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

by Jodi Daynard

At home, Mama and I partook of our scant dinner at the garden table. Just as we began to eat, I put my fork down in unfeigned disgust.

  “Mama. Cassie eats all alone in the kitchen, and, honestly, I don’t see the point. Why can she not eat out here with us? It is stiflingly hot within, and having her with us would be far more companionable.”

  “Companionable? A slave?” Here, I thought she would launch upon one of her diatribes, but Mama cast me a flinty look and said, “Oh, yes, very well. But tell her to hurry up. I find I’m quite hungry. Cassie!”

  Cassie came running to serve us, but Mama growled, “Hurry and pull up a chair. And bring your plate. You shall eat out here, with us. And do endeavor to add a bit of conversation to the meal, Cassie, for it won’t do to sit there like a stone.”

  The look on Cassie’s face I shall never forget: it was as if she had just seen the parting of the Red Sea.

  52

  WE DRANK OUR TEA, BUT CASSIE WAS too flummoxed to eat. She had never put a fork to her mouth before Mama, and she looked as if God might strike her dead were she to do so.

  “Mama, shall we stay at Uncle Robert’s in Portsmouth?” I asked.

  “Heavens, no,” she replied. “No, we stay at Stavers’s. I hope it shall be of short duration. But these days the courts are in such disarray, I should imagine we’ll remain there for several weeks.” Mama soon excused herself from the table. She rose, hesitated, then curtsied shallowly in Cassie’s direction. Cassie nearly fell off her chair, and I thought, Given a hundred years, Mama might well become a decent sort of person.

  The moment she was gone, I whispered, “Cassie, have we any writing paper about? And do you know a messenger? You must call upon him at once.”

  “I go look, Mees Eliza.”

  Hastily, we cleared the table, then set about finding paper. Cassie met me in the foyer after scouring Papa’s study—she handed me an old note from his attorney in Barbados, affirming the sale of several slaves, dated three years earlier. Using his old pen and ink, I crossed the note out with distaste and used the back of the paper:

  Dearest Lizzie.

  I find myself in direst circumstances. Mama brings us to Portsmouth on Saturday. It was the best I could do, given her wish to leave immediately. But as she has no carriage, we are obliged to go to town for the Flying Stage Coach. We leave Boston at ten o’clock. I know not when we expect to arrive in Portsmouth—Sunday afternoon, perhaps. Give my love to those who feel its absence.

  Yours, Eliza

  I was repacking my clothing upstairs when Cassie returned half an hour later with a sad-looking Negro boy of about thirteen, accompanied by a bony old horse. I saw them out the window and cringed lest Mama should see them as well.

  Cassie appeared before me and I gave her the letter. Quickly, she moved to give the letter to the boy, who untied the horse and took off in the direction of the bridge. Ten minutes later, Mama descended the stairs and regarded me with a level gaze:

  “Who was that?”

  I shivered. My mouth was growing accustomed to it, but my body was unused to lying. “Oh, I sent word to Lizzie that we would be out of town some weeks. In case she needed to reach me.”

  “Why would she need to reach you?” Mama asked warily. How pointed, how shrewd, she could be on the topic of my life, if not her own!

  I shrugged. “Mr. Miller suffered a grievous wound in a skirmish, and I should like to know if he takes a turn for the worse. He has been a loyal friend.” This explanation seemed to satisfy her, though she did say, “Well, I should like to know, in future, if you plan to send messages.”

  I felt the old-familiar rope tightening about my neck. This time, however, it had a salutary effect: it distilled me of remorse for what I was about to do. No remorse for the remorseless. That was the Rebel credo, was it not?

  I slept very ill Wednesday night; fear was my steadfast companion. Thursday and Friday passed with excruciating slowness. I knew not when, or if, someone might endeavor to find me. I sat in the front parlor pretending to read, listening for horses’ hooves.

  Mama kept asking, “Why do you not go into the library? Would it not be far more comfortable? There is a breeze from the open door.”

  “Nay, I am content,” I replied, though I was sitting upon a garden stool.

  “Very well, suit yourself.”

