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

by Jodi Daynard

  She was as good as her promise and soon returned with a fresh pitcher of water and a letter for him. It was from Marcia.

  “Would you kindly open this letter for me? That is—can you read?”

  The woman smiled and opened the letter. She squinted at it. “It’s got only one line, sir.”

  “What does it say?” Johnny endeavored to sit up but found his body unwilling to oblige.

  “It says, ‘My father went to his Maker Friday last. Please come!’”

  Johnny needed little persuasion to quit Philadelphia, but it would be another three days before he could rise up from his bed and dress himself. As soon as he was able, he sent a note to Mr. Adams regarding Mr. Burnes’s death and another to Miss Burnes, stating that he would arrive the following week. He said nothing to either of them about his beating.

  The journey was not comfortable. Johnny’s head pounded constantly, and he could not sit up without feeling he would puke. The carriage felt as if it had no springs at all. Each knock upon the ground cracked his already sore bones. Traveling this time, Johnny saw no lovely vistas, nor did he touch the food presented to him at the taverns where he stopped along the way.

  Johnny’s mood had grown as black as his eyes. He could not help but wonder who it was who had discovered his article, and he could not help but feel that somehow, his old friend Peter Fray had had a hand in it.

  Before he quitted Philadelphia, Johnny sent word to his editor about what had happened to him. Dennie wrote back to say that the errand boy whom Johnny had spoken to never returned to work after that day. His whereabouts were unknown. They had to assume that the boy was a paid informant for the Republican press. Paid spies were everywhere, it seemed.

  When Marcia Burnes opened the door to Johnny’s carriage, she found him lying face down across one seat, swaddled in blankets.

  “Why, Johnny,” she cried, “what has happened?” Had his breath not been visible, she would have thought he was dead. Marcia and the coachman helped Johnny up to his chamber at Tunnicliff’s Hotel, for he could not mount the stairs unaided. This was a newly built hotel that stood just east of the Capitol’s north wing.

  “Come, darling. Driver!”

  “My head pounds,” Johnny replied.

  “I will get you some tea—would you care for something to eat?”

  “No, my stomach heaves. The journey was abysmal.”

  They managed to get Johnny up to his chamber, a bright, new, and airy room that faced the partly built Capitol Building.

  Ginny, the young slave girl whom Johnny had met on his prior trip to Washington, ran off to fetch tea. Marcia paced and fretted, waving a fan at her bosom all the while. “But who did this to you, pray? And why?”

  Johnny shut his eyes. “Marcia, I shall explain everything by and by. I’ve not the energy now.”

  “But there can be no good or sensible explanation for it, of that I’m certain.”

  Johnny said only, “I wrote a piece for the newspapers that some fellows took issue with.”

  “What did it say? What could you possibly have said that would make people so violent?”

  “I did not make them violent. They already were that. In fact, the article ne’er saw the light of day.”

  Miss Burnes looked confused, but then she asked, “Does your mother know? She must be worried sick about you.”

  “God, no,” he said. “I would never frighten her so. All will soon be well. Thankfully, I may spare her suffering this time.”

  But Johnny’s mind was on a different topic entirely. His head hurt, and his mood was mercurial. At that moment, he brooded about Ginny.

  “Marcia,” he asked, “does Ginny now gain a salary for her efforts? Is she a freewoman?”

  “Ginny is a great help to me,” she replied evasively. “And to you, now. How do you propose I manage a household and grounds all alone?”

  “So you haven’t freed your father’s slaves?”

  “Oh, Johnny.” She smiled. “I fear you’ve been too long among those Northern idealists. Or perhaps it’s your injury—”

  “I am injured, it’s true,” he interrupted. “But my morality remains unscathed.” Rather than finding her lightheartedness amusing, he was irritated by it.

  “John,” she said, her own patience wearing thin. “I now own slaves. They were a gift to me from my father. Oh, you must know I abhor the idea of slavery just as much as you do. But why should we spend all that money when they are happy to work for us—well-fed and lodged? Indeed, they’ve told me so.”

