Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (13 page)

Just then, Juno emerged from the tavern. He passed me by, smelling of rum.

“You may inquire at the home of Mr. Chase, on Deer Street.”

“Oh!” They looked at each other, impressed. Everyone knew my distinguished uncle. “And who shall we say . . . ?” they called after me, but Juno was already helping me into the chaise, and Jupiter immediately whipped the reins. I waved to the ladies, smiled, and rode off. Several hours later we arrived in Newburyport, where we stopped the night, moving on to Boston early the next morning.

We arrived in Boston town at last, late the afternoon of the following day. Miss Miller was waiting for us in the hallway of Mrs. Adams’s uncle’s house. She was dressed entirely in black, with a broad hat that obscured her face. She was a tiny thing whom I guessed to be no more than thirteen years of age.

“Hello, Miss Miller.” I curtsied as Juno and Jupiter entered, bowed, and took her things.

“How do you do?” Her voice was so soft as to be barely audible. Miss Miller’s speech, coupled with her fine clothing, gloved hands, and erect posture, made me doubt whether she had done a day’s service in her life.

On the way to Braintree, the girl sat across from me in silence, and I looked out upon the landscape. All around us the maple leaves had turned brilliant tones of red and orange. Most had not yet fallen, but the few that had now swirled about us in the wind. The sun was still warm by day, though mornings were crisp, and I was obliged to ride with two blankets, one draped across my shoulders and the other across my lap.

Boston Harbor was filled with boats of every variety, and also battleships. At Boston Neck, we passed by the militia and suffered their questions for several long minutes. We were eventually allowed to pass through and, with a brief stop for refreshment in Milton, were clopping down the main street of Braintree’s North Parish as the sun set behind us.

The North Parish of Braintree was quite charming, nestled as it was so close to the sea. It consisted of some shops, two churches, and a cemetery. Jupiter, engrossed in conversation with Juno, had missed the turnoff, and we were obliged to turn around. At last, squinting against the burning orange light, I espied Colonel Quincy’s stately home on the right, behind a long row of privet hedge. Beyond the great house, down toward the wavering dunes, stood a small cottage. My breath caught and tears pressed behind my eyes to see my brother’s home. The view over the bay toward Boston was just as Jeb had described it.

Around the cottage, signs of industry were everywhere: baskets sat askew beneath maple trees, sheaves of flax stood upright in a nearby field; corn, unhusked, lay in an unruly heap in the kitchen garden.

“Miss Miller, it is a pretty piece of land, is it not?”

Martha gazed upon the extensive grounds. “There is a great deal of work to be done,” she remarked.

“Lizzie will need to hire a man, if she hasn’t already, for there are such tasks here as you cannot be expected to do.”

I recalled Jeb’s last letter to me, in which he wrote that he hoped to plant two new gardens come spring. Now, as we came closer, I saw all of the projects that Jeb had begun and that death had interrupted: a broken fence, a chicken-coop door off its hinges. By the barn, hay piles drifted will-he-nill-he in the wind.

We descended our carriage just as a pale, thin form, swaddled in a homespun shawl, greeted us. I knew not who it was at first, but when I saw that it was Lizzie, involuntary tears of pity swelled my throat. Fearful lest I fail in my task, I came directly to the point. “Juno,” I called, “have Mrs. Boylston’s stableboy ready Star. As you know, he’s to return with us.”

“Ready Star?” Lizzie’s voice was a raspy whisper. “You shan’t do any such thing.” She then shut the door upon us. I thought that this was all the greeting we were to receive when Lizzie, coughing, opened the door once more. “Pardon me—this cough,” she said. “Well, you’re here now, so come in.”

Once indoors, Lizzie took our cloaks. She set our things upon her one great chair in the parlor. It was cold in this room. No fire was lit, and we all moved toward the warmth coming from the kitchen. I introduced Miss Miller to Lizzie. Lizzie said, “Oh, but pardon me. I’m not myself—I shall make us some coffee at once.”

“I stay not long. It is only to retrieve Star that I am come. And to deliver Miss Miller,” I added.

Lizzie stood erect, her silhouette a thin black shade against the kitchen window. Her voice, though a whisper, had a steely edge to it. “Star is going nowhere. He was a gift to us upon our marriage.”

“You could hardly need him
now
,” I objected.

“But I do need him. People here rely on me, people whom I must visit because they’ve no one else to care for them. Besides, what use could your family possibly have—” She stopped mid-sentence, looked at my gown, now slightly frayed at the bottom from use, and said, “Oh. I see.”

