by Jodi Daynard
I thought Mama quite capable of showing disapprobation and meanness of spirit, but I did not say so.
“You think her a cruel woman, I know. But it’s because she suffers so. She suffers her losses deeply.”
I would not accept Papa’s explanation, though I dearly wished I could. I had seen enough of life, enough of generosity of heart—John Watkins, Colonel Langdon, Prince Whipple, Dinah and Cuffee Whipple, and even my own Cassie—to know better.
“Many suffer, Papa. But some would rather die than inflict suffering on others. Yes, some would rather die than do so. Excuse me,” I said. “I’ll return by and by.” I kissed Papa’s flushed cheek and fled the room before the tears came.
Mama stood in the hallway, and I nearly ran into her. She wore a blue silk gown I had not seen her wear since before the Troubles. Cassie had done her hair in a style that I recalled from my earliest childhood.
“Mama, where go you like that?”
“To a ball for the king’s birthday. The Baroness von Riedesel has kindly invited me.”
“But you cannot possibly wish to attend such a thing.”
“Why not?”
“You know well enough. Besides, isn’t she an enemy prisoner?”
Mama stared at my purple-paneled gown with a cruel smile, as if to say, “Yes, the Baroness is such a prisoner; but then, so are you.”
At her withering gaze, I drew myself up. “Oh, go, then! Go! Think of me what you will. I no longer desire your good opinion. Or your forgiveness.”
“That is fortunate for you,” she replied coldly.
It was a hot summer, and as I grew larger, I could not bear to don my gowns, even let out as they were. I remained in my shift: in my chamber reading or in the gardens beyond the house and human eyes. There was consolation in picking raspberries for Cassie or smelling the green beans that grew on the vine. Now that it was summer, we ate better, as Cassie had had the foresight to plant seeds the moment we returned from Portsmouth.
I spent a good hour or so every day with Papa. Nearing death, Papa seemed at last to become a very good sort of man. He threw convention aside. He told me that he regretted having been slow to rally to the Cause. He regretted his behavior toward Jeb, whom he now firmly believed was one of our first heroes. We spent many hours speaking of how I and my child might live a useful life, despite the inevitable obstacles. On one visit, I confessed, “Papa, I wasn’t truthful when I allowed you to believe the father of my child is married. He is not. He is by no means such a scoundrel.”
Papa seemed pleased by this and nodded.
“I dearly love him and still hope that we can some day live as man and wife.” I did not go so far as to reveal to Papa the identity of the man I loved, for this, I knew, would have been beyond his comprehension.
“That relieves me greatly, Eliza. Your life has not been very happy, I’m afraid. I wish you nothing but happiness in the future. I pray that God will remove the impediments that stand between you both.”
O, precious acceptance! It was all the sweeter for the delay.
35
BY SEPTEMBER, I HAD GROWN QUITE UNCOMFORTABLE. My ankles were swollen, and I had need of the chamber pot near every hour. The babe kicked me all the time now, as if telling me he had grown tired of his cramped accommodations. I imagined it was a fine boy with very strong legs, and I could not wait to get him out of me and into the world, where I would scold him for kicking me so. Cassie had warned me not to grow attached, not to think of it as anything but a poor creature bound for death.
“What a depressing thought, Cassie.”
She looked at me sternly. “’Eet for your own good, Miss Eliza. You have a complaint, you take it up wit’ ’Eem.” Here, she pointed upward at the heavens.
By autumn, Watkins’s letters had trailed off, and he had begun to seem but a beautiful dream. Had he ever been real? Had his strong, tan arms ever held me? Had those scarred yet gentle hands ever touched me? Had I ever caressed those soft curls, or kissed his full lips? My belly told me it was so, yet I hardly believed it. Portsmouth had faded to a dappled shadow in the light of my present reality.
Sometime that September, a tall, loose-limbed man of twenty-eight or so strode up our walkway. Mama answered the door in a dilatory way, as if her butler were momentarily indisposed. The man bowed and introduced himself as one Mr. Thomas Miller.
I had been watching him from the parlor window, but, upon his knock at the door, I scurried to the top of the stairs. He was quite handsome, though large-featured. His brow was thick and dark, his eyes large and wide-set, his nose quite strong and straight.
