Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series Book 2)

by Jodi Daynard

  “Oh, Sister, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He grabbed onto my shoulders. Mama and Papa turned around to see what had happened.

  “Of what do you speak?” Papa asked accusingly. His eyes blazed, though he could not have heard us.

  “Nothing,” I said, wiping my own eyes indecorously with a sleeve. “Let us continue on.”

  Reverend Winwood spoke about the fragility of life and the need for readiness. No doubt he meant to be a comfort. Mama and Papa nodded at his every sentence, yet I found it vexing to be lectured—nay, scolded—on a topic we understood all too well. What’s more, the reverend had a terrible stutter, and his p-pronouncements up-pon the f-fragility of li-li-life always made Jeb want to explode in laughter. On this day, however, I knew that, were I to so much as glance at Jeb, I would laugh and cry simultaneously, and I shielded my eyes from him with one hand through the entire service.

  From the church we then moved into the graveyard, where we stood in the frigid cold. Our stiffened fingers grasped the newly upturned dirt to throw into the grave. Mama swooned and sat down upon a large rock. Jeb and I hugged each other and wept.

  On the way home, Jeb, who had been walking silently by my side, paused when we reached our snowy garden by the Charles. I turned toward the house, but he moved the other way, pushing through the mounds of snow down to the partially frozen river. There, he took something from his pocket and hurled it ferociously across the water. “Damn Dr. Bullfinch!” I saw the object sail into the air and land with a plunk. It was the pop gun he had made for Maria. I turned in a panic, fearful that our parents had heard my brother’s cry.

  “Come on, Jeb,” I called. He turned and looked up at me, his shoulders shaking. Tears ran unchecked down his red face. “Come on,” I repeated. “Let us be a comfort to one another.”

  “There is no comfort in me, Eliza,” he said. “Only rage.”

  “There is no rage in me, only misery,” I replied. “I thought her well. Her neck was . . . pale. Dr. Bullfinch said it was not the throat distemper.”

  “It was,” Jeb said. “He admits as much now.”

  But my mind had traveled back to the day before Maria died. “We spoke of our futures, our dreams”—I broke off, weeping. “Oh, Jeb, surely anger would be better than this?”

  Jeb shook his head. “Be careful what you wish for, Sister.”

  Mama cancelled the party. Jeb’s lessons were suspended, and he and I spent the daylight hours dully playing cards in the library, finding games less painful than speech. Our father sobbed periodically throughout the day, always turning his back on us and pretending a sudden need to blow his nose. In our mother’s eyes, however, we saw tears only once: when Maria’s coffin had been lowered into the ground, and she had sat upon the rock to keep from falling.

  We ignored Thanksgiving entirely, though perhaps it was wrong of us to do so. Surely there was something to be thankful for. Maria would have found something. My sixteenth birthday came and went. The house, shrouded in black crepe, remained unlit. Jeb spent more and more time away from us, and when he was with us, he and Papa argued. Papa grumbled that he didn’t see why he’d bothered to work all his life when Jeb despised wealth and planned to give it all to his beloved “common man.” Jeb retorted that he didn’t know how Papa could support the crown when every day even he, Papa, had fewer and fewer rights. Mama and I stayed clear of them both—we had no strength for quarreling.

  The March thaw finally came. I had not heard from my friend Louisa, and I wondered what had prevented her from condoling with us. Perhaps there had been illness in her house as well.

  In April the purple crocuses popped their heads up in the lawn. Daffodils in all their frilly finery made an appearance, and Mr. Cardinal came around once more, bringing his pale-pink lady with him. O, brilliant pair!

  One morning I was awakened by the sweet perfume of hyacinths coming through a crack in my window. I rose from my bed and descended the stairs, still in my shift, to follow the smell. It lured me out of doors. To passersby, I must have appeared a ghostly figure. Closer I came to it; I sought it out—here? No. There? When I finally found the hyacinths—oh, that first, fragrant, blue clump of life—I buried my face in them, weeping in gratitude for my senses, and for Maria.

  I spent the spring, and indeed much of the summer, on the banks of the Charles. I followed the sun as it traveled from Boston into the heavens and then westward, past Watertown. I felt myself caught in its consoling light as children played catch, couples strolled, and families ate their dinners on blankets, en plein air.

