Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (14 page)

17

FOR TWO WEEKS, WATKINS DID NOT GO
to the shipyard. From above, I heard only a soft, repetitive chorus of moans. Cassie went up and down the back stairs to tend to him, sighing almost as loudly as he moaned.

I was angry with my uncle, to be sure. But I was also furious at Watkins—why did he need to strut about the house as if he owned it? Why had he defied the curfew without so much as a request to do so, or an apology after the fact? Did he wish to get himself whipped? It seemed so. Cassie’s words echoed in my memory: “He tinks he a white a man.”

Thankfully, I was distracted from my concern with Watkins when Mama burst into my chamber to tell me that Papa was in Boston and would be arriving in two days’ time. She then began perusing the gowns in the room’s corner closet. “These styles are woefully
démodées
,” she said. “They must be altered, and I’m afraid it falls to us to do the work. Cassie is run off her feet, and the seamstresses tell me that they are all far too busy this time of year.”

I suspected that my mother was not being entirely truthful. We had no money for such work, but even had we, many of Portsmouth’s seamstresses, now of a radical bent, would sooner have sewn our shrouds. And so, with my dead aunt’s old sewing basket between us by the fire and our gowns in our laps, we set to work. We removed the ruffled sleeves and replaced them with buttoned-cuff sleeves. It took a great deal of trial and error to square the shoulders and plunge the neckline so that it bared a seemly amount of bosom. I felt myself to be highly inexpert at this art and sighed continually.

Meanwhile, other preparations were underway as well. Old Jupiter had been given the task of trimming the hedges and clearing the walkway. Poor Phoebe had to drag the heavy Turkey carpets into the yard and beat them free of dust and dirt. As for Watkins, Cassie told me that though his wounds were healing well, he would not return to the shipyard for several weeks more. Instead, he had been put to use as a house slave. It was obvious from his smallest movement that he resented it. He banged down the stairs, kicked at carpets, and came—I thought—perilously close to being beaten once more.

“Cassie, I’m ashamed I’ve said nothing to anyone regarding Watkins’s whipping, which was so unfair, so un-Christian. I am heartily ashamed. Indeed, my soul burns with anguish.”

“You jus’ keep dat burning angueesh inside of you, Miss Eliza, and don’ go telling it to Master Chase.”

“Why do you say that?”

But Cassie shook her head as if only another slave would understand.

The following morning, Mama and I chose to resume work on our gowns in the parlor, for it was the only room with a lively fire. We had just donned our gowns to check the placement of the necklines when, suddenly, into the parlor stepped Watkins. There we stood with our open bodices and no stays, the morning light streaming in upon us.

“Oh, pardon me.” Watkins looked away.

“Get out!” Mama cried, though he had already done so.

I grasped the bodice of my gown and laughed.

“What, pray, is funny? To have the slaves see you half-naked?”

“Oh, Mama, it
is
funny, even you must admit.”

“I don’t have to admit any such thing, and I shan’t.”

“Don’t, then,” I said, and giggled once more.

That same morning, we received a message that Papa’s ship had been spotted at the mouth of the harbor.

“Your papa!” Mama cried. “He arrives. Hurry!”

We ran upstairs to dress. Then Mama, Uncle Robert, and I walked down to the wharf and waited for his sloop to make its way through the harbor. I thought I could just perceive its distant form, like a feather quill in a vast pool of ink.

“Mama, look! Just there!”

The seas being rough that day, the winds and tide unobliging, it took them near another hour to anchor and then to row passengers over to the dock.

At last, Papa stood before us. Tired, stooped—and far too pale.

“Cursed ship,” he said, hugging us to him in the cruel breeze. He coughed. “Appalling conditions.”

We walked up the hill, Papa still coughing and clearing his throat. Two men from the wharf brought up his trunk, making better time than we did. When Mama inquired how things had fared, my father would not meet her eye. “A bad business. Very bad.”

“Come, come, my love,” said my mother, drawing Papa closer, as the wind was fierce. “Cassie shall draw you a bath and make some hot tea.”

“Oh, for a bath,” he sighed as they made their way up the hill. In the foyer, Papa removed his dirty, heavy overcoat and Mama moved to find Cassie. He called after her, “Tell Cassie she’ll find some real tea, in a blue tin, in my trunk.”

“Real tea!” Mama turned and flashed us a rapacious grin. “That will go so nicely with the cake.” Cassie had made some sort of cake in honor of Papa’s return, though I dared not set my expectations too high, since w
e’d
had no flour for several months.

Just then, I saw, through the foyer’s narrow window, old Jupiter bounding up the path on bandy legs, toward the back door. With him was a tall, young Negress, nearly as tall as he, though far blacker than any of our slaves. She was wrapped in a heavy wool cape, and I could not see her face. Papa allowed himself a mischievous smirk.

“What is it?” Mama asked as she returned from the kitchen.

“You’ll see. It’s a special gift, my love.” We moved into the parlor, and Papa bade Mama sit. He coughed again. In another few minutes, Cassie came into the parlor with the young Negress on her arm. Though dressed in shabby, besmirched petticoats, and weary, this was a healthy girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen. I stared at her. How beautiful she was! Never had I seen such a regal Negress. Her limbs were long, her neck as long and graceful as a swan’s. She might have been Cleopatra’s daughter, so proudly did she bear herself.
She could not have long been a slave,
I thought.

“This,” my father said, as if he were unveiling a sculpture, “is Linda.” Linda curtsied shallowly.

“Does she speak English?” Mama asked.

