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

by Jodi Daynard

  Mama would have liked to serve a glass of wine, but the cellar was empty, and there was no real tea. We had herb tea and cakes made of corn flour and a bit of cheese and some dried figs. Cassie remained in the parlor with us. She kept glancing at me, and at my slimmer girth, as if she would like to ask a million questions. Mama largely ignored looking at me altogether. She ate delicately, her pinkie sticking out, as if she were eating quail eggs. Suddenly she stopped eating, grew still, and stood up.

  “Oh, but I entirely forgot.” She moved into the foyer and returned holding a letter. “This came for you yesterday.”

  “A letter? From whom?”

  I thought she would say “from that boy Isaac.” Instead, she said, “From Colonel Langdon, of all people. Know you him, Eliza?”

  “A very little,” I admitted. “From fishing out on Badger’s Island.”

  “Well, what does he say?” she inquired impatiently.

  “Mama, allow me to read it first.” I moved off into the foyer, but she trailed after me. “You may go to your chamber, if you wish.” Apparently Mama had already bade the coachman to bring my small trunk upstairs, which greatly surprised me.

  “Cassie!” I called as I mounted the stairs. “Bring me another dish of tea.”

  “Yes, Miss Eliza.” She curtsied. I had not yet greeted Cassie, saving that pleasure for a moment when we would be alone. Upstairs, I shut myself within the grim stillness of my chamber. Then I tore the seal with my finger, my heart pounding thickly in my chest. The moment I looked down, I knew that this letter was not from Colonel Langdon, but from John.

  Dearest love—

  We received your letter announcing the new arrival to your parish with Joy in our Hearts and a Prayer that we will be able to hold him in our Arms by and by. Our Situation is uncertain. R.C. is being hounded by the Committee of Correspondence. It is rumored that Arrests are to be made. Your uncle readies himself to flee. I know not where we may be headed, but rest assured I shall write when I am able. I send this through a trusted Friend. Your, J.

  “Rest assured?” I cried aloud. This letter, far from assuring, filled me with foreboding.

  I had feared many things in our months of separation. Would Uncle sell Watkins? And what about Isaac? I needed to write immediately, yet I could not write from my present location. Nothing I wrote would be safe from my mother’s prying eyes. Nor did I wish to alarm Cassie—she would be hurt and worried that I had not remained for tea, or to greet her with open arms. But I resolved to return to Braintree immediately. Oh, if only I could run the other way!

  Descending the stairs on tiptoe, I grabbed my cape from the back of the chair where it rested and moved out the front door. I called for Juno to fetch my trunk from my chamber and to bring round the colonel’s coachman and carriage. Cassie, sensing a commotion, came quickly from the kitchen, her hands wrapped around our teapot.

  “Someteeng happen, Miss Eliza?”

  “I’m urgently needed in Braintree,” I said. “I daren’t stop to tell you now. All shall be well,” I added, touching her arm and attempting a smile. “By and by, I shall inform you,” I whispered.

  From the carriage, I looked up at the house and, in the darkening gloom, saw my mother’s shadowy form at her chamber window. The shadow disappeared, but by the time it reached the front door, I was already gone.

  “I thought you were to stop the night,” Martha said, perplexed to see me walk through the door. It was near midnight, and she was just heading off to bed. Lizzie had not returned from the Quincys’ dinner party.

  “Something has happened, but I have no energy to discuss it just now. It will keep till the morning.” I picked up my sleeping child from our bed and hugged him tight.

  “Very well,” said Martha resignedly. She kissed me good-night and petted Johnny before heading up to bed.

  I stripped out of Mrs. Quincy’s damp gown and stays at once, then nursed my child. We both slept, but I woke throughout the night. Around four thirty, I rose for the day. Lizzie had returned, and both she and Martha were already awake. They had fed the animals and clasped their steaming dishes of tea at the kitchen table, deep in discussion. When they saw me, they ceased speaking.

  “What do you discuss, so earnestly and at such an hour?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” Lizzie said silkily.

  “How was dinner at the Quincys’?” I asked. I knew they hid something from me but would not press them.