Mr. Miller appeared to have dressed somewhat too hastily. His cravat was askew, and a button was missing from one cuff. He gazed past Mama and said, “Might I have a word with your daughter? With Miss Boylston?”
“No, that’s not possible. She is—indisposed.”
I then saw Mr. Miller bend down and whisper something into Mama’s ear.
“Eliza!” she called at once. I was now at the base of the stairs; there was no need for her to shout.
“I’m in my dressing gown,” I said softly.
“Never mind that,” Mr. Miller replied. I approached warily, my arms about my belly, blushing. I had not set eyes upon a man apart from Papa in several months.
Mama introduced Mr. Miller. “Mr. Miller is an acquaintance of Lizzie’s. He says he is the brother of the girl you brought to Braintree, Martha—”
“Oh, Martha Miller. I remember her. How fares she? She must be quite an expert at farming by now.”
Mr. Miller turned to me without answering. But his tone was respectful when he asked, “Might I speak with you a moment, Miss Boylston—alone?”
He pointed to our sofa in the front parlor. It was our last remaining piece of furniture in that room. At one time, this fact might have mortified me. But no longer.
Mama stood in the foyer watching us as he led me there and bade me sit. Mr. Miller hesitated; he was clearly waiting for my mother to take her leave, which she finally did after a painful minute or two.
“Lizzie—Mrs. Boylston—says I am to bring you to Braintree when—at the appointed hour.”
“I see.” I did not blush, but Mr. Miller did. We then proceeded to discuss the likely date of our departure, and the details of what I was to bring. Did I have someone to help me pack? he wanted to know. I said I did.
“If you like, I can procure you a cape.”
“Oh, yes, that would be good.” I had nothing to drape about my enormous girth for the journey.
“Lizzie—Mrs. Boylston—said she might also procure a homespun gown or two from the parish. Nothing so fine as you’re accustomed to, I’m afraid, but serviceable.”
“You are very kind. I’m most grateful,” I said. And I was. But I could not help but think back to the days when I would rather have died than wear that ghastly homespun. The memory made me smile.
Mr. Miller soon took his leave, bowing deeply. He left behind him an impression of a kind, decent man, one who happened to be entirely in love with my sister-in-law, Lizzie, and had not the guile to hide it. I wondered whether she returned his feelings.
Mr. Miller visited me several times more that September. Sometimes it was to discuss practical subjects, but at other times it seemed as if he was content to keep me company for no good reason at all. On one of his visits I said to him, “You’re so kind, Mr. Miller, to call upon me. I’m truly grateful. For, as you see, I live quite alone . . .”
“People were not meant to live so,” he asserted.
“I heartily agree.”
Mr. Miller grinned at an unbidden thought. “You’ll like Braintree.” He looked about us, at the large cavernous rooms. “It’s quite the opposite of . . . of this.”
“Noisy and chaotic, you mean?”
He laughed. “Perhaps. At times.”
Mr. Miller told me about the farm and the onerous work his sister and Lizzie did every day. He told me about Colonel Josiah and Ann Quincy, and
Abigail Adams, whom I would no doubt meet upon my arrival. At this last news, I cringed: how mortifying it would be to make the acquaintance of this great lady in my big, unwed state!
“Oh, but I cannot meet her. That’s impossible.”
“You shall find her a most gracious and enlightened woman.”
“Perhaps. But what shall she think of me?”
He considered this. “I believe she shall think that you are very brave.”
Mr. Miller was true to his word and brought me two gowns—simple, country items made of homespun linsey-woolsey, but capacious and quite comfortable. He brought me a cape as well, made of a lovely green wool. Cassie and I packed a trunk. Or rather, I sat on my bed and instructed her. She was moving very slowly and deliberately, as if she were packing my dowry, and I grew impatient.
“No, no, Cassie. There’s no need to be so very particular about the folds—it will take forever this way.”
“You’ve got nutteeng for winter. No good stockings.”
I shrugged. “Upon the subject of undergarments, I am entirely indifferent.”
“You won’ be indifferent when you find your feet frozen solid.”