“Oh, yes, though I imagine she’s a little shy, and fatigued from our horrendous journey. We were held up many days because of the rough sea. I know you’ve long been desiring your own maid, since Cassie was so cruelly taken from you last fall.” Here, Papa leveled his gaze upon me, as if somehow he knew I was to blame. “Anyway, Linda is yours if you wish it. If not, you can put her to work with Phoebe, I suppose.”

Mama assessed Linda carefully. She circled her, gazing intrusively upon her every part. Impulsively, I stood up and moved to Linda’s side. The girl seemed surprised by my gesture and shifted her feet.

Mama frowned. “Eliza, why stand you beside the girl? That is hardly appropriate.” She turned to Papa and smiled. “Thank you, my love. She will do.”

“Mama,” I objected. “Only imagine what she has been through. The voyage nearly carried off Papa—it’s a miracle she even survived.”

“Yes, well.”

“And, Mama,” I continued, my disquiet growing, “I hope you aren’t planning to make her sleep in the hall, as you made Cassie do last summer.”

“Of course she shall sleep in the hall. Where else should she sleep?”

“Why can she not stay in the nursery with Phoebe? There’s plenty of room, and she’ll have company, at least.”

“You are too indulgent, Eliza. This girl looks proud. As it is, it shall take some work to break her in. I don’t see how you’ll ever manage a home of your own.”

“By your account, I never
shall
have a home of my own!” I left the parlor in haste and, in my failure to look where I was going, nearly crashed into Watkins. I bruised my shoulder on the heavy bundle he held.

“Are you all right, Miss Boylston?”

“Oh, yes. Excuse me!” I said, blushing deeply as I passed him.

Mama spun about and opened her mouth to upbraid Watkins for his impertinence, but he was long gone.

My wishes regarding Linda’s quarters prevailed. I knew not why, except that perhaps Mama did not want to importune poor Papa by fighting with me. It was no longer possible to ignore the fact of his persistent cough, although we all endeavored to do so. Jupiter brought Linda’s trunk up to the nursery, and we did not see her again that day.

That afternoon, Cassie served a very nice apple pandowdy. Such a sweet did not require a great deal of flour, and it went marvelously well with the real China tea Papa had brought back. I drank it gratefully, though I could hear Jeb’s voice in my ear:
Those who strut their wealth while others suffer shall soon be hoist on their own petard.
I thought,
My dear Jeb, we already have been. Or nearly so.

Cousin George arrived the following day, in poor fettle. Apparently a band of zealous citizens, espying my cousin on the road, blasted him with armfuls of eggs. Cousin George was thankfully unharmed, but his poor horses and carriage were covered in yellow runnels of egg.

My cousin, also dripping yellow, endeavored to keep his dignity as he descended the carriage. He straightened his waistcoat and bowed to us. Uncle Robert, greatly dismayed at the sight, cried, “Jupiter! Juno! Clean this carriage at once!”

Mr. Chase had grown fat since I knew him as a cunning lad. His cravat looked uncomfortable, stretched taut across his thick neck. His small, close-set eyes looked at me. Then he grinned suddenly and cried, “Cousin Eliza! I didn’t know you. You’ve grown up.”

“Yes. I believe I was eleven when you last saw me.”

“Indeed. You were different altogether! And how do you like living here with Papa?”

“Very well. It is a lovely situation. I find I can see all the way to Kittery most days.”

“Splendid,” he said. “Nero!” Here, Cousin George turned to his coachman. “Put my trunks in my room and then return to help with the carriage.”

“Perhaps Nero would like a mug of cider and a chance to rest a few moments. You, too, Cousin George,” I added.

My cousin looked at me in astonishment. However, he replied, “Capital idea. Nero, set my bags in my chamber and stop in the kitchen before returning here. Warm yourself a few minutes by the fire,” he added for good measure. Nero, an old, gray-haired Negro of Jupiter’s vintage, grew wide-eyed at my cousin’s words, as if they had been spoken in a foreign language.

Mr. Chase was soon settled in. Our relations were easy enough, so long as no one spoke about the war. Sometimes, however, especially at meals, I did not like the way those small, close eyes lingered on my person. Once, leaving the dining room at the same time, our bodies touched, and I thought he pressed himself to me deliberately. I turned to glare at him.

“Oh, pardon!” he said, looking down.

But it happened again, and I became so jumpy that I stole one of Cassie’s carving knives and placed it beneath my mattress.

Cassie noticed the theft almost immediately.

“Someone take my knife. Now why would someone do dat, I wonder? How’m I suppose to prepayer anyteeng wit’ no good knife? What kind of person do such a ting?”

“Oh, all right. For goodness’ sake!” I pulled her into the former dairy, now her chamber, where no one could overhear us. “I took it. But if you want it back, you must give me some other one.”

“What you do wit’ my knife, Miss Eliza? I don’t like da sound of dis. No I don’.”

“It’s just—Cousin George has been looking at me most unpleasantly. He stares at me so.”

Cassie considered my words, then shook her head. “No. I don’t see dat in ’eem. Course, you never know wit’ men. But I ’spect he likes ’em coarser—dem who don’ mind a bit of coin for dere troubles.”

“Cassie!” I exclaimed. She looked at me and then seemed to understand something. She put her arms about me. “Oh, you poor ting. You poor, poor ting. You still frightened as a child. Well, go get me dat knife befaw you hurt somebody wit’ ’eet.”

I did as Cassie asked, resolved to find another means of self-protection. Cassie gave me a bit of twine and told me to wrap it about my chamber doorknob. I then fastened the other end to one of the pulls on my tall chest of drawers.

Now each night when I retired, I became a prisoner in my own chamber, and from my cell I heard the easy laughter of the slaves getting to know one another above me.