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

by Jodi Daynard

  But then in White Plains, his coachman took ill, and they were obliged to stop for several days. While there, Johnny wrote Marcia a letter filled with such sweet words that, had they been sweetmeats, they would have rendered the diner quite ill.

  The coachman recovered from his indisposition and on April 27, they continued their journey, reaching Quincy on April 30. As they turned onto Lizzie’s lane, Johnny’s heart pounded with anticipation. He felt greatly changed from that boy who’d set off as a fresh college graduate in August of ’97. He had met Marcia Burnes again, fallen in love, become engaged, learned the law (no thanks to Mr. Martin), and moved to Philadelphia. Twice he had nearly pushed Thomas Jefferson off a staircase.

  Oh, he would need many hours to tell his stories!

  Upon the sound of the carriage, Lizzie’s children scrambled out of the cottage.

  “Johnny! Johnny!” They were already pulling him out of it by his long arms. Indeed, they pulled so hard that for a moment Johnny thought he would fall out headfirst.

  “John, dear John!” Eliza came flying out the door.

  “Mama!”

  “We were so worried!”

  “The coachman took ill in White Plains. But all is well. Oh, all is most well!”

  It was a tearful reunion, and everyone agreed that Johnny must never again be absent for so long. When he heard them pronounce this solemn pact, he felt sick at heart. He would not tell them about his plans to remain in the South—not yet.

  The children had grown up since he’d last set eyes upon them. Tom was now a hale, taciturn young man. Little Sara was now an affable, outgoing girl of nine. Abby was the most ladylike one; she wore a pretty frock and constantly pet her neat auburn curls.

  Miriam had changed most of all. Now seventeen, she had grown quite tall, slender, and proud. When Johnny suggested that they search for shells, she turned a shoulder and remarked, “Oh, that game is for the children.”

  That night, Johnny slept from ten to near noon the following day. In the delicious sleep of early morning, he could hear the bustle of the women; he saw the light beyond his closed eyelids and Tom’s shadow pass across a window, off to feed the animals.

  Johnny drifted in and out of sleep until the call of nature finally roused him. It was the first of May, a day of ancient celebration, and the farm looked fresh and well cared for. Neat rows of beans were just breaching the ground, and pale green-yellow buds appeared upon the fruit trees. Oh, it was good to be home at last!

  His mother was in the kitchen waiting for him.

  “Johnny, come sit a moment with your old mother,” she said.

  “You’re not very old,” he replied.

  Eliza smiled, making the crows’ feet around her eyes more visible. “Forty-three this December. How did that happen, I wonder?” But she laughed like a young girl now that she was with her child.

  Eliza cocked her head at him. “You look different. You’ve no doubt had many new experiences. I should like to hear about one or two.”

  “I’ll gladly tell you everything. Oh, Mama,” he blurted, suddenly throwing his arms about her shoulders. “It’s so good to be home. You know not how good.”

  She pulled away and looked at him. “Has something happened?”

  “Oh, no, no. Don’t take my words amiss. It’s just—the world beyond Quincy is very different.”

  Eliza paused. “Abigail tells us that you visited the new city of Washington.”

  “I did.”

  “For what reason?”

  “I—”

  His mother drew him close and whispered, “Oh, do not waste your time thinking up a lie, Johnny. Not on my account. I can always tell. The reason is Miss Burnes, is it not?”

  Johnny stared at his mother. “But how did you know?”

  She shrugged.

  Johnny frowned. “Mr. Adams. That incorrigible gossip! I begged him not to tell.”

  Eliza smiled. “As you lawyers say, I can neither confirm nor deny it.”

  But Johnny wasn’t happy. “Well, since you already know, yes. We are engaged. It only just happened.”

  “You know Kate is to be married, too,” Eliza said, watching her son carefully.

  “I thought she already was.”

  “The wedding is to take place in October. She remains in Haverhill meanwhile, with Abby’s sister, caring for the children. She has no plans to return to these parts until September at the earliest.”

  “Does she know I am come home for the summer?”

  “I believe so.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Eliza asked, “Do you actually love her, this Marcia Burnes?”