“What would you have me do, Cassie?” I cried in exasperation. She had no answer, and I let her complain, for I knew it was her way of grieving my departure.
I grieved, too, for my father, whom I doubted I should ever see again. For Cassie, my one and only friend. And for life as I had always known it.
The day finally arrived on which I would leave Cambridge. Mr. Miller arrived at about nine with a coach and four—a luxury in these times, though I knew the ride would be an ordeal. He and Juno lifted my trunk aboard, and the time finally came for me to bid my family good-bye. Cassie and I stood in my parents’ chamber, for Papa had not been able to descend the stairs in many months.
“Oh, Cassie, I shall miss you horribly,” I said, embracing her for a long time. “Should all go well, I promise I’ll visit.”
For once, Cassie had no smart reply. She merely wiped her tears and nodded.
I moved next to Papa’s bed. He was unable to speak, but his eyes were bright with tears. I kissed and kissed him: his dear hands, his forehead, his cheek. “I love you so much, Papa. I shall write every day.”
“Remember what I’ve told you about Barbados,” he whispered. “I am comforted by the thought that I may be of some small service to you after I’m gone.”
I buried my face in his chest, kissed him a final time, and departed.
Downstairs, Mama stood in the foyer, a lone, proud guard of all that once had been. Her manner frightened me.
“Cassie!” I called desperately. Cassie came and, fortified by the grasp of her hand, I moved toward Mama slightly, proffering my cheek.
Mama stepped back as I did so.
“You may as well know, Eliza, that I do not expect to see you again. I have tried to reconcile myself to your grievous mistake, but I find I cannot.”
I sucked in my breath. Cassie grasped my hand tightly. I said, “Why, even God forgave Eve, Mama. Would you place yourself higher than Him?”
To this, my mother had nothing to say. Suddenly, as Mama turned away, I saw Jeb’s portrait lying upon the candlestand in the parlor, next to the sofa. I snatched it up and placed it in my pocket. Cassie saw the theft, but Mama did not.
As I opened the front door, I called behind me, “I pity you, Mama. For you shall very soon find yourself entirely alone in the world, with neither family nor friends to love you. Oh, Mr. Miller!” I cried, turning my back on my mother and releasing my hold on Cassie. “Let us go!”
I cannot describe the black feelings that descended upon me then. Mr. Miller, having been privy to this ugly parting scene, said not a word as he draped the cape about me and nodded to his coachman. I saw the last of Cambridge—its fine houses and strolling couples and brilliant fall leaves—through a thick, wavering pane of tears.
Part IV
36
IT WAS BUT TWELVE MILES TO BRAINTREE, but my discomfort on the journey was extreme. The road was bumpy, and I was obliged to ask Thomas to help me to the shrubs by the side of the road, taverns being few and far between. By the time we arrived at Lizzie’s, it was late afternoon, and I was nearly dead with fatigue. Even the babe within me was now motionless, having kicked me furiously most of the way.
Lizzie put me to bed at once in her parlor, where a great old bedstead stood. The bed had been made up with fresh linens and was quite inviting. Mr. Miller brought my trunk inside. A young woman, posture erect and hands clasped, stood by the bed, ready to be of service. This, I soon realized, was Martha Miller. She had grown up since I first brought her to Braintree three years earlier. I hardly knew her.
I lay languidly across the bed in my shift. Lizzie left me then, and I slept. I woke after it was already dark, and I heard Lizzie and Martha talking quietly in the kitchen. Mr. Miller had gone, and I regretted that I had not thought to thank him before I lay down. But I had been so low, so exhausted. I sat up, pushed myself off the bed, and lumbered toward the kitchen. Seeing me, Lizzie smiled and said, “Ah, Eliza. Come join us.”
I sat myself upon a rickety chair, half expecting it to collapse beneath me. I then took a biscuit and a dish of chamomile tea, both of which were ready and waiting for me on the kitchen table. I looked about at the many chores that awaited the women in their busy harvest season and felt myself to be yet another chore. As if hearing my thoughts, Lizzie said, “I’m glad you are come, finally, Eliza. It’s not a moment too soon.”
