Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (23 page)

The idea that John would surely be hanged if found out kept me from sleeping. I tossed and turned, resolving to say something to him at first light. Then, at around midnight, just as I had dozed off, I heard drumming above me. It was a soft, rhythmic drumming at first, but then it grew louder, until it was actually quite loud and I feared Mama and Papa would notice it. Annoyed, I threw on a robe and, taking a candle, moved down the cold hallway and up the stairs to his room.

I knocked. “Watkins! Would you stop that banging? I cannot sleep.”

Silence. The door opened a crack. The sight of his face, so close to mine, made my heart leap. His pale eyes gleamed mischief at me.

“You cannot sleep?” he asked, pulling me into his room and shutting the door. “Perhaps it’s because I do not wish you to sleep.”

He drew me to him, but I struggled to free myself.

“Leave me be.”

“Never.”

I pushed him harshly, and he fell back upon his bed. I made as if to strangle him. I then took some pleasure in taking a few blows at him until, fending them off, he laughed and whispered, “I surrender!”

Eventually we rose. I grasped his hand and brought him into the hallway. Phoebe’s head poked out of her open door, and she stared at us in amazement.

“Go back to sleep,” said John. “We are but a dream.”

“A shadow’s shadow,” I added.

Watkins hastily shut the door upon the girl, and we both fell to uncontrollable giggling.

We descended the stairs and entered my chamber, our laughter having died out on the back stairs. Fearful for him and what I had learned, I was without fear for myself. Perhaps Watkins could never have the recognition of the town that he so fully deserved. But he could have me. I had decided it. Before snuffing out the candle, I bade Watkins help me push my chest of drawers in front of the chamber door. His arms were around me in a second; I could feel their fine, downy hairs brush against my back. My hair was loose, and he combed his fingers through it.

“Come to bed, my love,” I said. And then I blew out the light.

28

THE BED WAS SOFT, HIS SKIN WARM
against my own. I knew not how something so warm and loving could be a sin, though I had been told so often enough. We were both shy, and this made us laugh, which we had to do soundlessly, our mouths open, bottom teeth jutting forward foolishly. Thank goodness no one watched us, for it was less the stuff of drama than of comedy.

Though tentative at first, Watkins became playful, touching and prodding me in places that seemed to amuse and delight him equally. Then the play became more focused, urgent. But always loving and gentle. Afterward I cried, because I had not known men could be so gentle, or so kind.

“Why do you cry?” he whispered in my ear, as I buried my face in my pillow. But the gentle question made me cry harder, and finally I told him about Mr. Inman and Mr. Hutchinson. As I did so, a look of unutterable disgust spread across his noble face. He was silent a long while.

“I’m sorry, Eliza.” He shook his head, and suddenly I feared that he would not understand, that he would blame me. Nothing could have been farther from the case: “I am sorry that I cannot fathom the venomous depravity of my sex. When one so fair, so lovely”—he broke off and muttered—“it’s well for them they are not in our midst!” Then he turned back and spoke in a whisper, yet entreatingly, “Know that we are not
all
like that.”

“I do know that, John. Now.”

He returned to his chamber in the dead of night. I was loath to part with him and held his hand until he had to use the full weight of his body to step away.

“Be careful, Watkins,” I said as he left.

“Why say you so?” he asked, suddenly alert.

“Because I love you,” I said.

In the morning, I did not see him, and could not believe that we had taken such a risk—or, apparently, gotten away with it. In any case, it was not something we would dare to do again.

Soon it was nearly Christmas, and Mama was in good spirits. Papa had gained strength, and it seemed as if perhaps a miracle had happened and that he would recover. He was sitting with us now, at dinner. Above us, a gilt acanthus leaf chandelier reflected off of dark-green wainscoted walls. It cast a lurid light upon us all, especially Papa, who looked quite green. Without, it had begun to snow, and the sky had grown dark, though it was only two
o’c
lock.

“The Peirces have invited us to Christmas dinner,” Mama was saying. “They gave us little notice, but there you have it.”

