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

by Jodi Daynard

  Suddenly, Mama was beside us, having heard but a few words.

  “I am right? In what respect, pray?”

  Jeb ignored her question and continued, “You must know by now that our town is entirely divided, and that Mr. Inman and his family shall soon be pariahs.”

  “By that measure, so shall ours,” I replied. “At least we shall be on the same side.”

  “But not on mine,” said Jeb.

  Mama, ignoring Jeb, turned to me and inquired, “So, Eliza, how did Mr. Inman’s visit go?”

  5

  SO LONG AS I ORBITED MR. INMAN, my star rose into the heavens. But the rest of our country seemed to be heading in quite the opposite direction. Five days after Mr. Inman’s visit, a band of men with faces painted like Indians mounted three British ships and dumped three hundred and sixty cartons of tea into Boston harbor.

  “They’ve gone mad. Completely, utterly mad,” said Papa at dinner, reading the broadside about the event the following Monday. “Honestly, I know not what shall become of us.”

  Neither Mama nor I had any comment to make. Jeb was absent, having spent the past several days in Boston with friends.

  “Perhaps we should write Jeb to come home,” Mama said at last. “I like not that he’s in town just now. It’s not safe.”

  “Oh, I imagine he’s safe enough. Besides, it would serve him right to get into some trouble,” grumbled Papa.

  “Oh, but what now? They’ll close the port altogether, and then we shall all starve.”

  “That is going too far, Mr. Boylston.” Mama frowned.

  “We shall see,” Papa answered her, unconvinced. But even I had begun to notice that the atmosphere in Cambridge had grown tense. When once our family had been at the apex of society, we now had to lower our eyes on the way to church as the cool, unfriendly eyes of local militia and townsfolk followed us the entire way. How unfair, I thought, that we should be blamed for taxes imposed by a distant king!

  Toward the end of that afternoon, Jeb arrived home. He was filthy, and upon his face were faint traces of black tar. We all ran out to greet him as he, scant of breath, confessed, “Mama, Papa, I fear I’m in danger.”

  “Son, what has happened?” asked Papa, reaching to pull him indoors. He had not noticed the tar, as I had, nor reached my alarming conclusion.

  Jeb paused in the doorway, as if unsure of how to continue. “I have—I have been involved in something in Boston, and I hear they pursue us.”

  “What have you done, Jeb?” I approached him, moving between him and our father, who seemed slow to comprehend.

  “Hear me out. I may be arrested at any moment.” We quickly entered, and Jeb paced restlessly in the foyer as he spoke. He would not remove his cape. Mama looked as if she might faint. Jeb kept glancing out the windows every other moment.

  “Tell us,” Papa said sternly. “We will know the truth!”

  “Then you shall have it!” Jeb replied angrily. “For near two years, I have been a member of the Sons of Liberty. It was I who dumped the tea into the harbor. I and my mates. It was high time for someone to take a stand.”

  “Oh, Jeb!” I cried, reaching out to him. I had heard of the Sons of Liberty. They were the same dastardly group that had set fire to the Gaspee the previous June.

  Mama and Papa were perilously silent. Papa finally looked at his son. “I shall protect you as far as I am able, because to do otherwise would be our ruin. But be it known that henceforth you are no son of mine.”

  “Papa, you can’t mean it,” I said.

  “I can and do.” He turned away, and Mama followed him.

  “Jeb, why?” I grasped his arm. I fervently wished to understand my brother’s frustration, but I could not. All I could see was the danger, the foolhardiness of what he did. “You might have been killed.”

  “I follow my beliefs, Sister, as each of us must do.”

  “Surely you understand that we can bear no more heartbreak. Promise me you shall stop these treasonous, dangerous activities.”

  He leaned into me and whispered, “I love you very dearly, Eliza. But I can make no such promise.”

  We every moment expected a knock at the door. Henceforth, we would live in constant fear of reprisals, and we suspected everyone of knowing what Jeb had done. Thankfully, however, Papa did not make good on his threat to disown Jeb. He might have, once. But I believe he simply had not the heart to lose another child.

