by Jodi Daynard
But as we approached Cambridge, my thoughts grew darker. I had little faith that Adams could do anything from Braintree. But even if he could, even if this “web” of his managed to free John and Isaac, they would be hunted like animals. How long might they remain undetected in Braintree?
I suddenly recalled my dream of the night before: that mythical place across the ocean, bare, clean, and filled with light. All these months, when I dreamed of John’s escape, I had unconsciously dreamed of us living with Johnny in Braintree, among the friends whom I so dearly loved.
I saw that dream for what it was now, as I rode in the carriage on the way to my ancestral home. Braintree could not be our home. And, for all I had come to love the Cause, I knew that this war was not our war, nor would its victory be our victory. This could never be our America, mine and John’s. I looked out at the coast and the sea through eyes that saw the truth.
Three long hours later, having stopped not once, we finally arrived in Cambridge. The chestnut tree that stood upon our front lawn was in full flower. Bluish-lavender Rose of Sharon trees bloomed on either side of the door. A second bloom of bright-pink roses and dusty catmint made a fine display on either side of them.
At first, the house looked just the same as when I’d left it near one year earlier, after Papa’s funeral. But as I descended the carriage and walked up the path, I noticed that its once-pristine white paint was peeling, and the once-neat lawn had gone to seed. I looked toward the stables: they were empty, neither horses nor men within.
A hammering sound came from the vicinity of the orchards. There, just beyond the apple trees, I discovered the frame of a house going up. Mama must have sold off the back lot. The estate that had once seemed an infinite wilderness in our childish games of hide-and-seek was now quite finite.
Mama noticed the carriage and, by the time I came round to the front, was standing in the doorway. For a moment, she just stood there looking at me. I approached, but soon stopped at half a rod’s distance: How old she’d grown! There were thick streaks of gray in her hair. Her gown had biscuit crumbs all down the front. She looked wilted and decayed, like a plant eaten by disease from within.
“You’ve come,” she said. “I had no notion that you would.”
“I came immediately upon receiving your letter,” I said coolly.
“You are too thin,” she observed. “They have worked you to the bone.”
“Only such work as I wished to do,” I replied. Then I reproached myself. There was a purpose to my visit, and I would do well not to lose sight of it. “Well, it’s good to be home, anyway,” I said, entering the house and endeavoring to smile.
The coachman followed with my trunk. I looked about the foyer and then at the front parlor. Our few remaining pieces of furniture were gone. In my father’s study, silhouettes of dust remained on the parquet floor where the sofa and table had once stood. Only the books in the cabinets remained. I moved past Mama, after the coachman and my trunk. Passing her, I noticed a distinctly unpleasant odor: it was the rank, sour smell of unwashed clothing.
As I began to mount the stairs she said, “I am glad you are home, Eliza. Most glad. We shall have time enough to talk—you must be exhausted. Cassie!” she called.
Cassie soon appeared from the kitchen; seeing me, her eyes widened in shock. Her face seemed longer, sadder, and older, too. I ran and fairly flung myself into her waiting arms.
“Oh, Cassie!” I cried.
We held each other, and after a few moments Cassie pulled back and looked at me questioningly, though she did not dare to utter a word in my mother’s presence. Clearly, she knew not why I was there, without my child, nor why the coachman hoisted my trunk up the stairs. But she finally said, “I make you a dish of tea.” She moved toward the kitchen, but I stopped her with a touch upon her arm.
“Wait a moment. I have some things for you both . . .” I ran up the stairs to my trunk. Opening it, I found the boxes of tea, the sugar, and a bag of flour my friends had given me from Harry’s spoils of war.
“Your mama will be very happy to see all dis,” she said, but the items did not seem to cheer her.
“There’s more—I shall unpack it all later.”
Mama had mounted the stairs and stood watching us from the doorway. “But where did you get these goods?” she asked suspiciously.
“It’s a long story,” I said. “I’ll gladly tell it by and by.”