I turned away in shame. Worn and fragile, we were both near tears, yet we were each too proud to show them. We stood in awkward silence as Lizzie heated water for the coffee. All the while I thought,
In this chair Jeb sat
. Or,
through this window Jeb looked upon the sea as he wrote about the gardens he would plant come spring
.

I could bear it no longer. Lizzie’s illness had exposed a vulnerability in her that I found somehow threatening; it made me cling even harder to my old coldness toward her.

“Jupiter!” I called. When he didn’t reply, I strode into the parlor to find him sitting in the great chair, his head bowed, sound asleep. Hearing my footsteps, he sprang to.

“Jupiter, ready Star. We’re leaving in a moment.”

“There’s no horse in the stable, Miss Eliza.”

“No horse? What mean you?”

“I looked. Juno and I both looked, and we didn’t find any horse. We seen some chickens and a cow,” he offered, as if these might do in the horse’s stead.

“Well, think no more on it, Jupiter. Get Juno and ready the carriage.”

Once Jupiter had gone, I confronted Lizzie heatedly. “Where is he? My father wrote to us expressly from Barbados to request that you return his horse.”

“It is not
his
horse.” Lizzie’s eyes flashed from her thin face. “It was a gift, and he shan’t get it. He’ll sooner get
me
.”

“Papa shall be quite vexed.”

“I’m sure he will, and I’m very sorry for him. It must be demonishly difficult just now in the towns. We ourselves would starve were it not for the gardens, and help from our—friends.”

I saw Lizzie pull back from this last statement, since we both knew she had not counted my family among the latter, nor would she ever.

“Miss Miller,” I turned to the girl. “I must take my leave. I hope you’ll be most comfortable here.”

O, hypocrite words! Comfort would form no part of Miss Miller’s life in Braintree. No, nor of Lizzie’s. Yet I merely turned to my sister-in-law and said, “Well. Papa shall hear about this.”

“Please send him my best regards and tell him I am well. Good-bye, Eliza.”

Just as I had departed and the door was shut behind me, I heard Lizzie exclaim, “Oh, but your coffee!”

16

“I HAVE BEEN MOST IMPORTUNED,” MAMA SAID
the moment I alit from the carriage. She asked me nothing about my trip, nor anything about Lizzie or Miss Miller. “Papa shall be extremely vexed,” she said. “He had counted on the sale of that horse to pay for a good many unexpected debts.”

“She hid it from me, Mama,” I said quietly.

“Hid a horse? How does one hide a great animal of sixteen hands?”

I shrugged. “Apparently it was brought elsewhere.”

“Well, well, but I can hardly concentrate on that now. I am alone, without any maid whatsoever.”

“Why? Where’s Cassie?” I asked, suddenly alarmed.

Mama ignored my question. “Oh, I can tell she’s
beside herself
with contentment—Lord knows why. Yo
u’d
think that kitchen of hers was Heaven itself, the way she carries on.”

“What have you done with Cassie?”

“Done?” Mama looked at me sharply. “Why, I’ve done nothing. Cook Jenny up and left us! Hired away by that scheming old Mrs. Pritchett! Cassie’s now our cook and takes the dairy for her chamber. Oh, will my ill fortunes never cease?”

After Cassie returned to the kitchen, life regained a modicum of stability. I could not say I was happy, but my days assumed a consoling rhythm: Every morning, after breakfast, I would walk down to the market to watch the boats come and go. Sometimes I would rise early enough to watch the ferryman as he rowed Watkins out to Badger’s Island. Cassie told me that for the past year Watkins had worked there as a shipwright, for Colonel Langdon. She also told me that my uncle made five pounds each month on his labor.

I then would return home to take up my needlework or a book of stories for young ladies, neither of which held my attention for very long. What’s more, sitting in the parlor with little to do, my mind kept casting back with great dissatisfaction to that scene with Lizzie. I felt something like remorse, which nothing quelled save arduous activity. I soon rose and found my way into the kitchen.

There was always a great deal to do, even when Uncle or Papa was abroad: pots to scrub, floors to wash, chamber pots to empty, wood to chop, linens to soak and hang to dry, chambers to air and dust, vegetables to boil, and meat and fish to smoke. At first I merely stood and watched Cassie work. But one morning, she turned to me and said, “Well, Mees Eliza, don’ just stand dere.” She handed me a bowl, and I began shelling brown-spotted beans, throwing the empty shells onto the floor by my feet. When I was done, Cassie stuck her nose in the bowl as if she expected to find a bloody finger in there.