  I ceased going to Mr. Curtis’s dance studio; it was now late November, and the weather was growing cold. What’s more, Mama did not like the idea of my visiting town under the circumstances. I was gratified to know that she cared more about my life than my marriage prospects, if only slightly. In any case, Mr. Inman visited me several times during his vacation from school. Each time, my feelings were most puzzling: as he descended his carriage, my heart contracted with excitement. Yet within moments of speaking to Mr. Inman, this positive impression faded, and I was left with the uncomfortable sensation that I can only describe as . . . something cold and rapacious in his eyes, at odds with his words, smiles, or erect bearing.

  It was to avoid those eyes that, on Mr. Inman’s third visit, I asked him if he cared to play a game of chess.

  “Maria and I often played. And I often lost,” I added, guiding him, under Mama’s watchful gaze, to the library. “But then winning or losing hardly matters, does it?”

  “Certainly not.” Mr. Inman grinned. “Unless one happens to like winning.”

  “Do you like winning, Mr. Inman?”

  “Of course,” he laughed easily.

  Ten minutes later, however, he was not so smug when I removed his queen and said, “Check.”

  “Blast!” He lifted himself off his seat slightly, the better, perhaps, to see what he had not noticed before. Then Mr. Inman, beginning to panic, searched for a way out. He evaded me but two more turns before I said, “Mate.”

  Mr. Inman stood up abruptly and gave the table a little shove with his thigh. The pieces clattered and shifted, and for a moment, I thought the entire board would come crashing to the floor. However, it just managed to right itself in time to avert disaster. “Confounded luck!” he said.

  “Precisely,” I said mildly. He turned toward me with an unfriendly, almost hostile stare.

  “Beaten by a green girl. Not every man could take it so well as I, you know.” Mr. Inman endeavored a smile, though I thought it not quite sincere.

  “I’m sure you’ll have better luck next time, Mr. Inman.” Then I thought that perhaps there would not be a next time, for it was almost certain that I had offended him by winning. I silently cursed myself for being so tactless.

  Mr. Inman soon took his leave, but he returned twice more during his vacation and then later, in the spring. Each time we played chess, I made sure to let him win.

  Mama could not have been more pleased by my growing connection to Mr. Inman. She prevailed upon Papa to buy me two more gowns. Louisa, drawn to my rising status, began to visit again as well.

  “You are the luckiest girl in all of Boston,” she said one day as Cassie helped me into a new gown.

  “Do I look very fine?” I asked, smiling. I already knew the answer.

  “That color suits you well. And, oh, your waist! If only I had such a waist!” Louisa did not have a narrow waist, but she did have an ample bosom, which I lacked. She whispered, “I have a secret to share that will greatly improve the fit of your bodice.”

  “Do tell,” I said, amused.

  When Louisa had taken her leave, Cassie turned to me: “Dere is nutteeng wrong wit’ yah bosoms, Mees Eliza. Yah got the sweetest little bosoms I ever seen, and a man would count himself lucky, ’ee get his hands on dem.”

  “Cassie!” I cried. “You’re incorrigible.”

  She nodded solemnly. “Yes, Mees Eliza.”

  Papa’s wild predictions from the fall turned out to be prescient, for in March, Parliament voted to close Boston Harbor and demand reparations. In June, General Gage, our
governor, sealed the harbor tight, using the formidable British navy to do so. But instead of being angry with England, Papa kept muttering, “This is our own son’s doing. If only the damned Rebels would let things alone! Let us pay the fine and be done with it.”

  What shipments arrived now had to make their slow way down from Portsmouth. Staples of our existence such as tea and meat became scarce. Papa announced over dinner one afternoon that he would let go of the butler.

  “Who is to answer the door, pray?” asked Mama.

  “With any luck, we shan’t have to answer the door,” said Papa wryly.

  For those in Boston, it was far worse: people soon took to the town middens after market, in search of food. Our circumstances were not so dire, although going without tea did give me a terrible headache.

  As for Mr. Inman, the closing of the harbor put a damper on his high spirits, for the Harvard overseers had decided to cancel commencement. Normally commencement was a giddy, weeklong debauchery, something the students looked forward to almost from the moment of their entrance to college.