“Well, but such tea will be a delight, after all this time,” said Mama, putting aside her scruples. “Cassie, do make us some.” Cassie nodded, and I took the sack of sugar and moved off to the kitchen with her. Once I knew we were alone, I drew her to me and whispered, “Cassie, it’s most urgent that I speak with you. But not within these walls.”
“I go later to de market. Come wit’ me. I go around four. Dey sell cheaply at de end of de day. Sometimes dey even give away de food.”
“So it has come to that,” I remarked thoughtfully. Of course, we had been accepting handouts from the Adamses and Quincys for nearly a year. But I suffered to think that we fared far better than Mama and Cassie. “Very well. I shall accompany you.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mama and I were sitting out back in the kitchen garden—she had placed her one remaining tea table and a set of chairs out there, finding it more pleasant to enjoy the occasional breezes that came up from the river. At night, Cassie brought the table and chairs inside, in the event of rain. But it had hardly rained at all that month.
“Oh, isn’t this wonderful?” said my mother, closing her eyes and sipping her Bohea tea.
“Yes, we’ve been quite spoiled—in some ways. Lizzie’s brother, Harry, returned from sea one month ago. He’d been gone many years. He brought us two sacks of British goods.”
“That was very lucky for you.”
“It was,” I agreed. “And so, how fare things here?” I endeavored to sound cheerful. “I see you sold a parcel of land.”
“Yes. It was—necessary. The owners built themselves a fair-sized house, though of course it will not have the gardens we do.”
“Have you met them?”
She shook her head. “But I hear from Papa’s lawyer that it is a colonel and his wife and two children. They are not likely to know our circle.”
“No, indeed,” I agreed, doubting whether anyone of Mama’s former “circle” remained in Cambridge. All had long since fled.
After tea, I went upstairs and rested in my own chamber. I lay upon the bed and stared at the ceiling and asked the Lord to give me strength for what would come. After a while, determined to resist my sinking spirits, I rose and sought out Cassie. I found her by the hearth, drenched in perspiration, making a cake with the flour I’d brought her.
“Cassie, you’re melting. Let us go to market.”
Cassie pulled the cake from the coals, wiped her brow with an elbow, lifted the pan with a rag, and set it upon a heart-shaped trivet. At the sight of Cassie continuing to do what she had always done, stuck in the iron grid of service and lost dreams, my heart suddenly lurched, and a decision took hold of me.
Cassie moved from the fire and took a moment to tidy herself. Then, emerging into the hallway, she called, “Miss Margaret! I go to market. Eliza come wit’ me.”
Mama was in the library, doing I knew not what. She replied, her voice too shrill, “See if they have a halibut. I fancy a halibut for my daughter’s return. And have we gooseberries for a sauce?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
At an earlier time, my mother would have thought it most rude to speak from such a distance. Cassie sighed, but not at Mama’s solecism. I looked at her, expecting her to say something, but she did not. Only when we had left the house and had gone half a block toward town did she stop and turn to me.
“Your Mama not too well, Eliza.”
“What do you mean?”
“In de ’ead.” She pointed to her own. I stopped walking and touched her elbow.
“Please explain yourself, Cassie.”<
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Cassie was reluctant to speak ill of her mistress, but at my insistence, she let out a sigh and began. “Some days, she confused. She tink it maybe de year 1770. Some days, she believe Jeb away and return soon.”
“That cannot be,” I frowned. “She seemed perfectly well to me, except”—here I broached the subject of my mother’s hygiene—“she smells.”
Cassie nodded gravely. “She won’ let me bathe her, Miss Eliza. It been many monfs . . . you stay a little longer, you see for yourself what she like.”
“Perhaps it is but a temporary state, a breakdown from which she’ll recover. She has been through a great deal, what with Papa’s death.”
Cassie merely shrugged, unconvinced.
“But Cassie, listen. I have information I must impart. Urgent information that shall cause you no little pain.”
From the corner of my eye I perceived a bench by the blacksmith’s shop, half a block away. I motioned for us to go sit there. I took Cassie’s hand—whether to steady her or myself I knew not.
