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

by Jodi Daynard

  “Cassie?” I asked. “What think you of Mr. Inman? Be direct with me.”

  Cassie shrugged.

  “Well, I myself find him everything elegant and charming. And yet—is there not something self-satisfied and cold in his eyes? That is my question.”

  She turned to me, set her bread down, and stood to her full five feet. Then she shivered.

  “You wan’ Cassie tell you what she tink? Really tink?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well,” she began. “’Ees hollow. Dere nutteeng inside.” She tapped her own breast. “Maybe some garbage.”

  I smiled. Cassie’s judgment came as no surprise. “And in demeanor? Some days I think him quite handsome.”

  Here, Cassie made her feelings known by a frisson. “’Ee’s as white as milk. And ’ees bot-tom ’ees flat. ’Eet ’ees da sorriest bot-tom I evah seen. A woo-man must ’ave someteeng to ’old on to, Mees Eliza.”

  Cassie’s pronouncement on Mr. Inman’s bottom was so passionate and so grave that I let out a sudden snort of laughter.

  “Oh, Cassie,” I said. “You are priceless!”

  Mama began to prepare us all for the Inman’s party. While I had a fine new gown to wear, she fretted that my brocade shoes were “not quite the thing.” Louisa came to our rescue with a pair of her own, just my size.

  Jeb would not attend, not even under another threat of disinheritance. One night, when I nearly collided with him in the dark hallway before retiring, he said, “Eliza. How can you think of attending such an event when the people of Boston starve? Those who strut their wealth while others suffer shall soon be hoist on their own petard.”

  “You’re too extreme, Jeb,” I whispered, as our parents had already retired, and I feared waking them. “I see no evil in the fact that the Inmans wish to celebrate their son’s graduation.”

  “You sound like our mother.” He smirked. “No, you don’t see, I agree. But your blind eyes shall be opened soon enough. Mark my words, Sister.”

  Rebuked, I felt tears come to my “blind eyes” and blinked them back. “Oh, let’s not quarrel. Please.”

  “All right.” Jeb placed a hand affectionately on my shoulder. “Well, in any case, I have arranged to stay with friends in town for a few days. That should provide a good enough excuse for Mama. But Eliza,” he said and suddenly grasped my arm. “What if he asks your hand in marriage? You’re not tempted to say yes to Mr. Inman, are you?”

  “I’ve received no indication that he is thinking anything of the kind. However, do you not think that a woman be a fool to deny him?”

  “A woman would be a fool to accept him! Listen, Eliza.” Here, my brother pulled me into his room. “I have since made inquiries. Mr. Inman has led a debauched and careless life. He has all the faults of his class, and then some.”

  “Are we not of the same class?”

  “Perhaps. But I have decamped, and I pray you will come to your senses soon. We are on a sinking vessel, Sister, one not worth saving.”

  I was thoughtful, recalling Cassie’s words about Mr. Inman. “Cassie likes him not.”

  At this, Jeb laughed. “So, you take your opinions from Cassie now, do you? Well, Cassie happens to be right.”

  I grasped my brother’s hand and leaned in to him. “Cassie says his bot-tom is too flat, and that a woman must have something to hold on to. Is she right in this as well?”

  “Sister!” Jeb shut the door, which had been slightly ajar.

  “Shhh! Well, is she?”

  “How would I know such a thing? Lord, Eliza, how you surprise me sometimes. But if the thought of Mr. Inman’s flat ‘bot-tom’ is enough to keep you from marrying him, then know it to be the truest thing in the world.”

  7

  THE MORNING OF MR. INMAN’S PARTY WAS quite hot. We had enjoyed a temperate spring, but summer had arrived with a vengeance. Mama fretted that our satin gowns were too heavy and that stains would form beneath my arms. She insisted I wear pads of wool batting there, which I refused to do. How would I dance, having to worry at every step that the soaking wool would fall to the floor?

  “Oh, but what, then, shall prevent those unseemly stains? It is dreadfully hot!”

  “Mr. Inman will simply have to accept the fact that in hot weather women perspire, just as men do, Mama.”

  Jeb, who passed us in the hall, placed his hand on his rear end, and I warned him away by lifting my eyebrows.

  When it was time, Papa called for our finest carriage—that same barouche and four for which he’d sold Toby and Cato. It appeared before our house with a strange coachman, black as an Ethiop. He sat quite rigid and stared directly ahead, as if he wore the same blinders as did the horses. Perhaps he worried that his powdered wig would slide off his head.

  “Who is that?” I asked Mama, as we stood poised on the front steps.

  “He’s one of the Royalls’. Isn’t he fine looking? Your father borrowed him for the evening.” Isaac Royall Jr. and his family lived at a grand estate called Ten Hills Farm, in Medford.

  Just then, Papa joined us on the stairs. “Evening, my lovely ladies. Now, isn’t that a fine sight?” He glanced at the coachman with a self-satisfied air. “There are now merely nine hills at Ten Hills Farm. For I have taken one.”

  “Apparently, he was a prince of some sort,” added Mama. “Or so he avers to Mr. Royall.”

  “Poor man,” I replied. “He was once a royal prince, and now he is but Prince Royall.”

  Papa snorted at my joke, but Mama did not find humor in it. “Indeed not. The Royalls feed him excellent well and even give him his own room in the slave quarters.”

  “Luxury, indeed,” I said.

  The day’s sun descended beyond Watertown; the church bell rang six times. The streets were dusty from the extreme heat, and my mother glanced at her shoulders to see whether any dust had settled upon her. She flicked two fingers against her shoulder, did the same against mine, and finally seemed satisfied that we were both dust-free.

  The coach took us through the center of town and then east, toward Charlestown. We passed the market, where vendors were packing up for the night, and the little octagonal courthouse, shining brightly yellow in the declining sun. We passed the meetinghouse and Harvard College, now emptied of its students. It seemed odd to find no sailcloth tents, no mountebanks selling snake oil, no fat babies or boneless men or drunken groups of boys singing in the streets. The college was eerily quiet, and a little sad.

  I espied a lone tutor, hardly older than I, walking between buildings, calico gown flapping. Suddenly I felt an unbidden panic at the thought that I might have to dance with Mr. Inman. I had had only three lessons before my parents thought it imprudent for me to return to Boston.

  “My ankle hurts,” I said.

  “Oh, nonsense, Eliza,” Mama replied.

  “It is stiff from sitting, I expect,” said Papa illogically. “Roll it about this way and that. It shall pass.”

  By the time we arrived at our destination, however, it seemed that my ankle had managed to break itself between West and East Cambridge. I walked with a distinct limp, which I half believed to be genuine.

  “Oh, gracious, Eliza. Straighten up,” Mama said. “You look deformed.”

  My father grinned awkwardly as the Inmans’ broad red door opened onto an elegant tableau.

  I had been in many grand homes, but never had I seen anything quite like the Inmans’. The foyer was octagonal in shape, its floor not marble-painted wood but actual marble, laid in a black-and-white diamond pattern. Upon a carved center table flourished a bouquet of exotic flowers. And, as for our staircase, of which I’d always been so proud, it was nothing compared to that of the Inmans’.

  I soon took leave of my parents to wander on my own. Sipping a glass of refreshing citrus punch that had been placed in my hand, I glided into the parlor in Louisa’s shoes. Boys and girls milled about the punch bowl. I recognized many of them, though I could not recall their names. One of the boys I thought part
icularly handsome: he had dark, wavy hair and lovely hazel eyes. When I passed him, he raised his glass to me and smiled, but no one introduced us, and so I moved on into the garden. There, tiny lanterns were strung in rows upon the elms; they glowed in the dark like lightning bugs. Folding garden chairs, painted bright white, encircled perhaps three dozen round tables, each covered in Irish linen. Upon each table a cluster of candles flickered crazily within a hurricane lamp. By the light of the lamps and glowworms, children chased each other around the vast yard. The girls’ white dresses and bobbing curls flashed in and out of sight. The boys, in dark costumes, were nearly invisible, so that one had the impression of several dozen little girls being chased by darting shadows.

  I found a place among the tables where other girls my age already sat, accompanied by a chaperone. Ours was the new Mrs. Inman’s sister, a sweet and smiling creature entirely ignored by us.

  The girls at my table were in the midst of a conversation about homespun.

  “Disgusting,” one girl was saying.

  “Indeed,” said another.

  “I shouldn’t wear it if my life depended on it,” said a third.

  Then the first, who wore an aqua gown, changed the subject.

  “Mr. Inman is handsome, is he not? His eyes are so very blue.”

  “They match your dress perfectly,” said the second girl, in an emerald-green gown.

  The girl in the aqua gown, whose name was Hannah Appleton, giggled, “Oh, you’re right! They do!”

  “Regard what a fine figure he cuts,” the one in the emerald gown added, as the fine figure himself walked past our table, affecting not to notice our admiring stares.

  This might have been the moment to reveal that Mr. Inman had been paying court to me, but I knew not what to say without sounding boastful, so I remained silent.

  It was soon time to move to the parlor, where I found my dance card upon a table strewn with rose petals. I eagerly put it to use, my ankle having miraculously healed once I realized that I would be safer from Mr. Inman’s attentions on the dance floor than off.

  Papa had little use for dancing. After a requisite minuet with Mama, he went off to the library, where he was able to smoke a fine cigar and drink a glass of aged brandy with Mr. Inman.

  Finally we heard the bell-like sound of crystal being struck by a silver utensil. Then, more and more glasses were struck, building into a cacophony of wavering notes, until the musicians ceased playing and George Inman took center stage. I took a place by Mama at the room’s entrance. “My head pounds,” I said. “I should like to go home.”

  “Go? Not before he speaks, certainly,” said Mama.

  “I’ll call for the carriage,” said Papa, suddenly behind us.

  “Five minutes,” hissed Mama, casting my father a significant glance.

  Mr. Inman proceeded to thank his guests, his mates from school, and most of all his beloved family. Something about the jaunty way he stood, the way one hand made flourishes in the air, and the slow, sonorous intonations of his voice, filled me with abhorrence. How smug he was! I thought. How vain! But why had I not seen this all sooner?

  “Let us go, Mama,” I said. “I’m falling down.”

  Papa moved to call for our coach, but just as the butler opened the front door—just as I felt a warm, welcoming wind of freedom, the icy hand of fate held me back.

  “Miss Boylston!”

  I turned to find Mr. Inman moving swiftly toward me. Could I pretend not to have heard him? Impossible.

  “Miss Boylston,” he repeated, inches from me now. “In vain have I sought a moment alone with you. Might you do me the honor now?”

  I looked about me for means of escape. Too late! “It is late, and my family—”

  Mama nudged me in the small of my back with a hard, pointy elbow. Still, I did not move. My feet grew roots; my body became a tree, stolid and silent.

  “Very well,” Mr. Inman cried, full of brash good humor. “If Mohammed will not come to the mountain.” Then, before all those who stood waiting for their carriages, Mr. Inman fell to one knee and grasped my hands in his.

  “There is one thing I lack,” he began. “One thing that shall make me complete. It is not a diploma, nor lodgings in Boston, nor a loving family. It is your hand in marriage, for you are the most charming woman of my acquaintance. Eliza Boylston, will you marry me, and make me the happiest man on earth?”

  I swayed in place. Lightning had struck. I suddenly thought of Jeb, my beloved brother. To think that I had compared him, my fine and noble patriot, to this wretched specimen, this shallow dandy!

  With as winning a smile as I could muster, I said, “You catch me off guard, Mr. Inman. I shall have to think about your kind proposal, if that is acceptable.”

  “But of course.” He continued to smile. Was it only I who saw the mortification in the sudden tensing of his jaw? Murmurs of disapprobation spread through the foyer. And then, before any other disaster could occur, I was whisked out of that house and fairly thrown into the barouche.

  If Mama’s feelings could have wrapped themselves around my neck, I would have died in the coach before ever reaching home.

  Papa said, “I simply cannot believe it, Eliza. I was under the impression that you fancied Mr. Inman. Hadn’t he come to court you all winter? Why did you allow it if you liked him not?”

  “I did like him—somewhat,” I said. “But I thought—oh, but Papa! It was hardly prudent of Mr. Inman to ask my hand in marriage when he could have no assurance of my accepting him.”

  Here, my parents exchanged glances. Mama placed a forestalling hand upon Papa’s arm. She might have hid the truth forever, but Papa was no liar.

  “He did have reason, Eliza. Mr. Inman requested, and I gave him, my consent.”

  “You what? But—”

  “Do not speak,” Mama said.

  I shivered at her murderous tone and lapsed at once into silence.

  “How was the party?” Jeb asked me the following morning at breakfast. He must have returned sometime during the night. He ate ravenously, though I merely sipped my tea and picked at the edges of a single egg.

  “Are you to marry Mr. Flat-bot-tom, then, and eat sweetmeats while Boston starves?”

  “Don’t you know? I should think all of Boston knows by now,” I replied glumly.

  “Apparently we Rebels do not travel in the first circles.”

  “No,” I sighed. “I shan’t marry George Inman. But he asked. He asked me before everyone. Mama and Papa, his friends—oh, Jeb!” Here, I leaned over and allowed myself a consoling embrace. “I would not give him a private audience, so he knelt in the foyer by the front door and asked for my hand in marriage.”

  “You would have done well to offer him your hand and nothing else.”

  “Jeb, don’t tease.”

  “Well, what did you say?”

  “I told him I’d think about it.”

  Jeb slapped his thigh. “Well done, Sister. Not clever, perhaps, but a genuine insult! A radical blow for the Cause!”

  I was in no teasing mood, however. “Brother, how could he have imagined I loved him?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t imagine any such thing. Mr. Inman no doubt believed you would marry him despite your antipathy. Many girls would, you know.”

  “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Jeb looked at me, both humor and sarcasm gone. “It hardly matters, Eliza. Your rejection of Mr. Flat-bot-tom will soon seem a mere trifle.”

  “What mean you?”

  “Sweet Sister,” Jeb looked at me pityingly, as if I were a mere child. “We are nearly at war. People such as the Inmans have already begun to flee. The British ships patrol our waters and await the least provocation to attack us.”

  “Why do Mama and Papa not leave then?”

  Jeb looked at me gravely. “Because they know they should have to leave me.”

  Jeb was right: by August of ’74, a mere two months later, the Inmans’ party seemed a centu
ry in the past. My anger at Papa, while it lasted well through the summer, soon faded in the face of far worse problems. The Royalls fled to Nova Scotia. Back in May, Governor Hutchinson had fled to England and was replaced by General Gage. That month, our own pastor, Reverend Winwood, fled, and Christ Church shut its doors. We were thus compelled to attend the First Parish meetinghouse just next door to our old church. It had a radical parson by the name of William Emerson, whose sermons in favor of independence had been published far and wide. Mama said that only “common folk” went there in their “vulgar homespun,” and that she wouldn’t be caught dead inside its walls. Thus, Papa and I found ourselves without her but with Jeb, who had been attending it for several months.

  I could not believe that we would take up arms against our mother country, much less that she would attack us unprovoked. Yet on the morning of September 2, 1774, just as we were finishing breakfast, I heard a rumbling roar abroad. It sounded like the ocean had reached us and that an enormous wave was about to break. We stood up and moved to my father’s study, where we watched through a window. The sound grew closer, more menacing, and in a moment we saw a sea of men pushing and jostling, their fists in the air. Many held sticks; a few held muskets.

  “Cassie,” Papa called, “fetch Juno and the coachman.” The two Negroes soon appeared at the front door. This was a novel sight, but Papa seemed not to notice. “Run to the stables,” he told them. “Bring back whatever wood you find. We must nail shut the doors and windows. At once!” The terrified coachman and young Juno fled as if they would ne’er return. But they soon reappeared carrying planks of wood, which they and my father then set to nailing across the doors and windows.

  The massive tide of men had grown: I saw neither its beginning nor its end. As I stood by the window, one young farmer stopped, turned, and unleashed something from his hand. A thud pounded violently just to my right. The rock missed the window and bounced off the clapboards. We quickly retreated to the interior of Papa’s study.

  “They move. They move!” Papa informed us. “They stop not for us.” Indeed, the tide rolled westward, though we learned of its destination only later, when news reached us that four thousand people had surrounded Lieutenant Governor Oliver’s estate, Elmwood.