  “Fine. Very fine,” Lizzie replied. “The admiral and his officers are impressive, and so kind. The repast was such as I have not had in years.”

  Martha asked, “Why did you return from Cambridge last night?”

  I removed John’s letter and proffered it to my friends. “I know not what to do,” I said. “I know not what I can do.”

  Both Martha and Lizzie read John’s letter. Then Martha rose from the table and said, “I shall return by and by.” She soon returned with a piece of foolscap, a quill, and a bottle of ink, which she set upon the table. “You must write to Colonel Langdon at once.”

  “But what do I say?” I looked up at Martha.

  “Tell him the truth.”

  And so I wrote:

  26 October, 1778.

  Dear Sir. Thank you for your letter of October 24th. W.’s report of the situation in Portsmouth alarms us greatly. It seems something must be done, before the time for action has passed. Where does R. C. intend to go? And what of W. and the child? I must know these things.

  Then, for John’s eyes, I wrote:

  All is well here, though perhaps you’ve heard the sad news that Papa died. The plant you gave me grows quite lustily and gives me great joy. May God protect you.

  I folded and sealed the paper, and Martha ran off to give my letter to Abigail, who would find a messenger to take it to Portsmouth.

  Haste and good intentions we had aplenty. But I would not learn of John’s fate for another eight months.

  39

  JOHNNY WOKE AT SIX THIRTY, AND I gave him to suck. Martha returned from Abigail’s house soon thereafter, looking triumphant.

  “She knows of someone leaving this afternoon. Isn’t that auspicious?”

  “That’s marvelous.” I smiled, having resolved not to make our lives harder by sulking. I then noticed that Lizzie was missing.

  “Where’s Lizzie?” I asked.

  Before Martha could reply, Lizzie descended the stairs. She was dressed, most oddly, in a man’s clothing: breeches, blouse, and an old cap with her hair tucked beneath it.

  “What do you do, dressed like that, Lizzie?” I asked.

  Martha came up behind me. She rested a hand companionably on my shoulder. “She goes to place her neck in the enemy’s rope, Eliza.” Martha approached Lizzie and stuck something on her face. She then backed away to admire her handiwork. It was a mustache! The ruse was now complete: Tall Lizzie, in Jeb’s breeches, waistcoat, and blouse, looked convincingly like a young man. Martha had tied Lizzie’s hair in a single plait and secured it with a bit of linen.

  “But what on earth is going on? What is it you plan to do, dressed in such a costume?”

  “It’s a long story, Eliza,” Lizzie sighed, her breath moving the hairs on the false mustache. “Suffice to say it involves something I learned from the admiral at dinner last night.”

  “She thinks she goes to save the Cause,” Martha snorted.

  “No, indeed,” Lizzie objected. They were about to get into one of their arguments when I interrupted them.

  “Please tell me what’s happening. I should like to know.” But here, I couldn’t help but begin to laugh, for the sight of Lizzie was so absurd.

  “Allow me to begin at the beginning.” Lizzie glanced at Martha. “Come.” She led the way into the kitchen.

  “But do remove the mustache,” I begged. “For you cannot expect me to listen to you dressed like that.”

  Lizzie began to pull the mustache off her face when Martha intervened. “Allow me,” she said, reaching for the mustach
e. “I have no wish for you to damage it.”

  “Well,” Lizzie began, once that had been accomplished. “Last night—it is as I said. It was an extraordinary evening. But, as Abigail and I took our leave, I happened to hear the admiral say something to Colonel Quincy. He said it in French, but I understood it, for I learned French as a child.”

  “What did he say that makes you go to this mad extreme?”

  Martha looked pointedly at Lizzie and said, “I fear that we must go back several months.”

  “I think so as well,” Lizzie added.

  Martha began. “This past August, at the height of the smallpox, there were two murders in the North Parish.”

  “Murders?” I stood up and glanced toward the parlor, where my child slept.