  He was not convinced by such a specious argument. In Barbados, he had seen many a slave grin and nod at their masters as blood dripped down their faces from a beating, to assure them that all was well. For them to suggest otherwise was to invite a further beating, or worse.

  He had little strength to fight just then, but his injuries seemed to have simultaneously worn down his self-control and infused him with almost preternatural moral energy. “Marcia, you’re a wealthy woman now. You can afford to pay for servants.”

  She looked down at him witheringly as he lay upon the bed. “Easy for you to instruct me as to what I should do with my money.”

  “Pardon?” Miss Burnes’s mention of her own wealth was vulgar in the extreme, and her suggestion that he wished to control it even more so.

  Marcia walked out of his chamber, signaling for Ginny to follow. She did not return the following day. It was just as well; Johnny would not have been very civil to her. On the third day she reappeared, her demeanor efficient and nurse-like. “Would you like some tea?” she asked.

  “Please.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “A little.”

  After he had eaten, they both read books in silence.

  But after several hours of this icy treatment, Johnny could take it no longer.

  “Marcia, come. Sit here,” Johnny said.

  “I must arrange your medicines.” She reached for the washstand beside the bed, but Johnny stayed her arm.

  “Look at me.”

  She turned and looked at him with her green questioning eyes. “What, Johnny? What do you have to say to me?”

  “I’m sorry. I love you very much.” He looked at her tenderly, at her beautiful heart-shaped face.

  “I love you, too,” she said. Then, grudgingly, she added, “I don’t believe you’re merely interested in spending my money.”

  “Merely!” He laughed. “I am not interested in it at all. If you believe money to be my motive for anything, then you don’t know me.”

  “I know you, Johnny.” Finally she flashed him an affectionate smile. Oh, he had sorely missed it!

  As the weather warmed and Johnny gained strength, Marcia was relieved to find that Johnny had no thought of writing again for the papers. When she broached the topic of the presidential elections, he actually yawned. He began to go abroad, walking a little farther down Pennsylvania Avenue each day. One day, he had walked nearly to the President’s House before realizing that he should turn back.

  By June, he was strong enough to attend the gay picnics Marcia arranged. Together, they sat beneath the willow trees by the side of Goose Creek. Marcia brought food, which she set out upon a blanket. Occasionally, Miss Bron and Miss Scott joined them. At night, they went on moonlit rides along the Potomac. Sometimes, depending on the liberality of the chaperone, Johnny was able to pull Marcia behind a tree and kiss her. She always responded with a reciprocity he had never imagined possible in a woman.

  One night that June, when it had grown dark and there was no one about, Marcia urged Johnny to undo her chemise and place his hands on her breasts. She tossed her head back, shut her eyes, and said, “Oh, yes. Oh.” Johnny stopped, and she looked at him with her eyes shining like a cat’s.

  “Marcia,” he whispered, calling her back from wherever she had gone.

  “Oh, very well,” she said sulkily, drawing her chemise shut and tucking it back into her petticoat.

  Johnny resolved that the next
time Marcia complained about his being a gentleman, he would cease to be one.

  On the gray afternoon of June 28, 1800, Miss Burnes was sitting in the dining room at Tunnicliff’s when Johnny stepped abroad to see whether it rained. She noticed the Gazette on a neighboring table and picked it up. On the very front page, it read,

  To the Republican henchmen who beat me senseless. You wished to rob me of my right to free speech. But you have failed. What’s more, your acts shan’t go unpunished. To resort to inflicting bodily harm is unacceptable in an advanced civilized society, such as we aim to be . . .

  Johnny heard Marcia’s cry and returned to their table. She waved the paper at him. “What is this? I thought you were done with this dirty business.”

  “I’m done telling you about it, for I know how it must fill you with apprehension. As for the business itself, I shall never be done with it. We are at war, and the stakes are the continued existence of our country.”

  Marcia ignored Johnny’s high-minded words and sighed resignedly. “Oh, but you stir up such trouble this way!”

  “I stir up? Must I remind you that I was beaten half to death?”