  “Mama.”

  Eliza grasped her son’s arm. “Look at me, Johnny.”

  He looked at her, and she read his eyes at once.

  “You do,” she said. But she did not sound very happy about it. “You’re not twenty-one. That’s young to marry, for a boy.”

  “I thought you said I was a man.”

  Eliza frowned as if the reason for her concern were self-evident. “You know it’s never you that worries me.”

  At that moment, Lizzie came through the kitchen door carrying two pails of milk. She set them down.

  “What’s going on here? The room feels as if it is about to be struck by lightning.”

  “It already has been,” replied Eliza.

  Johnny said nothing. He rose, bowed to the women, and then removed himself to Peacefield. There, he was relieved to be away from his mother and her fears. He wrote a letter to Marcia, and in late afternoon finally sallied forth to help Mr. Adams with a few small chores.

  And so began another Quincy summer: Once more, Johnny rose in darkness to take his coffee. As the sun came up, he walked to Peacefield. Then he studied in Mr. Adams’s book room until the president appeared mid-morning, looking not very presidential in his farm clothing. Adams would say, “Ready, Johnny?” And Johnny, in his own calfskin breeches and linen shirt, would tackle the many tasks that awaited them. I’m a hero of dirt and stone, he thought, smiling to himself.

  Each night, after hauling rocks or moving dirt, Johnny slept as if dead. He woke the following morning only to repeat the activities of the day before. By July, he was as fit and nimble as any young farmer in the parish. Indeed, he grew so dark that Miriam stared at him one evening and said, “Johnny, you look like a black boy.”

  “Miriam!” Lizzie cried, horrified.

  But Johnny just laughed and taunted, “White girl!”

  “Black boy! Black boy!”

  Johnny lowered his voice and said, “Watch out I don’t call you lobster girl, Miriam. Or rather lobster-nose, for the sun has turned your nose bright red.”

  “You shan’t call me a lobster-nose, Johnny!” Miriam complained, placing a hand to her nose, whose burned skin had already begun to peel.

  The summer moved apace, its days lazy yet full. There had been no repetition of that painful conversation with his mother, nor had Johnny, in telling his many stories, confessed his plans to remain in the South. But eventually Johnny found himself making preparations to return to Philadelphia. The thought put a metallic taste in his mouth, and Miriam moped about, draping her long limbs along the furniture, a portrait of mourning.

  “Well, but you knew I could not remain here forever,” Johnny told her one afternoon.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, if I am to become president one day like your uncle John, I must first pass my exams and become a lawyer.”

  “What about me?” Miriam cried plaintively, sounding jarringly childish. All summer, she had posed so successfully as a woman that Johnny had nearly mistaken her for one.

  “Your most excellent mama shall guide you.”

  Miriam wrinkled her nose with distaste. “But I shouldn’t like to deliver babies. Ugh!”

  Johnny laughed. “No? It is a beautiful thing, is it not, to bring a life into this world?”

  Miriam frowned. “It is not. Mama took me once—it’s disgusting!”


  Johnny laughed. “Perhaps you shall feel differently someday.”

  “I won’t. I wish to be like Cousin Kate.”

  “Cousin Kate?” Johnny was suddenly attentive. “Why, have you seen her? Do you know what she does at present?”

  “Of course. Don’t you?” she retorted. “She’s made a magazine, and a very fine one, too.”

  “Have you a copy about? I should like to see it.”

  “Not yet, for it has just gone to the printer.”

  “Ah,” Johnny nodded. “I see. Well, isn’t that marvelous!”

  And Johnny thought it was, although for some reason he felt tears start to his eyes.

  44

  September 1799

  KATE TOLD HER MOTHER, WHO TOLD LIZZIE, who told Eliza, that she planned to arrive in Quincy in the first week of October. She wished to speak to Abigail about her new women’s magazine. According to Johnny’s mother, Kate had said not a word on the subject of her nuptials, and the general consensus was that Mr. Pearce was currently in Jamaica or possibly London. Johnny was set to leave for Philadelphia with Mr. Adams on September twenty-ninth. But news arrived of another virulent outbreak of yellow fever in that city, and the government made hasty preparations to go to Trenton instead. The outbreak of fever also meant the postponement of the Philadelphia bar exam, as the courts had all been disbanded.

