Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (24 page)

29

THE WEEKS PASSED AND, THANKS TO THE
cruel efficiency of my stays, no one was the wiser. January came and went, then February, and finally, March. I still had not told my parents. With each passing day, it grew harder to do so. Watkins and I saw each other but rarely. He and Isaac were now hard at work on the
America
, and I did not feel well enough to ride the ferry. I contented myself with bathing Isaac in the afternoon and hearing him report upon the day’s activities at the shipyard. At night, I would listen for Watkins’s boots on the stairs. But he dared not venture near my door, nor would I have opened it had he done so. It was as if, having knowledge of one another, we imagined that the veils had fallen from others’ eyes as well.

By April, I began to think about where in the world I might go. I knew only one thing for certain: I would have this child, and no one would take him from me. But the relative calm with which I faced my future came to an end one morning around the fifteenth of the month.

Papa had been feeling well enough to sit in his study that week, and he had been within, reading upon a broadside, when suddenly Mama came flying out. She shrieked, “Oh! Oh! Eliza! There is news! Most excellent news!”

Uncle Robert lumbered out of his study at the commotion and looked up the stairway. I moved from the parlor to stand beside him.

“What has happened, Sister?” he called. “Have we squelched the Rebels?”

“Nay. But, Brother, our home has been returned to us. There is a new law. Effective immediately, all homes confiscated before the Troubles shall be reinstated to their families. We can go home!”

The staircase swayed before my eyes. “Excuse me, Uncle, Mama.” I curtsied. “I must go tell—I must let Cassie know.”

I ran to the kitchen and nearly fell into Cassie’s arms.

“Cassie, did you hear? What do we do?”

Hearing the news, Cassie was nearly as distraught as I. She had found a child to love and nurture. She had made excellent friends in the Whipple slaves.

We both wept, not caring if my parents overheard us. I wiped my eyes. “I know there’s nothing to be done. We must go. But let us think of this parting as something temporary. I know not how, but I feel, I feel that this cannot be the end of our”—at the word
end,
I faltered. I did not reveal the source of my grief, but Cassie knew well enough what it was.

“Isaac come wit’ us,” Cassie said.

I shook my head. “And do what, pray? Become Mama’s houseboy? Sleep in the stables? No, the best thing for Isaac is to stay here with John—with Watkins. He’s happy, and he learns a useful trade.”

Cassie grasped my hands. “I’m so afraid, Miss Eliza. I’m afraid his master be lookin’ for ’eem, snakin’ around town when we gone.”

“But Cassie, it’s been a year. Surely we would have heard something by now, an advertisement in the paper, at least.”

Cassie shook her head. “Snakes—dey lay low in de grass a long, long time, Miss Eliza.”

The cherry trees were in bloom when I met my John for the last time before we left Portsmouth. Langdon’s shipyard buzzed with activity, and the
America
stood there in all its near-finished glory.

I blinked tears back as I spied Watkins hard at work in the hull, Isaac beside him, manlike now in the practiced swing of his hammer. I forced a bright smile as I waved to the boy. He set his hammer down and came running.

“Miss Eliza!”

“Oh, Isaac, I’m so glad to see you.” I hugged the child tight, feeling in my arms the warm strength of his little body. “Isaac, I’ll see you by and by, but I need to speak to Watkins now. Off you go.” As Isaac went running down the shore, the other shipwrights eyed me cagily. Though I was a familiar sight, they must have wondered why I continued to occupy myself with this Negro child. I turned to John, facing away from the men and toward the river. “I know it’s not time for dinner, but I must speak to you.”

“Ten minutes,” he said without looking at me. He returned to work. I remained on the western shore for a while, making as if to gather shells. I walked north against the wind, and when I was well out of sight of the men, I cut across the island. It was very windy on this day, and I regretted that I had not brought a blanket. I sat in the dunes and wrapped my arms about me. About twenty minutes later, John finally appeared. He saw how cold I was and wrapped his arms around me, warm from work, and brought me close to him. But I soon pulled away.

“John, there’s news I must impart at once. Our home in Cambridge has been returned to us. We leave on the seventh of May.”

“Seventh of May? That is but three weeks away. Nay, not three.” He stared at me disbelievingly.

“I know. I know. But there’s nothing to be done.”

“Why can you not remain here? Just you, I mean?”

“I must explain.”

“For God’s sake, do,” he said. “Put me out of my misery. You don’t love me.” Here, Watkins twisted out of my hands and laughed bitterly. “Of course you don’t. How could you?”

He turned away, but not before I saw that tears had pooled in his eyes. “You’re eager to return to Cambridge, and your old life.”

I would not humor such words. Instead, I spoke the simple truth: “My old life is dead and gone, and I am glad of it. If I could stay here to prevent you from pursuing danger, I would.”

“What danger?” He eyed me with sudden suspicion.

“Sending guns to aid a Negro rebellion. I know you believe you’re invisible. And perhaps, to some, you are. But you play with your life, John—and now you play with our lives as well.”

