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

by Jodi Daynard

  “Lizzie, I had the strangest dream last night. I dreamed of my father’s plantation.”

  “Have you been there?” she asked, pouring two dishes of tea for us both.

  “Oh, no. Never. But in the dream, I saw it clearly. It was a house much like Colonel Quincy’s. Airy and light-filled. It too sat upon a hill—not by our waters but overlooking the Caribbean Sea. So blue, so warm, surrounded by white sand and palm trees. We pulled up to find the house uninhabited yet open to the soft breezes. I sensed an air of possibility all about, and I thought, I shall have to procure some furniture. What make you of it, Lizzie?”

  “I know not,” she said honestly. “But it sounds lovely. Quite—free of care. I almost wish I were there myself.”

  “It was another world.”

  “The enemy’s world, though,” she reminded me. “Entirely against our Cause.”

  “Yes,” I replied thoughtfully. “I suppose.”

  After I had finished my tea, I made my way up the hill in the fog, to retrieve Johnny. The Quincy house was dead quiet as I entered through the back door, now unlocked. One servant was up and preparing breakfast for the Quincys, who had not yet descended. I ascended the stairs with a familiar nod to her.

  Johnny was asleep on his back, splayed out on the bed. A bolster was twisted, surrounding him so that he would not roll off in the night. I lifted him gently; he was warm with sleep.

  Returning with him to the cottage, I gently set my child upon the bed next to a still-sleeping Mr. Miller. Johnny squirmed, put his thumb in his mouth, but did not wake. It was near six—a late start for us. But this morning, the chores could wait.

  “Is it well Mr. Miller sleeps so long?” I asked Lizzie.

  “Oh, yes. His body heals itself. Yet I’ll watch him closely throughout the day.”

  Her air of indifference did not fool me. Nor did it fool Martha, who, coming in from feeding the animals, had overheard her.

  “Indeed, you should watch him very closely, Lizzie. I shouldn’t leave his bedside, if I were you.”

  Lizzie darted a warning glance at Martha.

  I smiled. “Lizzie, if we can’t tease you now, when can we?”

  “Never.”

  “But I’m so happy for you, truly,” I said, my low spirits lifting at the news that Mr. Miller would recover. “What’s more, I’m delighted that Mr. Miller is precisely who we thought him to be, and not an evil manipulator like Mr. Cleverly or Dr. Flynt.”

  “Well,” replied Lizzie, “I’m not certain General Howe will feel as we do. The general had thought Mr. Miller quite a dedicated subject of the crown. Even our dear Abigail was fooled.”

  We heard the creak of the stairs and turned to find Harry, descending. Normally a bold rogue, Harry now looked sheepish. What had he been doing upstairs? We had left him quite cozily ensconced in the dairy!

  Entering the kitchen, he would not meet our eyes. Lizzie pursed her lips and endeavored to stifle a smile. But the attempt failed, and she burst into laughter.

  “Shut up, Lizzie,” said Martha. “Nothing untoward happened. As you see, I have not yet changed my gown.”

  “A great deal can happen with a gown on,” she replied. “I have safe delivered many a product of such an encounter.”

  “Lizzie!” Martha blushed scarlet.

  “Oh, don’t torment the poor girl,” I said. “For I see no mark of sainthood upon your fair brow.”

  “No, indeed,” she said, pinching her lips tight as she glanced toward my sleeping babe. I smiled good-naturedly as we all helped to put some breakfast upon the table.

  Suddenly we heard footsteps and turned to find Mr. Miller, walking toward us in a bloodstained nightshirt. He sat down on a stool in obvious discomfort.

  Lizzie shrieked. “What on earth? What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Why, joining you for breakfast, if I may.”

  “You may not. Your bandage leaks. I must change it. You should remain in bed another day at least.”

  “One night by his side and she henpecks him like a wife,” Martha muttered. “Take care, Tom. She’ll soon have you fetching and carrying.”

  Lizzie swatted Martha out of her way. “Come along, Mr. Miller. Let’s get you out of that bloody shirt. And I must change your bandage.”

  Mr. Miller obeyed. He turned around and headed slowly back toward the bed, where Lizzie removed his shirt, her face turned modestly away.