We sat down. “Here’s what I know . . .” I began.
I told Cassie about my uncle’s death and the confiscation of his home. I recounted the news of Isaac’s discovery at the auction house, his return to his former master, and John’s sale to this same master as well. At my news, Cassie inhaled, bent over, and put her hands to her mouth.
“But,” I added quickly, “there are those who help us even as we speak, Cassie. People of great weight and connection.”
I had endeavored to impress her, but by Cassie’s demeanor I knew her to be wholly disbelieving. I then addressed the other urgent matter: “Do you know that Mama wrote to me with the intention of finding Johnny’s father?”
Cassie nodded. “I thought so. Oh, Miss Eliza! I don’t know what anyone can do. Your Mama, she’ll get Watkins for sure, now. She talk of nutteeng else for weeks and weeks. It keep her alive.”
“Yes, it seems so.” I sighed, “Though I can’t imagine why.”
“You can’t?” she looked at me.
“Not really. What good will it do her to punish Watkins?”
But Cassie shrugged, as if she felt I must discover this for myself.
“Cassie,” I continued, touching her shoulder so that she would look at me. “I have no intention of going to Portsmouth with Mama.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I merely stall for time. These people who help us, if perchance they do succeed—”
“Don’ ask me to hope for dat, Miss Eliza,” Cassie interrupted me. “Please don’t.”
“But if perchance they do,” I persisted. “Well, you must know we could not remain here.”
Cassie waited for me to say more.
“It’s a dangerous time to travel, but I have only one place I can think of to go. There will be terrible dangers, difficulties.”
I looked about me, but there was no one save a few children who raced past us, playing a game.
“Cassie, I have a question to put to you. An important one.”
“Yes, Miss Eliza?”
“My question is, Do you wish to come with us? You and Isaac? I know not what we shall find. I know not how we shall live, though John is a goodly shipwright—or was . . .” I trailed off uncertainly. “Isaac is skilled now as well. But your only certain possession shall be your freedom. That—and to live among friends. That’s all I know, and all I can offer.”
Cassie had closed her eyes and now seemed to be praying. I knew not to whom or what she prayed, nor did I ask. When she was finished, she stood and began to walk along the road toward the market, saying nothing. I trailed after her.
“Cassie? Cassie, dear. What is it? Please. Share your thoughts with me. Share your true feelings—for once.”
She turned to me. Her face was wet with tears. “I pray for dees every day since you were a little girl. Every day. Do it come true today? I ask myself. Every day.”
“Oh, Cassie,” I said. “Then we shall have each other. Surely that is no small thing.”
“No, Miss Eliza. ’Eet’s no small ting.”
51
WE ATE OUR SUPPER AT THE TABLE in the kitchen garden. The air had cooled somewhat, though it was still quite hot. My mother ate little but spoke with animation about everything we would do together now that I was home. Certain of these activities seemed reasonable, such as her suggestion that we attend a concert in town. Perhaps the sale of the parcel of land had given her a little security. But then she said, smiling mysteriously, “And of course there shall be a Harvest Ball, and but—oh!—we must order you a gown from London at once.”
I sat back in silence. Cassie, coming out to clear our plates, met my eyes briefly. Her look was knowing, and I nodded dispiritedly.
Mama’s mood, on the other hand, had grown nearly jubilant: “Eliza, I can’t tell you my relief that you have returned from Portsmouth at last. My brother was very naughty to have kept you so long. I shall scold him soundly anon.” At these words, I smiled, excused myself, and ran into the kitchen, where I let out a moan.
“You see now,” said Cassie, appearing by my side in the kitchen.
“Yes, I see. Oh, God, Cassie. She has not mentioned Johnny—or Lizzie, or Braintree, or any of it. It’s as if none of that ever happened. She is far gone, and yet she wrote to me with such odd lucidity on the subject of Johnny’s father.”
Cassie nodded. “Dat truth ’ees a thorn in her side, Miss Eliza. She need to pull it out.”
“Dat truth” reached my sluggish brain at last: Were Mama to dispense with father and child, it might be as if no time had passed. Nothing would have changed. My virtue would be reestablished, and I could return to her barren bosom and life in Cambridge once more. O, hellish fate!
I moved out of doors and said resolutely, “Mama, let us order that dress as soon as may be. I am thinking perhaps a lilac color.”
“Lilac is quite beautiful, Eliza, and looks well on you. But it is hardly appropriate for winter. I don’t know—” she tapped her pointy chin with the fingers of one hand. “I’m betwixt and between—dark green might suit in the event of a winter soiree.”
“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.”
Mama nodded with satisfaction. She sipped her tea and ate another bite of cake. I nattered on. I told Mama I was looking forward to the Harvest Ball, and to Christmas. Though it was August, and sweltering, I spoke fondly of a white Christmas.
“Do you remember when Jeb and I made snow angels? I was so happy then,” I blurted, then regretted it at once.
“I do,” she said guardedly, her eyes flitting toward and then away from me.
“I always thought those angels were real, but of course they weren’t. You had a beautiful family, Mama. I have many happy memories.”
She stared into the apple trees, her hands now clasped together. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?”
Mama seemed so contented to have me home that I allowed myself to think that perhaps she would forgo her mission in Portsmouth. But as if hearing my thoughts, she said, “You know, Eliza. I have had sufficient time since writing you to realize that, as the court will certainly want your testimony, you will need to come with me to Portsmouth. There is hardly a point in my making two trips when one will suffice.”
“Of course,” I said, hiding my disappointment. “When did you wish to go?”
“I had planned on leaving first thing tomorrow. But as you seem quite tired yet, perhaps we’ll head out on Friday. Would that suit?”
“Let us depart on Saturday. There are things I would yet do—in Cambridge. There was a particular bonnet I wished to buy . . .” My tongue felt suddenly heavy with lies, and I could not continue.
That night, sleeping in my old bed, I allowed myself to pretend that I was a child once more. I would wake to a cheerful houseful of noisy children. Maria would descend with her notebook, and Jeb would send a kite over the railing for me to chase. Or Maria and I might, after breakfast, play a game of chess in the library, watching the Va
ssals’ maid shake out the carpets. Waiting for Mr. Cardinal to appear. How pleasant the illusion was! I understood why Mama had chosen never to wake from it.
Early the next day, I descended and took my morning coffee alone. Mama rose late. She breakfasted and allowed Cassie to bathe her. The previous evening, I’d managed to convince her that it would be prudent to bathe before donning a new gown. She had assented, much to our relief.
After breakfast, Mama said she wished to help me unpack. But I told her that it was unnecessary, given that we would soon leave for Portsmouth. I would merely remove what items I needed for the next few days.
“How very sensible of you, Eliza.” She smiled.
I was so surprised by my mother’s approbation that she must have noticed, for she looked at me in a way she had not for many years. She took my hand. “I love you, Eliza, despite what you might think. I always have. Even more than the others. Perhaps that’s why I expected so much of you. Anyway, it was Mr. Boylston’s particular wish that I make that clear to you.”
I stared at her in stunned silence. She had surprised me in many ways, but this outburst of kindness was the deepest surprise of all. When I thought of a reply, a lifetime of unspoken words came crowding in on me. So did a great deal of hurt and anger. I replied simply, “I love you, too, Mama.”
Her shoulders felt so thin as I embraced her, the cage that held her heart so fragile. How strange, I thought, that she should begin to love me now, now that she wished to do me the greatest harm of all, and I planned to abandon her forever? O, when would this torture end?
Later that day, Cassie and I walked to market; the vendors erected makeshift tents to keep off the burning sun, but on windy days, such as it was on this day, the tents swayed and threatened to crash to the sides of the stalls. I looked about the town at the old vendors and shopkeepers I knew, many of whom remained, though their clientele was not what it once was: We all looked quite plain in our homespun gowns. The silk gowns and bonnets were all gone.