“Must we?” I sighed. Across from me sat Uncle Robert, whose white wisps of powdered hair blew about as if a wind had made its way inside. He ignored our conversation and thoughtfully chewed his food.

Mama looked grim-mouthed, her long, slightly hooked nose the very model of disapprobation. Her graying brown hair was piled absurdly high on her head, as had been the fashion a decade earlier.

“Of course we must,” she said. “John Peirce shall be in attendance.” I was about to object that I cared nothing for John Peirce when, fortunately, we were interrupted by the sudden entrance of Phoebe. At her approach, Uncle Robert curled one arm protectively about his plate.

“—and though it is more a spring gown,” Mama was saying, “I see no reason why you shouldn’t wear that, with my white silk shawl, for it looks quite well on you.”

I was not very hungry and picked at my dinner.

Mama broke off and finally set down her fork. “But why do you not eat, Eliza? Nobody likes a thin girl. Lord knows we have enough illness around here,” she added, as if Papa had contracted the consumption to spite her.

“Thin? Why, if our daughter gains another pound, we shall have to buy her half a dozen new gowns.”

“Nonsense,” said Mama. “She looks very wan to me.”

“Phoebe,” I called, “bring me a dish of chamomile tea, please. Mama,
I’d
like to take it in my room, if I may.”

Mama’s eyes flinched their disappointment.

“But I should so much like to discuss what you plan to
wear
,” she said plaintively. “I fear that blue gown of yours is no longer fashionable. I have lately heard that a cap sleeve is all the rage in London.”

“Cap sleeve!” bellowed my father. My heart fluttered with alarm, for Papa’s outbursts were usually accompanied by a spasm of coughing. “You think John Peirce idiot enough to take on this pretty mooring because she bewitched him with a cap sleeve?”

“Richard, one must be correct,” Mama replied.

I met my father’s eyes and smiled at him. After a few minutes, Phoebe returned with a fragrant dish of chamomile tea. “Well,” I said, rising, “this mooring shall clank her way upstairs. Pardon me.” I nodded to my uncle, who merely stared at the spot where his plate had been.

I took my dish in one hand and lifted my skirts in the other. As I rose, I felt the room spin slightly and caught the swaying reflection of the candelabra as it danced in the windowpanes. I mounted the stairs and sat myself on the bench beneath the Palladian window, watching the snow streak diagonally across the road in the moonlight.

Two days later, on Christmas Eve, I found myself next to Mr. Peirce in a wainscoted dining room, much like ours. I wore the blue brocade gown, whose unfashionably long sleeves Mama had hastily altered. My stays were drawn tight, and I could barely breathe. I listened with a dull ear to Mr. Peirce’s conversation, replying with “indeed?” and “yes” according to the rhythm, rather than the sense, of his words.

John Peirce was handsome, in a forgettable way: tall and slender, long nose, pale skin, pale, shallow eyes, and light-brown hair. He wished to be agreeable, assenting with a vigorous nod to all I said
.
I was tempted to test the limits of this affability, to say, “Your parents are tedious bores,” simply to see whether he would nod with equal vigor. I was certain he would, and this knowledge made me purse my lips to keep from smiling.

Unlike Uncle Robert, wh
o’d
had to let his butler go the year before, the Peirces retained theirs—such as he was. The old fellow’s venerable wig would not sit straight on his head, and as he poured us wine, a drop of perspiration dripped off the end of his nose.

Mr. Peirce was telling me about a recent trip he had taken to—was it Jamaica? Alas, I paid insufficient attention to know for certain. Upon his return, he had heard of my charitable work among the soldiers and shipwrights. And though he was no lover of the Rebel army, he inquired quite civilly, “And I suppose their gratitude is very great?”

“Yes, yes, it is,” I replied, while a sudden wave of nausea forced my lips shut.