  It was nearly autumn before Mama revived. One bright September morning, as we sat at breakfast, she announced, “Eliza, it will please you to know that you are to take dance lessons from Mr. Curtis, of King Street. I have heard it from Mrs. Ruggles that Louisa shall be attending as well.”

  “Indeed?” I said without much enthusiasm. Once, the idea of traveling to Boston for such a purpose would have delighted me. Now I felt only a faint dread of society. What’s more, I was quite tan, having spent all summer in the sun. But accepting Mama’s proposal did mean that I would need a new gown or two, a new bonnet, and a suitable pair of shoes, and such a thought, while it did not send me into the ecstasies of expectation that it might once have done, did lift my heart in a consolingly familiar way.

  “Thank you, Mama,” I said. “It’s a marvelous idea.” I ran to Papa to request the new items at once.

  Mr. Curtis’s dance studio stood at the top of King Street near the Town House. It was a busy market area with shops and taverns, and foreign goods fresh off the ships in the harbor. Inside the studio, an old crone with palsied hands, dressed in an unfashionable gown, sat at a spinet. Many girls I knew were there, and one by one they curtsied to me, expressing their mourning duties. Louisa stood among the girls in a lovely violet gown.

  “Eliza, how are you?” she said, clasping my hands with her usual earnestness.

  “Very well.”

  “You are tan,” she remarked.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I suppose it shall fade soon enough.” After a moment, she cast her eye to the other side of the room. “Regard the boys. There is not a single one with whom I should be delighted to—”

  Louisa broke off, and a sudden hush came upon the crowd. I soon saw why: Mr. George Inman, the veritable crown prince of Cambridge, had arrived. He stood at the studio’s entrance beside his valet.

  Mr. Inman was not particularly tall, but his limbs were comely, his posture erect. Perhaps three or four years my elder, he was dressed in the finest blue cutaway coat, and in the shine on his boots, one could see a fair likeness of oneself. He had a long face with a long, rod-straight aquiline nose. A cleft chin leant distinction to an already handsome face, and his eyes matched the blue of his costume. He smiled, perfectly aware of the effect he made among us ladies.

  Murmurs of “Ooh, look!” and “What’s he doing here, I wonder?” flew about the crowd as each girl pinched her cheeks and sucked at her lips. Soon Mr. Inman’s valet moved off to sit at the back of the room, while the paragon himself joined the crowd.

  For the next forty minutes, I was insensible to all but our instructor’s voice as Mr. Curtis cried, “And one and two, step right and left!” I was not a natural at dancing, and I had to concentrate so as not to fall on my face. At the end of the hour, as I sighed with relief, Mr. Inman approached me.

  “Miss Boylston. I see you’ve survived the hour—barely.”

  “Yes, barely.” I returned his smile. But I wondered: What had I done to merit his attention?

  Mr. Inman looked at me thoughtfully. “But allow me to introduce myself. Mr. George Inman.” He bowed.

  I curtsied, and then Mr. Inman said, “Miss Boylston, would you do me the honor of allowing me to call upon you in Cambridge?”

  The others in the room heard Mr. Inman’s request. Louisa’s mouth actually gaped in surprise. I took a spiteful pleasure in her envy and then frowned at myself.

  But I said,
“You may,” and then curtsied most prettily.

  The moment I arrived home, I swooped down upon Papa, who was at his desk. “Papa, the most amazing thing has happened, and I’m afraid you must order me a new gown at once.”

  “Afraid? Why, pray?”

  “Oh, Papa.”

  “Well, does the queen arrive? Are we to have a royal visit?” Papa smiled at his own wit but did not look up from his papers.

  “Nearly. Mr. Inman wishes to call upon me Saturday next.”

  “Hmf.” He shrugged, but I could tell that he was impressed. “I suppose things could be worse. Well, well.” Papa finally looked up at me, and though his voice had been teasing, his eyes were sad. “You’ve hardly asked for a thing all year, so I won’t deny you. Mr. Inman, you say? Shall he get his degree at last? It’s been about a decade, I believe. Well, I suppose if one has wealth, brains are hardly necessary.”

  “Oh!” I flew back out of his study to find Mama, whom I knew would make more of a fuss over my news. After all, she had sent me to Mr. Curtis to catch a big fish, and I had obliged her by doing so.