  Saturday morning came with still no word from anyone. I thought of Harry’s ship, the Cantabrigian, readying itself to set sail from Hogshead Point that Monday. Would we be passengers upon it?

  I rose but could not settle and paced about restlessly. Cassie emerged from the kitchen with an old leather case, wearing her wool cape. She looked absurd, and already perspired beneath it. However, it would be just the thing for a sea crossing. Mama did not notice it, being occupied with all our last-minute chores.

  “Have you means to pay for the coach?” I asked her.

  “Why do you inquire about such matters?” she replied. “Of course I do.”

  “Never mind. I simply thought it prudent to ask.”

  I stepped outside, onto the stone landing. I looked up at the ancient trees that had made it through the arboreal massacre of ’76. I looked back at the house and through the open doorway at the foyer, now empty. At one time it had contained a beautiful carved mahogany table and a splendid china vase of flowers. I saw the staircase, once the envy of all Cambridge. How long ago that life seemed!

  I heard horses’ hooves and whipped round, but it was only the coach that Mama had hired to take us to town. There could be no delay now, no further means of stalling.

  For a brief moment, I thought of pretending some kind of fit. No, I was far too poor an actor. It was all I could do to lie with words.

  Cassie and I walked down the path toward the waiting coach. I shut my eyes for a moment and imagined: Where were they now? Where were John and Isaac? Had anyone reached them? Had John done something foolish? Perhaps our friends arrived too late for rescue. Surely John would not leave Isaac . . . no, no. He would be more likely to attempt an escape for the both of them . . .

  It had been too long since I had nursed Johnny, and my milk came in, seeping through my bodice. Mama was fussing in the hallway when all at once she caught sight of the waiting carriage out front. “Eliza! Why did you not tell me that the carriage awaited?”

  “It only just arrived, Mama.”

  “Well, then, let us be off.”

  She moved out of doors, then suddenly spread her hands up above her head. “Goodness! What is the matter with me! I have left my hatbox upstairs! I’ll be but a moment. Coachman!” she called. “Take our trunks at once!”

  When Mama had gone, I turned to Cassie. There was something I wished to say to her about our journey. Just then, a tall man who had been moving haltingly in the distance approached our coachman, but I was bent toward Cassie and so did not see his face. I then felt a sudden tap upon my shoulder and nearly jumped a foot in the air.

  I looked up. Beside me stood Mr. Miller. Down the street, before the Vassals’ house, a small carriage waited, along with two hot and dusty-looking horses. Mr. Miller bent down to whisper in my ear. He said but three words:

  “We have them.”

  53

  “CASSIE, DID YOU HEAR? DID YOU HEAR?”

  Cassie was by my side; she heard. We gripped each other, laughing in disbelief, and moved with Mr. Miller toward the waiting carriage. I turned back and looked at my house. Mama was within, retrieving her hatbox. I had planned to leave her, to flee without so much as looking back. But I had looked back. Now she was at the door.

  Had I felt no remorse, I should have been forgiven by all who knew my story. But as I stood there beside Mr. Miller, carriages waiting, questions waiting, I did feel something, regardless of whether I wished to or no.

  Mama had done little to earn my love or loyalty, and yet, standing at this crossroads, I discovered to my surprise that she had them. It would have been simpler had things been otherwise: Life without her in it was indeed a co
nsummation devoutly to be wished. Yet what kind of monster would I be to abandon her, alone and unwell, without so much as a servant to tend her? It would spell her slow but certain death.

  “A moment,” I said to Mr. Miller. I turned back to the house. Mama had just shut the front door and hurried down the path with her hatbox.

  “I can’t believe I nearly forgot this,” she said. “But I suppose you may as well know—I’ve become a little forgetful of late, Eliza. Muddling things up.” Here, she placed a hand to her head. I was about to say something but she continued more cheerfully, “But, oh, well, perhaps it shall pass.”

  “Mama.” I stood there, making no attempt to move.

  “What is it, pray? The carriage awaits.”

  “I have something to ask you, and I must do so now.”

  “Whatever nonsense is this, Eliza? We shall miss the coach in Boston.”

  “It was never my intention to board that coach, Mama. You see, I meant to leave you. Meant to, intended to. Cassie and I, we leave for Braintree this very moment. The question is, Shall you come with us or not?”