“I’m most grateful,” I said. I sipped my tea and looked out the kitchen window. Beyond the cottage was a beautiful gray-blue crescent of sea beyond the dunes. Ships glided past on their way to Boston. Fishing boats, transport vessels, and merchant schooners all drifted north. Gulls cried and terns swooped up, then down into the dune grass.
Just up the hill from us sat Josiah Quincy’s house. It was newly built, and I was told that no expense had been spared on the interior. I thought it unlikely that I would make the Quincys’ acquaintance any time soon.
I took to bed early that first night, and the next morning awoke with dull cramps. It was a Sunday, and as Lizzie and Martha readied to leave for meeting, I wrote a letter to John, not knowing when—or if—he would receive it. The post from Braintree was by no means as regular as it was from Cambridge. When Lizzie found that I wrote a letter meant for Portsmouth, she said, “I’ll ask Abigail if she knows of anyone heading in that direction.” By Abigail, I knew she meant Mrs. John Adams.
“Thank you,” I said. While Lizzie and Martha were gone, I poked about to learn something of the lives that continued here after my Jeb had gone. I did not mount the stairs—that would have been an intrusion, and in any case too arduous for me in my current condition. But I looked in Lizzie’s dairy and saw my sister-in-law’s many phials of herbs and medications, kept so orderly, with an exact record of their contents used and the dates in chalk upon the door. I espied a fruit tart off to the edge of the coals, covered with glistening apricots . . . How had she managed that? I would have liked to eat the entire thing.
To remove myself from temptation, I stepped abroad and felt the strong sea breeze at once. I heard the raucous seagulls above me. The apples had been harvested, but there were still a fair number of bright-red ones hanging among the branches. These I considered fair game. I plucked one and bit into it, expecting it to be inedibly tart—but no. It was crispy and delicious! I was munching happily away when Lizzie and Martha returned.
Lizzie smiled warmly at me as she approached. “I was able to give your letter to Abigail, Eliza. As luck would have it, someone she knows is heading north.” Lizzie then looked at me more carefully and held my face in one hand. “I like not your color. Martha!” she called. Martha had gone directly into the kitchen to prepare us a simple dinner. “I shall stay behind for the second service—you may go without me.”
“Nay,” said Martha. “I’ll remain behind as well and harvest the flax—y
ou may need me.”
Lizzie nodded, her eyes still upon me.
I continued to feel Lizzie’s gentle hand on my face even after she’d removed it. After our dinner, Lizzie and Martha donned their bonnets and went off to the fields. “Rest, Eliza,” Lizzie called. “Let us know if you need us—we’ll be keeping our ears open.”
“Oh, I doubt I’ll need you. I feel quite well now.” They both looked at me then, their wizened little faces sharing a single expression I could not read. I washed the dishes, though they had told me to leave them. I then rested for perhaps twenty minutes, but, growing bored, I rose and perused Lizzie’s shelf of books. The Tragedies of William Shakespeare, Sharpe’s Surgery, Culpepper’s Herbals—none tempted.
I decided I would step abroad, as it was yet a fine autumn afternoon. I meant merely to look at the flowers and herbs in the kitchen garden. I had just opened the front door to step into the garden when I felt a flood of warm liquid run down my leg. I did not know a great deal about childbirth, and this alarmed me. Had I involuntarily—relieved myself?
“Lizzie!” I called. She and Martha were just returning from one of the fields, bundles of flax in their arms. When Lizzie saw me, and took in my surprised expression, she dropped her bundle and moved toward me.
“Come,” she said calmly. “Let’s go inside.”
“What’s happening?”
“The babe’s coming.”
I was puzzled. “But I feel no pain. Really, Lizzie, if this is the extent of a woman’s labor, then we are a miserably weak lot to complain as we do.”
“It will come on gradually,” she said.
Suffice to say that “gradually” soon turned to “unrelenting,” and thence to “unbearable.” It was a torture of such ferocity I knew not why women ever had more than one child. I swore aloud that, were I to come through this one alive, I would never have another. I suffered, shouted shipyard curses—everything I’d heard on Badger’s Island and worse. Martha and Lizzie did not leave me alone for even a minute. I labored all through the evening, and, just past midnight on October 14, 1778, I was delivered of a fine, healthy boy.