  “Yes. Two patriots, lodging in the house of Abigail’s sister Mary Cranch and her husband, Richard. They were poisoned. I myself discovered the deeds when I was called to prepare the bodies for burial. We had a terrible epidemic of the pox, and the two men died several weeks apart—of this disease, we thought. At first, the Cranches, and even Martha here, believed it to be the pox. Yet I suspected something amiss with Dr. Flynt, and at the death of Mr. Thayer, I knew it for certain. They had been murdered. Poisoned.”

  “I can’t believe this. You said not a word about it.”

  I was suddenly quite fearful, and my heart pounded—not for myself but for my child.

  “I’m sorry, Eliza,” said Lizzie, and indeed she looked remorseful. “Thomas Miller had been instructed to say nothing. Your parents would not have chosen to place you in harm’s way had they known.”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain.” I shrugged, thinking of Mama. “But is there yet danger here? I fear not for myself, but for Johnny—”

  Lizzie looked at Martha and then said, “Not with regard to the pox, at any rate. That is gone, thankfully.”

  “And the—villains?”

  “We believe they’re gone.” Lizzie took my hand. Hers was warm. “This is precisely what I wished to explain. The admiral told the colonel where he believed the culprits could be found. Speaking of which,” Lizzie added, “it’s time I left.” Lizzie rose from her chair, straightened her breeches, returned the mustache to her upper lip, and went to mount Star.

  “But wait!” I called after her, realizing that she had not told all. “Where do you go? And why must it be you?”

  “She thinks she shall discover what they plan to do next. Lizzie takes her gifts of detection far too seriously. But I for one cannot stop her.”

  Lizzie paused at the door. She gazed at both of us with a tender expression. Despite my confusion, I now considered her the bravest woman I had ever known.

  “What if you don’t return? Where shall we begin to search for you?”

  “We shall place a notice in the paper, Eliza,” Martha replied. “Escaped madwoman sought by family. Approach with caution.”

  “Ha, ha,” laughed Lizzie without smiling, for fear of unseating the mustache. She opened the door, letting in the frigid air.

  Martha was not very satisfied. “You should take a cape. It’s cold.”

  “I have none that will serve,” she said as she climbed upon Star.

  “A blanket then,” Martha insisted.

  “Nay. That would look strange, a blanket upon a man’s lap. Never mind. The riding shall warm me.”

  She leaned down to kiss us good-bye, nearly falling out of her saddle. Her mustache tickled our faces, but we did not laugh at it.

  40

  TWO PATRIOTS MURDERED. TWO POISONINGS—AND SMALLPOX as well! All was not well in the North Parish. Still, I was glad to be out of ignorance, to know the truth. My idyll had perhaps crumbled, but not so my friendships, or my growing love for this town.

  The following morning, we received word that Lizzie had arrived safely in Cambridge. Several days later, however, we received a more substantial, and more enigmatical, letter:

  My servants Bessie and Giles are well. At the tavern, I met Mr. C! Imagine that, Martha. He praised my horse but suggested that “to be too busy was perhaps some danger.”

  Hearing the news that Lizzie had chanced upon Mr. Cleverly, Martha scowled.

  “That is the man who proposed to Lizzie?”

  “Nearly proposed,” said Martha, slapping the letter against her hip.

  “I gather you don’t like this Mr. Cleverly?”

  “A pompous ass would be putting it mildly.”

  “She is well out of it, then.”

  “Indeed, she is.” Martha turned as if she would walk into the kitchen, but I persisted:

  “What happened to him, exactly? Why did he leave town, and so suddenly?”

  Martha proceeded to tell me that Mr. Cleverly had been a friend and associate of the murdered men, Dr. Flynt and Mr. Thayer. He had, like them, been staying at the Cranches’ boarding house, visiting Lizzie nearly every day while he worked on his watering machine. But he fled Braintree like a coward the day Mr. Thayer, the second victim, died.

  “That very morning, Mr. Cleverly had been about to propose marriage to Lizzie. They stood there in the orchards when Richard Cranch came to tell us of Mr. Thayer’s death.”

  “I can hardly believe it,” I said. Nor did I understand precisely what those murders were about. Of what importance had been those two patriots, for some dastardly villain to dispatch them so?