  “Come with you? Whyever should I wish to do that? And what do you do with my Cassie? We go to Portsmouth,” she insisted. “You yourself agreed.”

  “No.” I smiled sadly. “I lied. All this business about helping you to bring my ravisher to justice—it was a means of stalling you while we endeavored to procure his freedom. And, oh, Mama—we have succeeded! But even had we failed, you must know that I love the father of my child. The father is John Watkins, and we shall be joining him immediately, in Braintree.”

  “John Watkins?” Mama murmured to herself. She looked about her, as if no longer sure where she was. “That cannot be. Watkins is a slave. Your uncle Robert’s slave.”

  “It can be, Mama, and it is. Your brother is dead. He sold John to another, from whence he was rescued by loving friends—thank Heaven. Before you tell me that I shall be an outcast, know that I have come to care little for our so-called society. My sustaining joy is the thought of my family, growing and prospering. I wish to hear the playful cries of children, as you once did. I long to see my husband’s face each morning when I wake. I have a boy, Mama. He is very fine, bright and good-natured . . .”

  I broke off and reached for her, but she took a step backward in horror.

  “Mama,” I begged, weeping now. “I know I have disappointed you. I never thought of myself as a particularly good person, but neither am I wholly bad. My heart has traveled great distances, to places where you said it could not go. Now I find that it has traveled back to you. Of this one gift am I proud. You should take it.”

  Mr. Miller approached. “I dislike intruding, Eliza,” he whispered. “But we must depart at once. Do you wish to stay and join us later? It might be arranged.”

  “No, indeed,” I said, drying my eyes. Cassie took my arm. The three of us headed toward the small carriage.

  Mama faced the other, muttering, “Well, but I shall send someone for Cassie by and by.”

  “You won’t find her, Mama. You must choose, and choose now. Time has run out. You have not the luxury of your fond delusions any longer. Shall you remain here, with your illusory comfort, or shall you come with us?”

  Mr. Miller’s carriage had been backing up slowly and now stood expectantly before us. The coachman came round and helped me up, then helped Cassie. It would be a tight fit, and I knew not where we might put all the trunks, which were still in the hired carriage.

  Mama looked up at me, a sudden panic of understanding in her eyes. It was almost as if she had not known what was happening until this moment.

  “But Eliza—where do you go?” she asked.

  “Back to the cottage. And thence—God willing—to Barbados.” I grasped Mr. Miller’s hand as he mounted the carriage. “Come, Mr. Miller.”

  Mama turned away from us. She paused, turned back around, and looked at the hired coach waiting to take her to Portsmouth. She glanced back at the house, up to our chambers above, and down to the roses and catmint and the Rose of Sharon trees that bloomed so luxuriantly.

  Her moment of indecision lasted a long time. But at last she mounted the hired carriage bound for Portsmouth. She set her hatbox by her side and looked directly ahead, not at us.

  Involuntarily, I cried out, “Oh, Mama!” Cassie took my hand and pressed it in hers.

  Then, to her coachman, Mama called in her high, imperious voice: “To Braintree. The Quincys! And be quick about it!”

  54

  HE WAS PLAYING PEEKABOO WITH JOHNNY IN the kitchen garden when we arrived. His handsome face darted in and out of the shadows of the mint that grew in wild profusion and scented the air. Every time Johnny saw his father’s face emerge, he gurgled a high, phlegmy giggle.

  I espied Isaac behind the cottage, shooting crab apples off the fence with a slingshot. He had grown a head taller since last I’d seen him. When he heard our two carriages arrive, he stopped and gaped.

  “Isaac!” I cried. He came running and I hugged him tight. Then Cassie grabbed hold of him and wouldn’t let go.

  Then John saw me. He stopped playing, picked Johnny up with his one strong arm, and approached as if I might disappear. I looked at him: my free man—or nearly so—in Braintree, among my dear friends. How beautiful he was, and how right it seemed for him to be here. So perfectly right.

  Mr. Miller helped Mama down from her carriage and set to removing our trunks. He then paid the coachman, and off he went.