  “You will look upon me someday, you know,” said Mr. Miller brashly.

  “Yes, well. Not today,” Lizzie replied.

  She asked me would I fetch another shirt from her upstairs chest of drawers. I did so, as she went about changing his bandage. In a few minutes, she had succeeded in helping him back into bed. Finally Lizzie went to fetch him breakfast on a tray, but by the time she returned, he was fast asleep.

  It was a day of quiet industry and contemplation. We had all been through so much together, and yet some of what we suffered could not be shared. Thus it was with great tact that we allowed one another time and space to make sense of that which had been revealed.

  Much later that day, after the extreme heat had passed, Martha, myself, and Lizzie took tea in the kitchen garden, where we had brought our garden stools. Johnny sat on my lap, and he was banging a spoon against a block of wood. Harry had gone into town to follow up on the arrests of Mr. Cleverly and his band. Mr. Miller was awake and sitting up in bed.

  Unbidden, Martha began to weep.

  “Why, Martha, what is the matter?” asked Lizzie. I had never seen Martha weep, and I suspected that Lizzie hadn’t, either.

  “I promised him I wouldn’t say, but I fear I can’t keep the news to myself.”

  “What news?” Lizzie and I asked in unison.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all, compared to yesterday.” Martha endeavored to laugh. “Harry leaves for New York Monday next.”

  “Harry leaves? He didn’t tell me,” said Lizzie.

  “He’s not afraid of the British, but he is apparently quite terrified of his sister. Yes, Lizzie, he’s been given orders.”

  Lizzie paused, searching for a tactful way to phrase the question we both had on our minds: “And . . . do you have an understanding?”

  “There has been no time for words. But—” Here, Martha sent Lizzie a look that went beyond my understanding.

  “Yes,” Lizzie replied to Martha’s silent question. “You must speak to him.”

  “It’s certain he loves you,” I said. “We’ve seen how he looks at you.”

  Martha sighed. “Yes, he loves me,” she agreed. “If only love were enough.”

  I might have questioned Martha further but just then a shadow caught my eye, and when I looked up I saw Abigail turn into our yard. With her was Mr. Adams. When they saw us they let go of each other’s hands like young lovers caught by disapproving parents. At once we showed our respect by standing.

  “Nay, nay, stay where you are.” Mr. Adams waved to us. “I would not have you stand on my account.”

  Martha and I sat down, but Lizzie approached Mr. Adams. She said, “Mr. Adams, I don’t believe you’ve met my friend Martha Miller, or my sister-in-law, Eliza Boylston. The handsome fellow on her lap is her son, Johnny.”

  “Well, how’d ye do, Johnny,” said Mr. Adams, and came over to where I sat. He reached out his arms for the child, but of late Johnny had become shy of strangers. He frowned at Mr. Adams and turned into my shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Adams. I don’t know what’s come over him. He’s a friendly child, usually.”

  “Don’t concern yourself, my dear,” said Mr. Adams. “I have that effect on most people.”

  “Oh, John,” Abigail reproached him.

  “Would you like some tea?” Lizzie asked. “It’s the real thing—my brother Harry’s spoils of war.”

  “It’s our patriotic duty to drink the spoils of war, wouldn’t you say, Portia?” Here, John looked so lovingly at Abigail that I blushed, though she did not.

  �
��I’ll make a fresh pot,” Lizzie said.

  “We stay not long,” said Abigail. “Don’t fuss. John wished to see Mr. Miller, as did I.”

  Turning to Lizzie, Mr. Adams said, “I’m very glad to hear that Mr. Miller’s wound is not life-threatening. I owe him a very great debt. We do, that is.” He looked at his wife.

  “What I owe him is an apology,” said Abigail. “Excuse me. I’ll be but a moment.” Mr. Adams moved to accompany his wife to the bedside of Mr. Miller.

  “He’s in the parlor,” said Lizzie. “Please don’t incite him to any patriotic activity just now, Mr. Adams.”

  “No, I think we’ve had enough of that for the time being.” Abigail looked pointedly at me and Martha.

  She returned a few minutes later, leaving her husband by Mr. Miller’s side. Her little face was aflame with anger. In a hushed voice she addressed us:

  “I simply can’t believe that no one thought it meet to tell me that Mr. Adams and John Quincy arrived.”