  I was disappointed for the boys, but Papa said it was just as well to rid our town of such havoc, since the real thing was nearly upon us.

  “Oh, Mr. Boylston, you exaggerate,” said Mama. “At least the Inmans shan’t cancel their party.”

  “Perhaps they should, though.”

  Mama was right, however. When next I saw Mr. Inman, he mentioned the party once more.

  “Mr. Inman,” I asked, “how is it your family is able to host such an event when goods are hardly to be had at any cost and must be hauled all the way from Portsmouth?”

  “Oh,” he replied, “that is no very great obstacle for my family. We have ships in Portsmouth.”

  “I see.”

  Mama suddenly entered the parlor where we sat conversing. She turned to Mr. Inman, and my heart pounded, for I could not guess what she might wish to say to him.

  “Mr. Inman.” She smiled warmly. “I am very glad to see you again.”

  Mama behaved as if we had always socialized with the Inman family, but we had not. She had been great friends with the first Mrs. Inman but didn’t care for the second and current one, finding her a “poseur” and rather “vulgar.” However, this did not change her conviction that the younger Mr. Inman would be an excellent match for me.

  “And I you, madam.” He bowed.

  “My husband—Mr. Boylston and I were very sorry to hear of the college’s decision to dispense with commencement this year.” This I knew to be a lie, for Papa had only that morning expressed his relief at this turn of events. “I know it is an event to which you all look forward.”

  “It’s true, madam. My fellow students and I were ready to get ourselves up to all sorts of mischief.” Mr. Inman winked at me, as if to say, “Oh, but you know I am not that sort of fellow.”

  “Mischief—oh!”

  “Mama.” I sighed. “I’m sure Mr. Inman is joking.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. But if I may . . . we should like to invite you to dinner Saturday next. To condole, as it were, with your disappointments. We shall, of course, be inviting your parents as well.”

  Mr. Inman bowed once more. “It is an honor, and, for myself, I accept with alacrity.” He flashed me a complicit grin, and I returned the smile, though dinner with the Inmans put far more terror in my heart than joy. I had little doubt but that it was for them to observe—and approve—the merchandise.

  Saturday, June 11, 1774. Dinner with the Inmans began pleasantly enough. Mrs. Inman complimented Mama’s new summer gown, and Mama congratulated the Inmans on their son’s graduation. Earlier, Mama had been in a panic when a shipment of quail that we had been expecting at market was unexpectedly delayed somewhere in Newburyport. All morning she fretted that we would go without meat for dinner. At the last moment, however, the quail arrived, saving the day.

  As we ate the quail, the topic of the tea-dumping arose, and while Jeb was thankfully not in attendance, having wisely chosen to remain in town that day, Mr. Inman, believing himself to be in like-minded company, insisted that the perpetrators of the event “be hung by their necks in the square!”

  “Just so, just so,” said Papa, after which an uncomfortable silence reigned, for which no amount of quail could compensate.

  After dinner, the men chose to have a brandy in the library. We ladies took our cranberry tea in the parlor. When I chanced to look in at the men, I noticed that Mr. Inman senior sat smoking—alone. I moved toward Papa’s study and heard voices. The door was closed, but I knew both voices well. What could Mr. Inman want with Papa? I suddenly feared that perhaps Mr. Inman knew something about Jeb and his activities in town. Was he warning Papa about Jeb, or threatening to expose him? I knew not. When he finally emerged, however, Mr. Inman was smiling, and Papa said quite affably, “Come, let’s have a smoke.” I returned to the parlor to finish my tepid cranberry tea with Mama and Mrs. Inman.

  After such a long dinner, I wished little more than that they would all depart. George Inman had been casting me knowing smiles all evening, and I was tired of smiling back at him. But I was to suffer one more scene with him. Papa, in a jovial spirit, announced that he considered it “no very great evil” were the “young folk” to have a few minutes to themselves. I did as Papa bade.

  We sat in the library while our parents took themselves into the parlor, entreating us only to “leave the door open as wide as a holy Bible.”

  Mr. Inman had begun to speak about his plans after graduation when Cassie entered the room with a tray of sweetmeats and two cordial glasses. As she moved to set the tray down upon the table, Mr. Inman’s attention shifted to the book that rested there. As it happened, it was Homer’s Odyssey, the same tome that Maria had read and that I had not opened since her death.