  Adams sent word to Johnny that he would depart on the thirtieth. This time, Johnny had no choice but to share a carriage and bed with the ever-conversational Mr. Adams.

  The morning of September 30 was bright and sunny. Johnny’s trunk was upon the stoop. He heard a dog bark on the main road and then carriage wheels creaking down the lane. Johnny stood, ready to hand his trunk over to the coachman. His mother, Lizzie, and the children all hurriedly exited the front door in expectation of greeting Mr. Adams and Briesler.

  But it was not John Adams in the carriage; it was Katherine Lee. She wore a simple chemise and a calico petticoat, and her thick brown hair, though meant to be in a bun, mainly fell loose about her bosom. When she saw Johnny rise up off the stoop, her face blanched. Clearly, she thought he had already left.

  “Kate!” he cried, approaching the carriage. It had been two years since he had seen her. Johnny moved to embrace her, but she stepped back, smiled wanly, and extended her gloved hand to him. The other women emerged from the cottage and flanked her protectively.

  “What?” Johnny cried. “Is that all the greeting I am to receive? Why, do you not know me? You behave as if I were a stranger.”

  “Not so.” She shielded her eyes from the rising sun. “I’d know you anywhere, though it has been two years since I’ve laid eyes upon you. You are John Boylston.”

  “John-ny,” his mother drawled from the door, as if she had urgent business. “I would have a word with you!”

  “Mama,” Johnny turned and glowered.

  “Come here, please.”

  Johnny moved toward the cottage. His mother whispered to him, “Can you not see the poor girl is fatigued from her trip? Allow her a moment to wash up and rest before pouncing upon her like one of the children.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” He looked abashed. “I shall offer her some refreshment.”

  Eliza sighed. Her son did not have the least idea of Kate’s inner turmoil, though it was written plain as day on her face. Kate passed him by with a small smile as she mounted the stairs, and Johnny, having offered to make the tea, waited patiently for her to descend.

  The tea was steaming hot, then cool, and then cold. Still Kate had not descended. Why did she not come to speak with him? He began to wonder whether she was angry with him for some reason.

  Was it not she who had written him with news of Mr. Pearce’s proposal? And was it not right to leave her free and unimpeded to accept it, if that was her wish? The mathematics had been right, but somehow he’d gotten the sum wrong.

  Suddenly Kate appeared in the kitchen. She looked composed, though her eyes seemed overly bright behind her spectacles. She sat down and placed her hand around the dish of cold tea.

  “Shall I make us a fresh pot?” Johnny stood, eager to do something.

  “Nay.” She stayed his arm and looked up at him. “I fear you have little time. You know Mr. Adams will be late and then wish to set off immediately, as if you delayed him. Your mother and I shall have ten buckets of tea once you leave.”

  Johnny nodded. Awkwardly, to fill the ensuing silence, he inquired after her family, and she said that as far as she knew, they were all well. She had not set eyes upon them in several weeks, having spent the summer in Haverhill.

  “And how like you Philadelphia?”

  “I like it very well, when it is not pestilential with fever. It seems particularly vulnerable to this yellow plague. Some say it is the miasma that rises from the canals.”

  “But surely you don’t head there now?”

  “Nay. We go to Trenton.”

  “Oh, that’s good—although, is not Trenton very close to Philadelphia?”

  “Far enough, I suppose,” Johnny said dubiously. “But I hear the pest we truly have to fear is Hamilton. Adams tells me he’s already there. You cannot know how much he detests Hamilton, and I believe the feeling is mutual.”

  Kate nodded. Then neither found anything to say. With a stab of nostalgia Johnny recalled those easy days of the Slotted Spoon Society, when they spoke for hours upon the subject of Hamilton, Jefferson, and even John Adams, sometimes laughing until tears came.

  “How fare the preparations for your nuptials?” Johnny blurted. “I’ve failed to congratulate you. Hearty felicitations!” But some phlegm had gathered in Johnny’s throat and the words came out sounding garbled.