  “We could not, Abigail,” said Lizzie, looking down at the ground.

  “We took our orders from Colonel Quincy,” Martha added.

  “But why?” Abigail’s voice rose in distress.

  “Shh,” said Lizzie. “We’ve no wish to disturb our men. They’ve all been through a great ordeal.”

  “That’s just the point,” said Abigail hotly. “What if they’d not survived? What if my John, or John Quincy—oh, I cannot even think of it.”

  “But what good would it have done for you to be in agony all that time? We ourselves could hardly bear it. Isn’t it better this way? Wouldn’t you have done the same, in our place?”

  Abigail contemplated this new idea. “If I were you . . . I should not have wanted you to suffer in anticipation. I suppose I would have trusted in my fine soldiers. Oh, Lizzie,” she turned to her friend. “I am so heartily sorry I misjudged Thomas Miller. That must have caused you indescribable pain.”

  “You were meant to be deceived, Abigail. But let us forget the past—it was all for the best. And here we have our men, safe and nearly sound.”

  “I am so contented to see my John.” She sighed and allowed herself a small smile. “Though he tells me he is to go to Cambridge to write the Commonwealth’s Constitution. He’s like Odysseus. But if he expects me to sit home knitting his shroud, he’s wrong. We nearly argued about it, but I had not the heart last night.”

  Lizzie went in to make the tea, and as she opened the door, we heard John Adams’s hearty laugh coming from the parlor. I wondered what he could have been laughing at. I followed her into the kitchen.

  Soon, with the teapot and dishes on a tray, we offered a dish to Mr. Miller, who was sitting up. He glanced at Lizzie with unabashed adoration, which made her blush. Then we all stepped into the garden. Martha brought up the rear carrying a candlestand, upon which she set the tea and a plate of biscuits.

  “Oh, how delighted I am to be on dry land,” said Mr. Adams, after sitting down, a dish of tea on his lap. He stretched his short legs out before him and tipped his face into the late afternoon sun. “You’ve no idea of the tedium of a ship. I’ve a mind never to leave Braintree again.”

  “You leave tomorrow,” said Abigail flatly.

  “Saturday,” he corrected her.

  “And did you have a good trip otherwise, Mr. Adams?” I hazarded.

  “Dismal,” he replied. “If I had to spend one more minute with Dr. Franklin, I should have gone stark raving mad. The man is always right!”

  “As are you, dear,” said Abigail, patting his shoulder. “How very inconvenient for you.”

  We laughed at Abigail’s wit, but Mr. Adams merely waved her comment away, content for once to let her have the last word.

  The Adamses had just said their good-byes when Martha stood up and cried, “Oh, dear! I entirely forgot!” She ran upstairs and returned with a letter in her hands. “This was under the door when we returned from the Quincys’ last night. It is addressed to you, Eliza. Forgive me, I—”

  “Don’t apologize, Martha. There were far more important things to think about last night.”

  I sat back down with the letter in my lap, hesitating only a moment before breaking the seal. It was from my mother.

  August 2, 1779, Cambridge

  Dear Eliza,

  The fog has finally lifted from my grieving eyes. No longer can I in good conscience allow the crime upon you to go unpunished. I write to tell you that tomorrow I go to Portsmouth—Cassie says I do wrong, but who is she to say so? She has grown most impertinent! There, I hope to bring the father of your child to justice. It is right; it is just. For, when the villain is hanged by his Neck, your Reputation shall be returned to you. Then may you take up your life once more in Cambridge. —Mama

  Martha, who had been reading over my shoulder, sucked in her breath.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said.

  “Might I share this with Lizzie?” Martha asked.

  “Yes. But I must go to Cambridge at once. Oh, I fail to understand! She never expressed the least interest in Johnny’s father. She’s gone mad.”

  I handed Martha the letter. She moved silently into the kitchen, and I followed her. Lizzie read in ominous silence. She then met my eyes, as if searching for my own understanding of the letter.

  “Mama knows perfectly well that it was not a case of ravishment. She—but I must ready myself at once.”

  “A moment, dearest Eliza,” said Lizzie, touching my arm. “Let us think what to do.”