  “Yes, and I fear they’ll finish the job next time. I told Peter you had ceased writing for the papers.”

  Johnny froze. “Peter? Have you seen him? Is he here?” A hollow darkness invaded him at this thought.

  “Nay. He writes me from Philadelphia.”

  “Why?”

  Marcia shrugged. “We’ve always corresponded, since we were children, nearly. Do you not still write to Kate?”

  This retort was more than Johnny could bear. He grasped her by the elbow. “Marcia, you must understand something.”

  She pulled out of his grasp and folded her arms defensively across her chest. “What must I understand, pray?”

  “I believe that Peter played a part in my attack.”

  Miss Burnes burst into laughter. For the first time, Johnny found the sound ugly.

  “Peter, attack you? That’s ridiculous.” She turned her thin shoulders away from him.

  “Nay, it’s true.”

  “Have you proof? I know he favors Jefferson, but many do. Papa did. And I must admit that I myself do not see the greatness in Adams that you do. Oh, perhaps, back in the day . . .”

  Johnny cut her off. “It’s more personal than that. I cannot say more.”

  “You cannot, or will not?”

  “I beseech you, Marcia. Have no further contact with him. If you do, there are things I could no longer discuss with you.”

  “By your own admission, there is already a great deal you don’t discuss with me.” She rose. “I leave for home. The servants need my guidance this afternoon.”

  “The slaves, you mean.”

  She frowned deeply and left without further comment.

  When she had gone, Johnny slammed his fist on the table in frustration, spilling his tea. A rebuttal to Johnny’s condemnation appeared in the Virginia Gazette that week. It did not worry him particularly, for it said only,

  To our esteemed colleague Littera Scripta Manet:

  Whether it would be a tragedy were our nation to dissolve remains to be seen. But that the written word endures—we find ourselves in agreement at last!

  Johnny spent his time making amends to Marcia. He reasoned that so long as he was with her, he might as well have a happy female as his companion, for an unhappy one was a miserable ordeal. Johnny even agreed to go to a dancing assembly with her. And, without apologizing, exactly, he let her know that he regretted their fight and that she was free to form or keep any friendship she chose. However, Johnny privately resolved never again to discuss his deepest concerns with this woman who was soon to be his wife.

  49

  July 1800

  ON AN UNUSUALLY FAIR DAY TOWARD THE end of July, Washington’s damp inhabitants were finally given a brief respite from the oppressive humidity. It almost felt like autumn when Johnny and Marcia toured the partially built Capitol’s south side. Clustered about the buildings were half a dozen wooden houses, shacks containing the essentials of daily life for the city’s masons, carpenters, and early arrivals from the government: a washerwoman, a printer, a dry goods store, a fishmonger, and a brewery. The latter establishment, Johnny thought mordantly, could hardly help to move the construction apace.

  Looking down Pennsylvania Avenue, Johnny saw not a single soul for near a mile. He held Marcia’s hand as they made their way, Marcia avoiding as best she could the sharp and dusty fragments of stone upon the uneven sidewalk.

  They had gone perhaps half a mile when Johnny stopped and turned around. He was suddenly inspired by the perfect lines of the streets radiating out like spokes from a wheel.

  “This shall be a beautiful city someday. An important city.”

  “If they ever finish it.” Marcia laughed.

  At last, they reached the President’s House. It had been much improved since Johnny had first seen it the previous year.

  “Shall we go in?” asked Marcia.

  “Might we?” asked Johnny, spirits rising.

  “Of course. I know all the workers. Ginny brings them refreshments nearly every day, and sometimes I accompany her.”

  What would eventually be the front of the mansion, as yet had no steps. Marcia led Johnny around to the back, where a wooden ramp led up to a pair of doors. They entered and found themselves standing in an elegant oval drawing room. Here, red flock paper with deep gilt borders had already been applied to the walls. Beyond the oval parlor, the couple walked between two columns and into a broad hall. To the left were the beginnings of a staircase.

  “Perhaps we’ll live here one day,” Marcia said. Johnny looked up too late to know whether she teased him.