  “Believe it,” said Martha. “The truth is, Eliza, that you’ve left one fry pan only to jump into another.”

  Lizzie was gone for near two weeks. During that time, we lost flesh. It grew quite cold, and we had so little wood left that, to conserve our supply, Johnny and I moved into Lizzie’s chamber with Martha. For two weeks we froze and went hungry during the day; at night, we lay in a heap, the bed piled high with bolsters. I slept poorly, fearing that one of us would roll over and smother my babe.

  Every day, I expected a letter and would start at the least sound abroad. Or I would sit with my tea in the unheated parlor, so that I could look out the window, the better to see the approach of a messenger. Nothing came, neither from John nor from Colonel Langdon. I saw only the white puffs of my own breath.

  On the night of November 14, at midnight or perhaps a little earlier, I started up in bed, having heard something in my sleep. It was a noise like breaking glass. The noise was so sudden, and so unabashedly loud, that I believed it to be one of those details of a nightmare that can seem so real to the dreamer. However, I was just sitting up, eyes open to the darkness, moon hidden by the clouds, when I heard another noise—footsteps.

  “Martha!” I whispered.

  Martha’s eyes were already open. We had left our flint in the kitchen and thus had nothing with which to light a candle.

  “Help me, quickly,” she whispered, her breath like clouds of smoke. We leapt from the bed at the same moment. Trembling, I whispered to her, “They’ll hear us.”

  “Perhaps. But they mustn’t reach us. Help me.” Here, she took one end of Lizzie’s heavy chest of drawers, and I took the other. We slid it with a great, groaning, scraping sound, against the door. The footsteps below halted, and we stopped; we dared not even breathe. Then the movement resumed.

  “There are two of them,” Martha said. I looked about the dark chamber for a weapon, lamenting the fact that I had not thought to bring Lizzie’s musket up to our chamber. I then knelt down beside the bed and prayed to God to spare my son, if not myself.

  “Will you not pray with me?” I asked Martha.

  “It’s pointless.”

  I was shocked at this blasphemous reply but had no time to dwell upon it because, suddenly, amidst all the great crashing and smashing below, we heard feet upon the stairs. One pair. They endeavored to be stealthy, but the cottage was old and the stairs creaked. We heard every footfall and held each other in terror. The chest, we knew, would be no great protection for long. Martha’s eyes darted toward the window. I did not see how we might escape that way without breaking a limb or being caught at once. An
d, even were we to try it, what of Johnny?

  We were at their mercy, and God’s.

  I put my hands together and bowed my head. “Please, Lord. I know I have sinned. But do not let them harm my innocent child.” Suddenly the footsteps ceased their creaky climb. I rose to my feet, and there was a moment of silence in which Martha and I were locked together as one person. The steps then descended and were lost amid the other pair. Both soon removed to the kitchen. That was the first moment wherein I felt that, whatever these marauders’ sinister purpose, it was not to harm but to frighten us. We released our hold upon each other and breathed. Next we heard them, they descended to the cellar. There was the sound of more crockery being smashed. Ten minutes later, they were gone.

  We slept not that night, nor dared to move nor push the chest away from the door till break of day, when we rose.

  The parlor window had been smashed through. The barrels of cider in the cellar had been cleaved with an ax. Several chickens in the yard had been beheaded, their glassy eyes glancing wistfully toward their distant bodies. In the kitchen, Lizzie’s medical sack had been rifled and many costly supplies taken. Teas and powders had been removed from their boxes and poured all in a heap. The entire scene possessed a personal, vengeful quality. What a waste lay before us!

  A thought then occurred to me. “This is someone of your acquaintance,” I said to Martha.

  “Yes,” she said. “I know.”

  41

  WHILE I STOOD THERE IN SHOCK, MARTHA ran to Colonel Quincy’s, who had his coachman ride to Cambridge to deliver the news to Lizzie. Martha then returned to help me with the task of cleaning up the mess. We were at it nearly all that day, working in silence punctuated only by Johnny’s hunger.