  “Oh, Homer—most marvelous,” Mr. Inman intoned. “Though you know Homer himself never wrote a word of it. Nor was he its creator. Not per se.”

  I knew all this and more about the blind poet but thought it prudent to say nothing. Mr. Inman, however, misunderstood my silence.

  “Pardon me. Perhaps you do not like to read. Some ladies find it taxing on the eyes.”

  “But I do,” I said quietly.

  Cassie, having set the tray down beside the Odyssey, seemed unwilling to leave me alone with Mr. Inman; she stood sentry by the door. Catching sight of her lingering presence, and perhaps frustrated by my sudden reserve, Mr. Inman said, “She’s a pretty little thing. Not young, though. I’d say about thirty. Am I correct?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Mr. Inman now turned to our slave. “Come in, come in. I won’t bite.”

  “What would you have with Cassie, Mr. Inman?”

  He grinned. Perhaps he felt a certain proprietary right over both of us, now that our fathers had shared a glass of brandy. “Why, only to know whether she reads. Some of them do, these days, you know. They hide it from us. Here—” Mr. Inman lifted the tome and held it before Cassie. “Now, what does this say?” he asked, pointing a long, thin finger to the gilt letters on the cover.

  Cassie glanced at me briefly before lowering her eyes. “I don’t know,” she replied.

  “Come on, now,” he objected. “I know you do. Read it. What’s this word? Homer. That’s right. And this letter. What is it? Surely the Boylstons have not been so negligent as to leave you in darkest ignorance?” He laughed at his own joke.

  “I don’t know, sir. Maybe an A,” Cassie guessed. I saw tears well in her eyes, yet still I said nothing. Oh, why wouldn’t Mr. Inman leave her alone?

  Mr. Inman turned back to me. “They’re all such good liars, Miss Boylston. Terribly good. We have something to learn from them, surely, if only we would suffer to be close to them long enough.” Here, he actually pinched the nostrils of his nose.

  I stood up. “Cassie,” I said, masking my annoyance with Mr. Inman by my harshness toward her, “you may return to the kitchen.”

  Mr. Inman laughed. “Loya
lty to your old mammy—it is most fetching. Most fetching, indeed.”

  “Mr. Inman, I’m sorry, but I have a frightful headache coming on. Please excuse me.” I curtsied and left the room, leaving him to bow and join our families. I heard the rustlings of concern among them. Mortified, I ran into the kitchen just as Mr. Inman made my excuses to his parents.

  Cassie was clearing up after us, and we both soon heard the carriage pull away. “Oh, Cassie! Dear Cassie!” I flew into her arms. “I have been such a fool. Such a terrible little fool.”

  She held me to her breast as I cried. I suppose I expected her to give me words of comfort, but instead she said, “You expectin’ an argument, you won’ get none from me, Miss Eliza.”

  6

  I DID NOT SEE MR. INMAN THE following week, and it was with some relief that I thought courtship together a thing of the past. Consider my surprise, then, when a messenger appeared at our door carrying an invitation from the Inmans. It was lavishly engraved in blue ink and read, “Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Inman request the Honor of your Presence at a Soiree for their Son George Inman.”

  “Mama!” I called from the foyer. She entered from the library, where she had been discussing something with Papa. When I saw her, I proffered the invitation and said, “I can’t believe it.”

  “What is it you cannot believe, Eliza?” asked Mama.

  “I cannot believe that Mr. Inman would continue to pursue my acquaintance after everything that has happened.”

  “Why, what has happened? I heard you told him that you had a headache.”

  “He was abominably rude to Cassie. I hold it not gentlemanly to mortify a poor servant for no good reason. Surely you must have overheard.”

  “Oh, somewhat,” she said vaguely, shrugging her narrow little shoulders. “But one mustn’t make more of things than they are.”

  I moved away in slow and stately fashion, only to fly to Cassie the moment I was out of Mama’s sight.

  She was placing a loaf of bread in the oven. The kitchen was hot, and perspiration dripped from her forehead.