  Kate said, “Yes, well. It’s a ways off yet.”

  “It’s next month, is it not?”

  “October,” Kate admitted. “At the end of the month. But, oh, to be honest, I’ve been so busy with other things I sometimes forget all about it. Did you hear about the magazine? It’s at the printer’s now.”

  Johnny wondered how Kate could be so calm about her nuptials, when he spent every waking moment dreaming about his.

  “Miriam told me. What splendid news. And have you subscribers?”

  “Five.” Kate smiled. “Well, it is but the first issue. Word will spread, I hope. Abigail’s sister Betsy helps me just now. She’s quite brilliant, and a fine writer, too. We’re working on ways to raise capital. Advertising, I suppose you call it.” Here, Kate let out a devastated laugh. “We’re hopeless amateurs, I’m afraid. But if willing hearts and minds alone count for anything, we may yet succeed.”

  Johnny glanced at Kate and felt sad not to have been part of all her planning, not to have been there to help her with such a demanding and noble endeavor.

  “I’m vastly proud of you, Kate.”

  She looked down. “Yes, well. And you—do you still write your clarion calls for peace?”

  “I’ve had to choose sides, I’m afraid. The days of nonpartisanship are over. And yet to take sides goes against everything I believe in.”

  “Then don’t do it,” she said simply.

  “Nothing is as clear as our leaders make it seem.” Johnny hunched across the table and whispered, “Take Adams himself, for example. You know my love for him. But when he allowed those shameful acts to pass, he fell in my eyes. Then there’s Jefferson, whom I once revered, and whose ideas on certain topics I fervently agree with, yet he has behaved treasonously. By rights, he should be impeached.”

  Kate considered what Johnny had told her. Then she replied, “Perhaps idolatry cannot be sustained. Love is easier, as it allows for faults.”

  She quickly added, “As you love Mr. Adams, for example.”

  “Oh, Kate,” Johnny suddenly blurted, “how I’ve missed speaking my heart! How I miss speaking with you.”

  Suddenly, carriage wheels clattered upon the stony path to the cottage. The young people peered out the kitchen window. Mr. Adams and Briesler were in
the carriage, Adams looking put upon.

  “Where is that boy? He should be here.”

  Kate said, “You see.”

  Johnny smiled. “I must go.” Suddenly he turned to Kate and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Johnny!” his mother called from the garden. “Johnny! They’re here!”

  Johnny turned back as he ran toward the waiting carriage. “Write to me, promise?”

  “I shall try,” Kate said. In his haste, Johnny did not notice the tears flood Kate’s eyes.

  The women waved from the kitchen garden as the carriage turned around. Looking back over his shoulder, Johnny waved until he could no longer see them. Mr. Adams, who sat across from him and Briesler, placed a hand on Johnny’s knee. He said, “Well, I fear I take you from the soft bosom of your family and drag you into the hard world of men.”

  “Sir, a man cannot remain forever among women.”

  “No,” Mr. Adams said wistfully. “But I sometimes wish we could.”

  45

  TRENTON WAS A PRETTY VILLAGE CONSISTING OF two main roads on the left bank of the Delaware. Johnny took the first possible opportunity to walk down to the river, where he could see the proud new statehouse, a grand stucco building crowned with a bell tower. Down by the wharf, a long tree-lined driveway led from William Trent’s fine brick mansion to the water. There, sloops of varying sizes rocked back and forth in the wind.

  Upon arriving in Trenton, Mr. Adams caught a bad cold, and Johnny found himself racing about the town to procure hyssop, sage, and balm, all of which, Adams insisted, were necessary to his continued survival.

  Mr. Adams was a poor patient, fractious and unwilling to amend his daily routine. But from his bed he wished to discuss an issue with Johnny, over which he was in some anguish. He was about to send a convoy to France to negotiate a peace treaty. “The trouble is,” he began, “I don’t trust my cabinet. Pickering, McHenry, Wolcott, and especially that rogue Hamilton are against treating with France. I fear they’ll endeavor to subvert the mission.”