  I recalled our brief conversation on the journey from Cambridge. Cassie and I had said nothing for the first half hour, merely clasped each other in shock and amazement. At last, round about Boston Neck, I asked Mr. Miller if Isaac and John were truly well, truly in Braintree.

  “Yes, yes,” Mr. Miller assured us. “They are both quite well, and no doubt enjoy the company of the Adamses as we speak.”

  “But I have so many questions. Mr. Richards? What about him? Oh, I’m so fearful he follows upon our heels and that John shall be caught.”

  “Eliza,” Mr. Miller forestalled me gently. “Mr. Richards and his wife are gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Fled the country. They got word that they were about to be arrested. It seems that Mr. Richards didn’t sign the Association Test.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Well, thank God for that.”

  Now Mama stood there, in Lizzie’s kitchen garden, looking utterly lost, just as Lizzie herself emerged from the cottage. Seeing my mother, Lizzie’s eyes darted in my direction, her pupils huge, uneasy question marks. But then she approached my mother with great good cheer and curtsying, said, “Welcome, Mrs. Boylston. It has been too long! I’m sure you’re tired from the journey. Would you care for some tea, or cider?”

  “I am parched,” said Mama. “The road was very dusty. I should like some tea, if you are making it.”

  “Of course.”

  Lizzie curtsied once more and came at last to hug me. Her face next to mine she whispered, “Thank God you’re back. We were so worried; you have no idea. But you must be falling over.”

  “Oh, I’m all right.”

  Lizzie ruffled Johnny’s hair. “He was such a good boy while you were gone!”

  “Your Thomas has been very good to us,” I replied, “and he not yet entirely healed.”

  “Well, you may praise him all day if you like, for he stops awhile. Martha has cooked something very special. But—your mother?” her eyes widened. “That is a surprise.”

  “There will be time to talk, I hope,” I said. I smiled at her, then handed Johnny to Lizzie. I glanced back at John, willing him to follow me as I hurried into the house and up the stairs.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the general crowd. I had not introduced John to Mama, nor had he greeted her. That would be too much to expect from either of them. She had been polite to Lizzie, and would hopefully be cordial to the rest: that was all I prayed for.

  John followed me. I had lain down on Lizzie’s bed, and he lay do
wn next to me. I shut my eyes and held him, endeavoring to cover the surface of his body—arms, legs, torso, ankles, feet—with my own, leaving no place unjoined. We lay like that, just feeling each other. Just breathing in and out.

  Finally, John spoke. “I have been here but a few hours,” he said, “and yet I can see why you would find it hard to leave. These women are—extraordinary.”

  “Indeed. But, John, what you must have been through,” I replied. “I have as yet asked no questions. You must tell me every detail, when I have rested.”

  “Of course. There’ll be time, my love. But I myself did almost nothing. I had but to use my legs to run and follow Colonel Langdon to the ship. Indeed, I was too weak, too low, to do more. I shall never share the depths of my resignation with you—” Here, John broke off. I said nothing, only waited for him to continue. “But never mind that. I’ll say instead that the coordination of the plan was like nothing I’ve ever known. Not even the smuggling of Langdon’s arms.”

  “Mr. Miller tells me the Richardses are gone—fled the country.”

  “Yes. I believe both Adams and Langdon had their hands in that, though neither will admit it. They are both quite closed-lipped in that regard.”

  “You have that in common with them, then,” I replied.

  John smirked, as if it were absurd to compare him to them. He changed the subject. “Your mother is here.”

  “She is.”

  “I had not expected—”

  “I know.” My eyes closed; suddenly I was overcome with exhaustion. The room had begun to spin about me, and I felt faint. “I can’t speak more just now. Forgive me. It is all too much.”

  “There will be hours and years for us to speak, Eliza. Sleep now. That’s it.”

  The room was dark, and my love’s arms were around me. He did not move. In his arms, I felt at peace at last, and fell asleep. When I woke, he was gone, and I sat straight up, panicked at the thought that perhaps I had been dreaming.

  I hastily descended to find Mr. Miller sitting behind little Johnny on the floor. Mr. Miller’s long legs were splayed as he beat a pot with wooden sticks and sang a silly song. Johnny was laughing wildly.