By now, it was late October or early November. One chill morning, while I was still in my chamber, I heard a hasty rustling above me; then boots clomped heavily down the stairs. I was still in my shift but hastened down the hall to the Palladian window that faced Deer Street. I soon saw Watkins striding out the front door like one of the family. Over his shoulder he carried a musket and large gunnysack, and around his waist he had tied several heavy ropes.

Watkins’s bearing was resolute, purposeful. Upon his head he wore a wool cap, from which an unruly curl or two escaped. He headed west down Deer Street, and I lost sight of him. I returned to my chamber, dressed, and made my way to the kitchen, where Cassie was preparing breakfast. I entered and tied a smock about my waist.

“Where was John Watkins off to, so early this morning?” I asked.

“Why you call ’eem
John
Watkins? ’Ee’s just Watkins, to you.”

“Oh, Watkins sounds like an old butler, Cassie. You know, in one of those musty manses where skeletons are found in the attic.
John
Watkins, now that’s much better for a young fellow.”

Cassie was unimpressed with my reasoning.

“He’s not a young fellow to you, neither, Miss Eliza.”

“But you haven’t answered my question. Where goes he, dressed like that, and with a musket?”

“’unting.”

“Hunting? But for what, exactly?” I asked, impatient for details. I might actually have stomped my foot.

“Food. Maybe ’ee catch squirrels or voles. Maybe ’ee catch a boar.”

“A boar? To what use will we put a boar?”

“Tanksgiving.”

“Oh, yes—of course.
I’d
entirely forgotten.” That I should be surprised by the idea of a boar and not squirrels or opossums amused me. When I first learned back in summer that we ate those repulsive creatures, my shock was very great. But Cassie was so skilled at tenderizing and spicing these meats that I soon put aside my squeamishness.

I left the kitchen to tidy my appearance and sit myself at the breakfast table. Uncle Robert soon appeared, whereupon he announced, “Good news, all. I have just had a letter from my son, who says he shall join us for Thanksgiving.”

“How delightful,” I said flatly. “When can we expect him?”

“His letter informs me that he will stop in Connecticut and take a coach from there on November twenty-fifth, or thereabouts.”

“Happy news.” I did not begrudge my uncle a visit from his son, but it could afford me no pleasure. First, because my cousin was a British officer now. Second, because I recalled him as an arrogant, teasing youth. Cousin George once stole a silver saltcellar and blamed it on a servant who had been impertinent to him.

Later that day, Mama began to plan Thanksgiving dinner. She and Uncle had invited the Peirces, one of Portsmouth’s most prominent families, to dinner. Apparently they had a son of marriageable age, though thankfully he was on a trip and would not be joining us.

As Mama wrote her menu, I sat with her in the parlor, reading upon a book. The sky grew dark. Cassie entered and said that supper was ready. Mama stood, stretched, and turned to me. “Are you coming, Eliza?”

“Yes, of course,” I said, but I had not yet stood. I had begun to feel uneasy for a reason I could not define. I went in to supper, however, and returned to the parlor before Mama. There, I espied her foolscap on the table. I lifted it and read,

T
HANKSGIVING WITH THE
P
EIRCES

November 30 1775

Salade au Crab

Creamed Turbot

Roti du Boeuf au Jus

Minted Peas

Fruit Platter

Floating Island

Mama returned to the parlor minutes later. I held the menu up before her. “Mama. What is this?”

“Why, the menu, of course. Do you approve of it?”

“Approve? The king himself would approve. But surely you realize there’ll be no beef for us this year. Or fruit. Or turbot, for that matter. Surely you understand this?” My voice had an edge of desperation to it.

“I understand no such thing. Your father will be home any day now, and he’ll arrange it all.” She punctuated the sentence by sticking her narrow little chin in the air.

“Father is coming home from a rebellion. It’s doubtful whether he’ll have managed to keep his plantation from ruin, much less turned a profit on it.”

“Nonsense.” She moved to sit down, but I stopped her with an outstretched arm.

“We are even now struggling to put food on the table. Have you not noticed what you eat? We’ve not had beef these six months. Squirrel and opossum and God knows what other vermin have been our daily fare.”

Just then Uncle Robert appeared in the doorway. He looked about him. Suddenly I realized the source of my anxiety: Watkins had not yet returned.

“Where is that blasted nigger?”

Mama shrugged her ignorance, but I said, “He has gone hunting.”

“Hunting? In the dark? After his curfew? As like to shoot himself as anything else. Blast it. If he comes back, let me know at once. I’ll whip him to within an inch of his life.”

“No, indeed!” I exclaimed. My mother and uncle stared at me in amazement. “I mean . . . only that he does us a service. I overheard the servants talking, and it seems Watkins has gone to find game for our holiday.”

But Uncle was implacable. His three chins jiggled with rage: “Well, I didn’t give him leave to do so. Last I knew,
I
was master of this house. He shall be whipped in the square in the morning.”

His authority reestablished, my uncle marched off, perhaps to have stern words with the other servants. I doubted they would have the courage to tell Uncle Robert the truth: that it was thanks to Watkins that we had been eating meat at all.

My courage—a momentary flare—had fled, and I said nothing more. Mama endeavored to resume her work, but my outburst had ruined the fantastical mood. After a few minutes, she rose, coldly bade me good-night, and left the room. I said good-night but remained in the parlor. Cassie came in to check that the fire was safely gone out and found me sitting there still, though it had grown cold and dark. It was now near eleven
o’c
lock.

“What? Still awake? And in da cold and dark?”

“I’m perfectly well. Some tea and a bit of fire would be good, though.”

“Tea and a fire, at dees time of night?” Cassie looked at me askance but did my bidding. For, even though we now spent our hours side by side in the kitchen, I was still Miss Eliza in the parlor, and she was still my parents’ slave.

Cassie set my dish of tea on the stand by the wing chair. After she had placed a log on the fire and gotten it going, she remarked, “Drink yah tea and get yah’self off to bed. You up, I up, too.” She made as if to leave the room but then, on its transom, turned to me: “It won’
do
. You know ’eet.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said coldly. “Go to bed, Cassie. I’ll make certain the fire is out before I head up.”

She curtsied and left me alone. Ten minutes later, the log burning low, the room going cold, I stood to extinguish the fire when in through the front door burst Watkins.

“Oh!” I said, cringing lest the noise wake everyone in the house. Watkins might then get his beating sooner than Uncle Robert had planned.

Watkins stood in the hall for a moment. His cap was gone and his hair had come entirely out of its plait. His coat was rumpled, and over his shoulder he carried a heavy sack. From it, two curled tusks stuck out quite six inches.

I said, “Uncle Robert is in a rage.
I’d
steer clear of him if I were you—”

I thought he would thank me for warning him but instead Watkins asked, his eyes challenging, “Where would you have me go, Miss Boylston?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but he had already moved off down the hallway.

“Oh!” I blurted in frustration once he was gone. My eyes smarted at his insolence. At last I removed to my chamber where I tossed and turned, feeling a fool for having waited up.

I awoke early the next morning, just past sunrise, to find Constable Hill at the foot of the stairs. He was a consumptive-looking man, though hardly past forty, with the nervous gestures of one who took little pleasure in his work.

Constable Hill was in the process of leading Watkins out the back door, toward the marketplace. Watkins’s head was down, and he gave no resistance. Hastily, I donned my clothing and cape and ran out across the backyard, through the Whipple property and down Front Street to the square.

Cassie was among a small group already there. When she saw me, she scowled. “What you do here, Miss Eliza?” I said nothing but watched as Watkins was stripped to the waist in the frigid cold. The constable’s man counted the lashes for all to hear: “One! And . . . two! . . . and . . . three!” Never had I witnessed such a thing before, nor had I ever known my father to punish his slaves so. I saw not what transpired on the plantation, but the whipping of John Watkins gave me a small, unwelcome taste of it.

Watkins wept not; he flinched not. He was as stone. Blood flowed down his back, staining his breeches. At one point, his knees folded, yet still he did not cry out.

I did, however. Hearing the cry, Watkins glanced in my direction. His body may have been unresisting, but his eyes blazed with rage and defiance.

That afternoon, we stripped the squirrels and rabbits Watkins had caught for us and hung the meat to dry. If Cassie saw the tears on my face as I did so, she mercifully said nothing. She and Phoebe gutted the boar and stripped it and salted it and hung it to cure in the smokehouse for our Thanksgiving celebration. But I knew I would not eat that meat, not if it was the last food on earth.