  “I should be very content to live here,” he replied. At Johnny’s serious tone, Miss Burnes burst out laughing.

  August in Washington was hot unlike anything Johnny had ever experienced. Barbados had breezes by the water and was never so oppressively humid. There was little he felt like doing; it was hard to move at all. He and Marcia either sat beneath a tree by the creek or rowed out to Notley Young’s grand estate, where they were able to swim in his pond. Johnny could swim, but Marcia had never learned how. The first time they visited the pond, Marcia waded in, skirts and all. Johnny swam about in only his breeches. He swam in circles about Marcia, pretending to be a shark.

  She laughed anxiously and said, “Stop it, Johnny! You frighten me!”

  Some days, they planned their wedding. They were to be married in the Presbyterian Church in George Town, which Marcia had grown up attending. Afterward, guests would ride out to the Youngs’, where there would be music and dancing in the ballroom, and everything fine and delicious to eat: crab, goose, boar, ham, sugared fruit pyramids, and cakes. All would be served in the great hall that opened onto a broad veranda overlooking the river.

  Mr. Young placed his entire staff at the couple’s disposal. Thus far, Johnny had gone along with the plan without a word. As they sat by the creek, Johnny looked up at Marcia, whose thoughts, he knew, were filled with seating arrangements and décor. But he could not prevent himself from saying, “You know, Marcia, I like not the idea of Mr. Young’s slaves serving us on our wedding day.”

  “Who else would you have serve us?” she replied lightly.

  “I don’t know. Could you—could we not hire servants for the evening?”

  Marcia looked puzzled. “Why should we hire servants at great cost, when Mr. Young has so graciously offered us his full staff? They might easily do it and are already familiar with his kitchens.”

  “I don’t know—” He hesitated.

  “Fine.” Marcia shrugged and turned from him. “Let us be married at the Bunch of Grapes Tavern. My friends shall be delighted, I’m sure.” Marcia then burst into tears and went running down to the river, away from Johnny. He followed her. A tearful bride would not do, and Johnny quickly relented. “All right, if we must. As Mr. Young has so graciously op
ened his home to us, we shall do what is most convenient for our host.”

  Employing slaves for his own wedding! Johnny didn’t know how he’d arrived at this place. From Marcia’s point of view, it all made perfect sense; indeed, it was easy for their host. Then why did Johnny not insist on being married elsewhere? He knew the answer: it would be scandalous to suggest the Bunch of Grapes Tavern when the Notley Youngs had opened their beautiful estate to them. How could the “Heiress of Washington,” as everyone called her, possibly attend such an event? She could not.

  Johnny didn’t dare imagine what his family would say when they saw the opulent feast served by slaves.

  But Marcia was smiling. “Excellent! Let’s go in the water—it’s infernally hot!”

  Johnny had sorely begun to miss his own family. He even missed the times he had spent lugging dirt or boulders up Penn’s Hill, or how, returning home drenched in sweat, he would be bathed in a tin tub by women who treated him like the babe they had delivered. He missed chasing Miriam down to the shore to play catch or search for shells. But these memories seemed as distant as the ones from Barbados.

  It had now been one year since he had seen his mother and friends, nearly six since he had said good-bye to Cassie and his grandmother. He had not heard from Kate, but then, she must be occupied with her new home and husband Pearce or Parson—why could he never remember the fellow’s name?

  Just as Johnny thought he could take the oppressive heat no longer, it broke, and the cooler air brought him its usual lift of hope. But from the dark close holes of editorial offices, tongues spewed poison. The truth no longer seemed to matter: Were Jefferson to be elected, “Murder, robbery, rape, adultery, and incest will all be openly taught and practiced,” wrote a Connecticut newspaper that September. In October, the Aurora wrote, “The friend of peace will vote for Jefferson—the friends of war will vote for Adams or for Pinckney.”

  The newspapers were on fire, but Johnny would not touch that fire again. Spies were everywhere, and no pseudonym could protect him from retribution. He would have liked to warn Adams away from Washington. But on the morning of October 22, Johnny received a letter from the old man dated the twelfth of that month, from Peacefield: