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

by Jodi Daynard

  Cassie nodded. “Dat Watkins. But he not a servant, miss. He Master Robert’s slave.”

  “Slave? But he’s white.” Cassie must have misunderstood.

  “Not white, miss, ’alf-breed. Don’ make no difference, though.”

  “But he’s a shipwright. I’ve seen him on the ferry from Badger’s Island. He must be very well skilled.”

  “Oh, ’ee well skilled, all right. Light skin, well skilled.” She shrugged.

  Cassie’s tight-lipped responses irritated me. I would know more, and so I turned squarely to face her and endeavored to meet her shifty eyes.

  “Cassie, what do you know about Watkins? About his past, I mean?”

  “Why you want to know?” she challenged.

  “I’m, well—curious. He seems—if he is indeed a slave, as yet I doubt, he is unlike any slave I’ve ever known.”

  “Well, you right about dat, Miss Eliza. He not like us. No, miss.”

  Cassie told me that Watkins’s mother had been a light-skinned Negro from Jamaica. Purchased by a former royal governor of New Hampshire, she bore a son and a daughter. The governor’s wife, enraged to discover that her husband had fathered two children with this Jamaican, sold the girl “downriver.” The boy was later sold to a Mr. Watkins, from whom Uncle purchased him several years earlier.

  “He tink dat make ’eem white,” Cassie concluded. “I don’ mean de outside of ’eem, Miss Eliza. I mean, he tinks he a white man, and dat your uncle will set him free.”

  “Well, maybe Uncle Robert will,” I said.

  Cassie smirked. “Master Chase? Nevah. ’Ee know a good ting when ’ee got it. Master make plenty of money off ’eem.”

  But before my curiosity regarding some last point could be satisfied, Watkins himself emerged from the back stairs and entered the kitchen. He glanced at me, and by our sudden muteness he must have gleaned we were speaking about him.

  Cassie handed Watkins a gunnysack filled with provisions for the day. “Thank you,” he nodded to Cassie. His voice was deep, and of a fine, clear timbre. He glanced back at us and then fled through the back door.

  Now that I knew who this Watkins was, there seemed little danger in meeting him on my walks. Our relation to one another was suddenly quite clear and unambiguous. He was my uncle’s slave. It was thus with a clear conscience and a light step that I set about to take my walks down to the river once more.

  I now saw this Watkins several times a day, just as if my knowledge of who he was made him visible. He was in the kitchen to fetch his sack, racing down the front stairs or slipping down the back. Those mornings I woke as dawn broke, I saw him emerge directly into our hallway and stride down the front steps, pausing to look out the Palladian window, perhaps to assess the weather. I thought this behavior presumptuous—had he been one of ours, and Papa noticed such a thing, he would have received a severe scolding.

  Watkins passed through the kitchen to get his gunnysack each morning, and I sometimes saw him there, if only very briefly. He seemed ill at ease among the house slaves. He never joined in their easy banter, never stopped a moment to hear Jupiter and Cuffee kick up a lively tune. I would occasionally come upon him at some house chore—fixing a latch or hauling wood—but in these moments he let nothing distract him. I might have watched him unperceived for an hour or more, so focused was he on his single task.

  Now that we knew who the other was, Watkins began to acknowledge my existence. At first, I thought his glance insolently direct, but perhaps that was because of the color of his eyes. They would linger a moment—not rapaciously, as Mr. Inman’s had, but curiously—as if there were something about me he did not quite comprehend.

  Meanwhile, Mama simply refused to relinquish her grip upon poor Cassie, and for weeks I cast about for a solution. In the kitchen, “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am” was Cassie’s lot all summer long as she obeyed Cook Jenny. At night, she was made to lie her tired body down on the floor in the hall, without so much as a blanket beneath her. She slept there all through the extreme heat of August, with no relief from even the smallest breeze through a window.

  September approached when I finally put my foot down. We were at dinner, and Mama had begun to speak about a letter she had just received when I interrupted her.

  “Mama, I’m sorry, but I can hold my peace no longer. It shall not do to have poor Cassie sleep in the hallway after she has been used to her own bed. It is cruel, and I don’t see that it is necessary.”

  Mama replied, “Cassie is no longer needed in the kitchen, Eliza, and as I’ve had no maidservant for ages, I don’t see why I shouldn’t use her.”

  “Well, at least let her sleep in her own bed.”

  “Then she won’t hear me if I call. Besides,” she insisted, “I am very comforted by her proximity.”

  “I shall find a way to make her a feather bed, at least.”

  Mama shrugged. “You may do as you like in that regard, so long as you don’t remove the feathers from our beds. But, oh, I have failed to mention what I planned to say . . . there has been a letter from Papa.”

  “What does he report?” I inquired, pleasantly surprised.

  She shook her head. “All is not well. Papa is ill; he still coughs . . .” Here, Mama perused the letter once more to get to the part intended for me. “Oh, yes, here it is. He says someone must go to retrieve Star in Braintree. He says he has you in mind to do this.”

  “Me? Go where?”

  She sighed. “Papa wishes you to bring Star back to Portsmouth.” This news was most unwelcome.

  “Why me? And why retrieve Star? Is it not unseemly to take back a gift, once given?”

  But instead of replying Mama handed me Papa’s letter so that I could see the request for myself:

  My darling Eliza. Circumstances make it necessary for me to ask a great favor of you. I must beg you to go to Braintree as soon as you receive this letter, to retrieve Star. I trust you above any servant to do me this service. What’s more, I think it shall be a kindness for you to visit with Lizzie, as we have not seen her in many months. The situation weighs greatly on my conscience . . .

  I set the letter down on the hall table without having finished it. “So, I am to rob the grieving woman’s horse but do her the kindness of visiting her? Has Papa lost his senses?”

  “I’m sorry, Eliza, but there simply is no one else.”

  “Well, at least let me take Cassie for company.”

  “You shall not. I need her.”

  By this point, I was near tears of frustration. “You would send me upon the roads alone, where every day we hear of confrontations and fighting?”

  “I need her,” Mama repeated. “You may take Phoebe, if you like. Juno shall be with you as well, and what’s his name—the old one.”

  “Jupiter! His name is Jupiter, for goodness’ sake. Why can you not remember it?” I stormed off to my chamber.

  The following morning, we were up early; Jupiter had already placed my trunk in the carriage. The horses awaited, shifting and snorting. We were just about to set off when a messenger arrived with a letter for Mama. She opened it, but I paid scant attention and signaled for Jupiter to be off. Mama raised a forestalling hand.

  “A moment!” she cried, approaching me. “Thank goodness. This came just in time. It is an odd request, but then your father’s family is odd . . .”

  “Who’s it from?” I inquired impatiently.

  “Colonel Quincy.” She drew her upper lip to her nose as if smelling a bad odor. “It seems Lizzie has been ill, and he has procured a servant in Boston.”

  “Not very ill, I hope?”

  Mama equivocated. “Well . . . no. She was, but she is recovering slowly. Her strength has not yet returned. The colonel has located someone, but he does not wish to act out of turn. He feels that Lizzie will accept this servant if it comes from us, though apparently he is quite willing to pay.”

  “Very well. But what does this have to do with me, or my leave-taking? I am anxious to be
off, Mama.”

  “You shall fetch her on the way. Her name is Martha Miller. The colonel says she is from good, loyal parents recently deceased. Poor girl.” Mama shook her head. “Anyway, she stays at a friend of the colonel’s on Marlborough Street. It is very convenient, as you shall go directly past the house.”

  “Ugh,” I groaned. “This grows worse and worse.”

  “Nonsense. There is nothing to it.”

  I wanted to say that if there was nothing to it, why didn’t she go? But I bit my tongue. Mama pursed her lips and proffered a cheek, which I dutifully kissed before muttering a terse good-bye.

  Juno wished to stop briefly at Stavers’s tavern before leaving town.

  “If you must, Juno,” I sighed. Would we never get clear of Portsmouth? As I waited impatiently for him to emerge from the tavern, I overheard two elderly dames speaking to each other. They were waiting for the Flying Stage Coach to take them to Boston. Stavers’s had placed a peeling wooden settle upon the stone pavers that served as a sidewalk, and the ladies sat upon its edge, not wishing to dirty their capes.

  “I simply must have a new cook,” one of them was saying. “Our Minnie has grown quite infirm.”

  “What an inconvenience,” said the other.

  “It is indeed. But Sarah, not a day goes by that the poor thing does not drop a dish or burn herself.” Sarah made sympathetic clucking noises. “But where is one to get a new cook in these times?”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupted. “I could not help but overhear your conversation. As it happens, I may know of an able cook in need of a position.”

  The women looked at each other, and I continued. “Jenny, my uncle’s cook, has long been seeking another situation. Since we arrived from Cambridge with our own cook, Cassie, Jenny is, well—we don’t need two cooks, you see. Assuming you can pay her reasonably,” I added, for that was the key to the whole enterprise. I had in fact heard Jenny complain that my uncle had not paid her in many weeks.

  Just then, Juno emerged from the tavern. He passed me by, smelling of rum.

  “You may inquire at the home of Mr. Chase, on Deer Street.”

  “Oh!” They looked at each other, impressed. Everyone knew my distinguished uncle. “And who shall we say . . . ?” they called after me, but Juno was already helping me into the chaise, and Jupiter immediately whipped the reins. I waved to the ladies, smiled, and rode off. Several hours later we arrived in Newburyport, where we stopped the night, moving on to Boston early the next morning.

  We arrived in Boston town at last, late the afternoon of the following day. Miss Miller was waiting for us in the hallway of Mrs. Adams’s uncle’s house. She was dressed entirely in black, with a broad hat that obscured her face. She was a tiny thing whom I guessed to be no more than thirteen years of age.

  “Hello, Miss Miller.” I curtsied as Juno and Jupiter entered, bowed, and took her things.

  “How do you do?” Her voice was so soft as to be barely audible. Miss Miller’s speech, coupled with her fine clothing, gloved hands, and erect posture, made me doubt whether she had done a day’s service in her life.

  On the way to Braintree, the girl sat across from me in silence, and I looked out upon the landscape. All around us the maple leaves had turned brilliant tones of red and orange. Most had not yet fallen, but the few that had now swirled about us in the wind. The sun was still warm by day, though mornings were crisp, and I was obliged to ride with two blankets, one draped across my shoulders and the other across my lap.

  Boston Harbor was filled with boats of every variety, and also battleships. At Boston Neck, we passed by the militia and suffered their questions for several long minutes. We were eventually allowed to pass through and, with a brief stop for refreshment in Milton, were clopping down the main street of Braintree’s North Parish as the sun set behind us.

  The North Parish of Braintree was quite charming, nestled as it was so close to the sea. It consisted of some shops, two churches, and a cemetery. Jupiter, engrossed in conversation with Juno, had missed the turnoff, and we were obliged to turn around. At last, squinting against the burning orange light, I espied Colonel Quincy’s stately home on the right, behind a long row of privet hedge. Beyond the great house, down toward the wavering dunes, stood a small cottage. My breath caught and tears pressed behind my eyes to see my brother’s home. The view over the bay toward Boston was just as Jeb had described it.

  Around the cottage, signs of industry were everywhere: baskets sat askew beneath maple trees, sheaves of flax stood upright in a nearby field; corn, unhusked, lay in an unruly heap in the kitchen garden.

  “Miss Miller, it is a pretty piece of land, is it not?”

  Martha gazed upon the extensive grounds. “There is a great deal of work to be done,” she remarked.

  “Lizzie will need to hire a man, if she hasn’t already, for there are such tasks here as you cannot be expected to do.”

  I recalled Jeb’s last letter to me, in which he wrote that he hoped to plant two new gardens come spring. Now, as we came closer, I saw all of the projects that Jeb had begun and that death had interrupted: a broken fence, a chicken-coop door off its hinges. By the barn, hay piles drifted will-he-nill-he in the wind.

  We descended our carriage just as a pale, thin form, swaddled in a homespun shawl, greeted us. I knew not who it was at first, but when I saw that it was Lizzie, involuntary tears of pity swelled my throat. Fearful lest I fail in my task, I came directly to the point. “Juno,” I called, “have Mrs. Boylston’s stableboy ready Star. As you know, he’s to return with us.”

  “Ready Star?” Lizzie’s voice was a raspy whisper. “You shan’t do any such thing.” She then shut the door upon us. I thought that this was all the greeting we were to receive when Lizzie, coughing, opened the door once more. “Pardon me—this cough,” she said. “Well, you’re here now, so come in.”