  From the first, Jeb seemed determined to ruin my chances with Mr. Inman. For one thing, he refused to go to church with us that Sunday, an absence that would surely be talked about.

  We had breakfasted as usual and stood waiting for him at the door when he arrived in the foyer only to say, “I’m very sorry, Mama, Papa, but I can’t tolerate one more sermon by that p-pedantic p-parson or his blasted p-prayer for the k-king.”

  “What mean you by that, Jeb? Surely you cannot mean to remain behind,” Mama objected.

  “Indeed not,” Papa agreed.

  “It does seem cruel to mock him,” I added, though at the very thought of the man I had to purse my lips to keep from laughing.

  “I shan’t go,” Jeb said, folding his arms and looking steadfastly at the floor.

  Mama cried, “But what shall we say to the Inmans?”

  Jeb shrugged. “Perhaps you could say I have strained my back and cannot sit.”

  “Jeb, that is hardly credible,” I objected.

  “Well, then, tell them that I am dead and lie in state. What do I care what you tell the Inmans?”

  Out of nowhere, a hand came through the air and slapped Jeb across the face.

  “How dare you speak to your mother like that,” Papa said. “Go to your chamber.”

  I grabbed Jeb’s arm and led him aside as he massaged his stinging cheek.

  “Jeb, you are cruel. Only think how Mama has suffered,” I whispered. “And really, your timing could hardly be worse.”

  “Why is that?” Jeb looked at me questioningly.

  “Haven’t you heard? Mr. Inman plans to pay me a visit on Saturday.”

  Jeb frowned but made no reply. To Mama, however, he turned back and said, “I’m sorry, Mama. But surely you must feel the winds of change. Our citizens will fight for the rights denied them. Perhaps you women are content to remain children, being told what to do, but our men will be men. Very likely, we shall soon be at war.”

  Mama took a step away from Jeb. “I don’t know how you can say such things,” she replied. “I shall say to anyone who asks that you are unwell.”

  “Say what you like.” He shrugged. “I shall go neither to church nor to my chamber.” Taking only his cap with him, Jeb pushed past us and walked swiftly toward the stables. “Juno! Ready my horse!” he called. Then, as an afterthought, he turned to us and said, “Do not wait for me for dinner, for I shan’t return before tomorrow.”

  Mama, cold and hard a moment earlier, now burst into tears. Papa bellowed, “Blast that confounded child!” and moved to console her. I was left to wonder why Jeb disapproved so of Mr. Inman.

  The following Saturday, Cassie spent the better part of the morning preparing me for Mr. Inman’s visit, beginning with a bath, then a powdering that masked the remains of my tan.

  “Cassie, you’ll make me look like a statue.”

  “Den ’ee worsheep you like ’ee should.” She nodded for emphasis.

  I glanced behind my shoulder at her and sighed, upon which Cassie trussed me tight as a turkey. Then she helped me into a new blue silk damask gown, whose fluttery sleeves were the very height of London fashion. I sat upon my bed and, on my feet, Cassie placed a pair of brocade shoes so new that they posed a slipping hazard on our freshly waxed floors. Carefully, I stood up. “How do I look?” I asked her, circling slowly about.

  “Good enough to eat, Miss Eliza. You just watch he don’ try ’eet.”

  “Cassie.” I frowned. “Mr. Inman is a gentleman.”

  “Dere no such ting, Miss Eliza.”

  “You’re a little fool. Go back to the kitchen and get ready.” Cassie bowed her head and was off. Over the summer, we had let go a number of servants, and Cassie was now but three remaining ones, not counting the stableboy, Juno, and our old coachman.

  I was soon demurely waiting for Mr. Inman in the front parlor. Mama paced the foyer.

  “Mama, would you kindly find an occupation? You shall embarrass me by hovering about like that.”

  “Oh, but this is so exciting, is it not?” She smiled warmly at me. Such a smile from her was a rare occurrence.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I feel quite nervous, somehow. Cassie says he might try to eat me, and the truth is, I do find his pale eyes rather wolflike.”