Mama and Papa were engaged in a discussion of Washington’s latest exploits in New York. Mr. Peirce, his spirit suddenly filled with unreasonable optimism, ventured, “Miss Eliza, I was wondering whether I might call upon—” Alas, at that moment, I caught a whiff of the cold, congealed liver that the butler had begun to serve onto our plates, and my stomach heaved inexorably.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted him. I stood up, pushed my chair back, and only just made it into the adjoining kitchen before puking loudly upon the floor.

When I returned to the dining room a few moments later, my face no doubt white and pasty, Papa stood immediately. “It seems my daughter is ill. I regret we must cut short our visit and beg you humbly accept our apology.”

We bumped along in our carriage toward home. I still felt dreadfully ill but willed myself not to puke again until w
e’d
arrived at Deer Street. After a long silence, Mama finally spoke: “I don’t see why you had to ruin a perfectly good evening by getting sick.”

“Margaret!” my father intervened, “The poor girl hardly meant to.”

“Oh,” Mama shook her shoulders in frustration, “but it was so perfectly inopportune—you could not have willed it any more so. How mortifying! Why, it was as if you found something poisonous in the food. Such an insult to their poor cook! Really, Eliza.”

“Mama,” I objected, “surely you cannot think I would
choose
to run from the table and puke my dinner out for all to hear.”

“That’s enough,” she said, shoving her open palm in my direction, as if to forestall further comment.

“Yes. It is, Margaret. Leave the poor girl alone now,” said Papa.

“Thank you, Papa.” I kissed his cool cheek in gratitude, then adjusted his scarf and the blanket about his knees, as it was quite cold in the carriage. I could not help but recall the time
I’d
been pushed into our barouche after the debacle at Mr. Inman’s commencement party.

“Well, I for one am glad the evening was cut short,” sighed Papa. “The Peirces have little conversation to offer and even less wit.” At this, I let out a sudden snort, which made him laugh.

“Oh, the pair of you!” Mama cried.

We soon arrived home. Setting my cape on the table by the door, I called for Cassie. I then removed my bonnet and placed it beside the cape. Mama and Papa had already gone upstairs. I told Cassie I felt unwell and she soon brought me a tisane composed of one of her medicinal plants.

“What is this, Cassie?” I asked. “It smells foul, like stagnant water in a glass.”

“Drink ’eet,” she said.
“
’Eet make you feel better.”

“I hope so—” I took the tisane from her. “Why, what’s wrong with me, anyway? Am I ill? I hope I’m not dying.”

“No, Miss Eliza. You in’t dying. You wit’ child.”

I lowered the dish and stared at her. “With child? That can’t be.”

Cassie leaned in to me. “When de last time dat time of de month come round, Miss Eliza?”

I thought back and could not remember. I then recalled blood on the gown upon my return from Pest Island.

“Before Thanksgiving, Cassie. I should say about two weeks before.”

Cassie nodded sagely. “Dat six weeks. You see. You wit’ child. Cassie live a long time on dees eart’. Cassie know while you still in bed wit’ ’eem.”

“You can’t have known that,” I objected. “You don’t know
everything.”
But, though I would never admit as much to her, I believed that Cassie did know pretty much everything.

I marched up the stairs and paused at the landing with the dish in my hand. Cassie was looking up at me.

“Why stare you so?” I called down to her. “Go to bed. I’m perfectly well.”

When Cassie had gone, I sat myself upon the bench beneath the Palladian window. The house was now dark and silent. It had begun to snow once more, and beyond the window the snow fell gently, covering everything in a mantle of pure white. I sipped my tea and bade my stomach calm itself.

The snow made me recall how Jeb and I used to run behind the house to make snow angels, Cassie shouting dire auguries from the kitchen door. I loved our angels. When I stood up, I was always convinced that I had made a real one, somehow, come to earth to guard us from harm.

Across the road in another house, someone blew out a candle. I tried to shake the picture of that unfortunate dinner with the Peirces from my mind. But the only things that shook were my hand and the teacup it held. Soon I would need to tell my parents that I was with child.