  Once indoors, Lizzie took our cloaks. She set our things upon her one great chair in the parlor. It was cold in this room. No fire was lit, and we all moved toward the warmth coming from the kitchen. I introduced Miss Miller to Lizzie. Lizzie said, “Oh, but pardon me. I’m not myself—I shall make us some coffee at once.”

  “I stay not long. It is only to retrieve Star that I am come. And to deliver Miss Miller,” I added.

  Lizzie stood erect, her silhouette a thin black shade against the kitchen window. Her voice, though a whisper, had a steely edge to it. “Star is going nowhere. He was a gift to us upon our marriage.”

  “You could hardly need him now,” I objected.

  “But I do need him. People here rely on me, people whom I must visit because they’ve no one else to care for them. Besides, what use could your family possibly have—” She stopped mid-sentence, looked at my gown, now slightly frayed at the bottom from use, and said, “Oh. I see.”

  I turned away in shame. Worn and fragile, we were both near tears, yet we were each too proud to show them. We stood in awkward silence as Lizzie heated water for the coffee. All the while I thought, In this chair Jeb sat. Or, through this window Jeb looked upon the sea as he wrote about the gardens he would plant come spring.

  I could bear it no longer. Lizzie’s illness had exposed a vulnerability in her that I found somehow threatening; it made me cling even harder to my old coldness toward her.

  “Jupiter!” I called. When he didn’t reply, I strode into the parlor to find him sitting in the great chair, his head bowed, sound asleep. Hearing my footsteps, he sprang to.

  “Jupiter, ready Star. We’re leaving in a moment.”

  “There’s no horse in the stable, Miss Eliza.”

  “No horse? What mean you?”

  “I looked. Juno and I both looked, and we didn’t find any horse. We seen some chickens and a cow,” he offered, as if these might do in the horse’s stead.

  “Well, think no more on it, Jupiter. Get Juno and ready the carriage.”

  Once Jupiter had gone, I confronted Lizzie heatedly. “Where is he? My father wrote to
us expressly from Barbados to request that you return his horse.”

  “It is not his horse.” Lizzie’s eyes flashed from her thin face. “It was a gift, and he shan’t get it. He’ll sooner get me.”

  “Papa shall be quite vexed.”

  “I’m sure he will, and I’m very sorry for him. It must be demonishly difficult just now in the towns. We ourselves would starve were it not for the gardens, and help from our—friends.”

  I saw Lizzie pull back from this last statement, since we both knew she had not counted my family among the latter, nor would she ever.

  “Miss Miller,” I turned to the girl. “I must take my leave. I hope you’ll be most comfortable here.”

  O, hypocrite words! Comfort would form no part of Miss Miller’s life in Braintree. No, nor of Lizzie’s. Yet I merely turned to my sister-in-law and said, “Well. Papa shall hear about this.”

  “Please send him my best regards and tell him I am well. Good-bye, Eliza.”

  Just as I had departed and the door was shut behind me, I heard Lizzie exclaim, “Oh, but your coffee!”

  16

  “I HAVE BEEN MOST IMPORTUNED,” MAMA SAID the moment I alit from the carriage. She asked me nothing about my trip, nor anything about Lizzie or Miss Miller. “Papa shall be extremely vexed,” she said. “He had counted on the sale of that horse to pay for a good many unexpected debts.”

  “She hid it from me, Mama,” I said quietly.

  “Hid a horse? How does one hide a great animal of sixteen hands?”

  I shrugged. “Apparently it was brought elsewhere.”

  “Well, well, but I can hardly concentrate on that now. I am alone, without any maid whatsoever.”

  “Why? Where’s Cassie?” I asked, suddenly alarmed.

  Mama ignored my question. “Oh, I can tell she’s beside herself with contentment—Lord knows why. You’d think that kitchen of hers was Heaven itself, the way she carries on.”

  “What have you done with Cassie?”

  “Done?” Mama looked at me sharply. “Why, I’ve done nothing. Cook Jenny up and left us! Hired away by that scheming old Mrs. Pritchett! Cassie’s now our cook and takes the dairy for her chamber. Oh, will my ill fortunes never cease?”