  Mama’s smiled vanished. She glided quickly over to me as if her feet had turned into wheels. “Cassie is deranged,” she said. “And I’m beginning to think you are, too. How could one not like Mr. Inman?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know, but—please go. Papa!” I cried. At the threat of Papa’s intervention, Mama wheeled herself out of the parlor and disappeared up the stairs. Five minutes later, I heard the clop of horses’ hooves. I peered out the window to see a very fine carriage with two sleek pacers and an ebony coachman stop before the house. Mr. Inman descended, and I turned back quickly, so that he would not see me waiting for him.

  Our butler went to open the door, and in Mr. Inman strode. He looked about him, and I watched with bursting pride as his gaze came to rest on our glorious staircase. Mr. Inman turned, and I stood to greet him. “Mr. Inman,” I began with a curtsy. “It’s very good to see you.” From the corner of my eye, I caught Mama peering down at us from the top of the stairs, and my heart thumped with irritation. “Please, have a seat. Have you been well, Mr. Inman?”

  “Indeed,” he grinned. His cool blue eyes assessed me boldly, which made me blush. “I’m infernally busy, though, what with our upcoming exams, and a declamation I must give for the Speaking Club.”

  “Oh? A declamation? Upon what topic, pray?” Here, thank goodness, was something to discuss.

  But Mr. Inman replied, “I’ve no wish to bore you, Miss Boylston. At least, not on my first visit.”

  “No, sir,” I smiled encouragingly, favorably impressed by his willingness to poke fun at himself.

  “Very well, then. It is on the story of Dionysius and Damocles. Do you have an opinion on that?”

  “Indeed, I do. Do you wish to hear it?”

  Mr. Inman was all astonishment, whether feigned or no, I knew not. “Do you mean to tell me that you know who those men were?”

  “Of course.” I laughed. “My brother, Jeb, would say that such a legend about the evanescent nature of power is an apt one for our time.”

  Mr. Inman nodded thoughtfully, and I believed we would then discuss the topic. But he changed tack. “I was sorry not to have the pleasure of attending your party last year. Am I to have the pleasure of attending another?”

  I could not at first reply, so swift and unexpected was the pain he caused me. Surely he knew why we had cancelled the party? I managed to say, “We haven’t discussed such a thing as yet.”

  Seemingly unaware of my change in tone, he said cheerfully, “Well, I have already begun to plan my graduation party next summer. Or, that is, Papa has. Everyone shall be there. Including you, I hope.” I knew he s
ought my eyes, but they were fixed upon the pattern of my brocade shoes.

  “If you wish it,” I said.

  “Well, then, that’s all settled.”

  After making a few easy remarks upon Mr. Curtis’s dance studio and the poor pianist, Mr. Inman took his leave. I remained sitting in a whirling vortex of emotion for several minutes.

  Jeb returned just as Mr. Inman’s carriage left. Upon entering the house, he accosted me at once. “Eliza, how can you be so foolhardy as to entertain that fellow?”

  I looked up out of my fog. “Why, what can you mean? Mama says it’s an honor that he has chosen to single me out. The girls at Mr. Curtis’s school were green with envy.”

  “Know you nothing at all? Is that pretty head filled with air?” he replied.

  “What should I know about Mr. Inman that I do not? He is a student at the college and shall graduate this summer. He has plans to work for his uncle in Boston.” I recalled how Jeb had failed his Harvard entrance exams and now, it seemed, refused to take them again. How he planned to support himself was an endless topic of concern for our parents.

  “Eliza.” He grasped my arm and then whispered, “His reputation is by no means stellar. He plays at cards and loses a great deal of money. He is at the bottom of his class, or very near it—”

  I laughed. “You are not even that high!”

  Jeb took no offense; he merely shrugged, as if to say that school was for boys, and he was a man.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mama’s skirts on the stairs above, swishing as if they would descend.

  “Eliza.” Jeb grasped my hands. “There are other things as well. Rude things not for a sister’s ears.”

  “Things,” I said dismissively. “You know nothing for certain, do you?”

  “I know that Mr. Inman’s distinguished uncle, as you call him, aids the East India Company, which shall soon enough be our mortal enemy.”

  “Our mortal enemy? Come now, Jeb. How can a company selling tea, of all things, be anyone’s mortal enemy? Mama is right, I think, when she says you tend to exaggerate.”