brought the coffee and cakes and set them down upon a mahogany tea table. He then put a log on the fire before bowing deeply and leaving. Once Bartlett had left, Johnny sipped his coffee, took a bite of cake, and gathered himself for the topic he had come to broach.

  “Sir, did you receive my letter?”

  “I did. But I don’t believe for a moment that you merely ‘find yourself’ in Philadelphia. Tell me truly why you’re here.”

  “I’ve made a most unsettling discovery. I know not whether you spoke in jest when you told me to keep my eyes open, but I have, sir, and I think they’ve come across something you would wish to know.”

  Mr. Adams seemed more interested in his cake just then, of which he’d taken such an enormous bite. For one unsettling moment, Johnny feared the old man could not possibly swallow it. When he had, Johnny continued, “You’ve no doubt read the ‘Kentucky Resolutions’?”

  “I’ve heard tell of them but not yet read them.”

  “Well, I’ve just read them, and it is my studied opinion that there is a traitor in your midst.”

  “A traitor, you say?” Mr. Adams took a sip of his coffee.

  Johnny removed from his waistcoat pocket a twice-folded page from the Albany Centinel.

  “Read this, sir, if you would.”

  Johnny proffered the paper as Mr. Adams searched for his spectacles. Finding them, he read the heading:

  “‘Fruits of the French Diplomatic Skill.’ Is that the one?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s it.”

  Mr. Adams read:

  Resolved, That the several States composing, the United States of America, are not united on the principle of unlimited submission to their general government; but that, by a compact under the style and title of a Constitution for the United States, and of amendments thereto, they constituted a general government for special purposes . . .

  “And so on and so forth . . .” Adams trailed off and squeezed his tired eyes together with two fingers.

  “Well, is it not treacherous to suggest that the Constitution is a mere ‘compact’ for ‘special purposes’?” asked Johnny.

  Adams was thoughtful. “I believe it to be, as you do, a treacherous interpretation.”

  Johnny had not expected this mild response.

  “Sir,” Johnny pressed, “do you not also recognize the voice?”

  “Voice? Whose, pray? I don’t know the Kentucky fellows very well.”

  They had come to the crux of the matter.

  “Why, Jefferson’s!”

  Adams’s eyes flickered toward Johnny. He said, “I cannot think him so low.”

  “Can’t you? I can,” Johnny replied hotly. “Besides, I have proof. Look just here.” Johnny pointed. “Regard where it says that the Constitution,”

  guarded against all abridgement by the United States of the freedom of religious opinions and exercises, and retained to themselves the right of protecting the same, as this state by a Law passed on the general demand of its Citizens, had already protected them from all human restraint or interference . . .

  Johnny stopped there and waited.

  Adams scratched his ear. “I hear the words, child, but know not what they signify.” Adams peered down at the paper as if he might see the thing that eluded him.

  “‘This state’ cannot mean Kentucky, sir. Kentucky never passed such a law. But Virginia did! Virginia passed the one Jefferson wrote in 1785, An Act for Establishing Religious Freedom. It is him, sir. I’d swear to it. Jefferson is the author of this foul document. He should be impeached!”

  Johnny thought the old man would pump his hand and call for his cabinet. But Adams merely sighed.

  “He should be, I agree. But I won’t do it.”

  What had Johnny failed to understand? Adams’s own vice president threatened the Union, yet the president himself seemed resigned. Had he grown senile? Johnny was just about to demand an explanation when Adams asked, “How do you find Baltimore and Mr. Martin?”

  “I like Baltimore very well,” replied Johnny, confused. “Mr. Martin is most amiable.”

  “But?” Adams heard the reservation in Jo
hnny’s voice.

  “But I fear I am become more housekeeper than student of law. After all the chores, there’s no time for study. And Mr. Martin hardly accomplishes his own work, let alone helps me accomplish mine.”

  Johnny had not meant to speak ill of his kind benefactor, nor did he mean to gain anything by it. But after a silence of perhaps a minute, Adams said, “Come to Philadelphia, Johnny.”

  Johnny hesitated. “To do what, sir?”

  “I could use eyes like yours here in Gomorrah.”

  “To spy for you, you mean?”

  “Nay, nay. To—report.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Adams laughed. “You are far too clever. I don’t ask you to cross the enemy line, only to stand near it. So near that, when they dine, you shall see their tonsils.”

  They spoke for a few moments more about how their families fared. All the while, Johnny’s heart beat furiously as he thought, I believe that Mr. Adams has just asked me to come to Philadelphia to be his spy. Oh, but what shall I tell Mr. Martin?

  As if hearing his thoughts, Adams concluded, “By the way. Should anyone ask, tell him that you are to be my legal protégé. It shall be true enough. I may even find a way to ignore you slightly less than does Mr. Martin, though it is doubtful.”

  37

  SNOW THREATENED IN A HEAVY GRAY SKY as Johnny made his way back to Baltimore. He had spent an anxious night and set out before dawn, his body humming. The president wants me in Philadelphia, he repeated to himself. And I shall earn a salary. The prospect filled him with pride. This was what he had wanted all along, he realized. Not to mentor beneath Wilson or another surrogate attorney, but to serve the attorney. But what about Marcia? She would soon return to Washington City. There must first be some understanding between them. As Johnny traveled South, his soul flew to wild heights and depths until he finally resolved on a course of action. Pray she accepted him!