  “I know what I must do. I must go to Cambridge.”

  “Yes,” she confirmed, “but I believe you told us that Colonel Langdon has offered to help?”

  “He did,” I agreed. “Yet I fear that whatever he had in mind to do, the time for it has run out.”

  “Before you go,” Martha held my arm a moment, “perhaps—perhaps you ought to share this news with someone else who might be able to help.”

  “And who might that be?” I replied with a bitter, hopeless laugh.

  Lizzie and Martha looked at each other.

  “You’ll catch him easily, if you make haste,” said Martha.

  49

  THE ADAMSES HAD GONE AS FAR AS the meetinghouse by the time I caught up to them. The little couple strolled calmly, hand in hand, enjoying the darkening light and the calm that had finally fallen over the town.

  I coughed, and Abigail turned around.

  “Oh, Eliza, it’s you. You frightened me. Have I left something behind?”

  “No, no.” I curtsied. “I wished—Lizzie, Mrs. Boylston that is, and Miss Miller, thought I might do well to speak to Mr. Adams upon a most urgent question. I have only just now received a letter—”

  “By all means,” said Abigail, moving away slightly, to give us privacy.

  Mr. Adams turned to me.

  “Shall we sit? I find my legs are yet a bit wobbly. Would it be terribly inconvenient if I sat upon the steps, just here?” he pointed to the meetinghouse steps.

  “Of course not. I shall join you, if I may.”

  I sat upon the steps, and this great man sat down next to me with a relieved sigh.

  “I should say at once, Miss Boylston, that I have no idea of being the least help to you. I know a little of your story—a very little. But naturally whatever is in my power, I shall do.”

  Mr. Adams, do whatever was in his power? I tried not to think of the many times Mr. Adams might have said those very words to the likes of His Excellency George Washington, or to the king of France. Who was I to ask anything of this man? Yet I inhaled and soldiered forth. I told Mr. Adams about the letter from Mama, and about Colonel Langdon’s former intent to help John and me.

  Listening, Mr. Adams’s demeanor changed from the affable country rustic I had met but an hour earlier. His face became grave, his voice low and steady when he said, “From everything you say, the situation has become critical.”

  I nodded. “Mr. Adams, I’m most grateful for your solicitude. But I have no w
ish to involve you in my troubles. You’re just now safely arrived yourself, and Abigail cannot do without you—”

  Mr. Adams cut me off. “That is a very pretty speech, Miss Boylston. But I’ve been involved in troubles almost since birth. I hardly know how to occupy myself without them.”

  How gracious he was! This was hardly what I had expected of the man whom all our broadsides drew as a loud and vulgar clown.

  “Rest assured,” he continued, “that if I do manage to help you, I shan’t budge from my beloved farm to accomplish it.” Then, his thoughts seemed to change tack: “By God, we’ve not gotten this far without—without our human web, as it were. We are all a part of it, in however small a way—you, Lizzie, Martha, even Watkins, from what I gather—” Here, he broke off, as if he’d revealed too much. “The web is sturdy, Miss Boylston. Upon its strength I’d stake my life. Yes, my very life!”

  Mr. Adams was silent for a moment. He then asked in a whisper, “But this Richards fellow—has he a wife and family?”

  “A wife, I’m told. A cruel mistress to her slaves.”

  “Hmm. I shall have to see whether . . .” he trailed off. “Well.” John Adams cleared his throat and turned to face me. “Are you prepared, my dear?”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “Prepared to get what you wish? If we’re successful, and we get them, you must realize that your troubles will just be beginning.”

  50

  THE ROAD TO CAMBRIDGE WAS HOT AND dusty: I coughed much of the way. At another time, I might have enjoyed the views outside the carriage, of boats both small and large, of fishermen and merchants. I would have delighted in the birdsong and the occasional wild creature I saw darting in and out of the bushes. But on this day, I felt only deep, engulfing fear.

  Along the way, I recalled my remarkable conversation with Mr. Adams. I know not quite how to describe him. The best description was perhaps that of his wife’s: He was like Odysseus, born for trouble. Indeed, I had thought I detected, upon hearing my dilemma, a lift in Mr. Adams’s spirits, a welcome engagement of his natural energies. They had idled far too long—a full nine hours!