I sought and found his rough hands, those hands that had oozed and bled to build our ships of war. Then I looked down and placed a hand on my belly. To John’s querying look, I nodded.

He stood there a moment. Then his knees bent, and his hands went to my shoulders. “How long?” he whispered.

“You know how long.” I smiled.

“Four months! And all this time you told me nothing?”

“There was nothing you could do, except suffer.”

“But I—I could have planned something.”

“And given yourself away?”

“You trusted me not,” he said bitterly.

“No,” I admitted. “With my fate, but not with your own. That is your way.”

Then Watkins surprised me by breaking into a broad, proud grin, entirely out of keeping with our conversation. “So, I’m to be a father.”

“Yes.” I grinned, too.

“Of Miss Eliza Boylston’s child. One day to be Mrs. John Watkins.” He spoke in bitter jest, but I said, “Yes.”

“From this moment you
are
my wife, Eliza. Or—forgive me. I should ask,
will
you be my wife? My hopeless, hopeless wife?” This was no jest, for there was a pitiful cry in his voice, and he fell to one knee upon the sand.

“Yes, John.” I bent down and held his face in my hands. “But not hopeless. Do not say so. Trust in God to love his pitiable sinners.”

With a hard jaw and steely voice he said, “I shall trust in you.”

I pulled him up to face me, and we held each other until a boat from Kittery drew near.

When Isaac found out we were leaving, he ran out of the house and did not return for several hours. We were sick with worry until he finally crept into the kitchen at around eleven that evening, ravenously hungry. Cassie scolded him loudly; her voice traveled up the back stairs to my chamber, and I threw on my robe and descended.

“Isaac, listen to me.” I knelt down by him. “We shan’t be parted forever. We think this best for you: to remain with Watkins. You wouldn’t like our house in Cambridge. The work would be low, slave’s work—nothing like that of a noble shipwright. And I promise we shall write to you near every day.”

“But I can’t read,” he whined, and let his cup of milk bang on the table.

At this comment, my heart clutched. “Watkins can teach you, perhaps.”

“You’ll never come for me.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. My old master will catch up with me. Then I’ll be done for.” He began to cry.

“Who
is
your master, Isaac? It would help if we knew.”

This was not the first time we had begged him to tell us, but he would not. This time, however, he bade me kneel so he could whisper in my ear.

“Richards?” I repeated. “Where resides this miserable Richards?” I demanded to know. But that was all Isaac would ever tell me.

It was a busy job, packing, and I tired easily. Everyone pitched in: Mama, myself, Cassie, Phoebe, old Jupiter, and even Uncle Robert. Cuffee and Prince stopped by to join the work party, and Dinah Whipple arrived as well. She would be replacing Cassie as cook to Uncle Robert. When Cuffee and Prince had learned of our imminent departure, they told Colonel Whipple, who kindly offered Dinah to my uncle. Dinah was no cook, being but nineteen, but she learned quickly and, with the Whipple house nearby, she would have guidance. Things could have been worse for Uncle Robert.

At last, on the morning of May seventh, we found ourselves settling into our carriage. Watkins and Isaac had long since departed for the shipyard, which was good, because Cassie and I could not have contained our grief had they been there to see us off.

Papa was wrapped in blankets against the spring breeze. Mama hugged her brother long and hard, for she knew not when she would see him again. We thanked him for his generosity, and for the asylum that had lasted three long years. At the last minute, Uncle Robert approached Cassie. He reached out his hand as if he would take hers. Then, as she proffered it, he sprang back and turned away, mumbling angrily at himself as he retreated.

It was a quiet and contemplative ride back to Cambridge. Each of us was lost in his own thoughts, interrupted only by my father’s regular coughing. At one point, Papa said, “Well, we fared rather well, all in all, in Portsmouth.”

“Yes. Poor Robert was very kind,” added my mother.

“I shall miss Isaac a great deal,” I said.

“You seemed to take a particular interest in that child,” said Mama.

“Oh, he’s a sweet boy, Mama, and very hardworking. You should see how he strives to keep up with the men.”

My mother conceded with a shrug, “Well, I suppose in a hundred of them there’s one that’s willing to work hard.” I was about to object when Cassie, who sat so silently among her white masters as to be invisible, placed a forestalling hand on my arm.

We stopped at an inn in Rowley as the sun descended and took refreshment there. It was an old tavern with low ceilings and small, smoky rooms. Before the war, Cassie would have been sent to sleep in the attic with the other slaves. But now such formalities were dispensed with, and she shared my bed, in a pretty chamber with a fair view of the woods beyond.

Once we were alone, Cassie untied my stays, and I was able to breathe freely. The sun was now low over the treetops, and the truth about my break with Watkins was clear to me: it might well be forever. My trust in God left me; all seemed lost.

Cassie was removing the pins from my hair. She continued her work silently for several moments as I gazed out the window, at the treetops. My eyes were wet; my voice choked when I said, still looking away from her, “Cassie, what shall I
do
?”