Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (27 page)

34

I LOOKED IN ON PAPA TWICE A
day. Sometimes, I read the broadsides to him; other times, I simply held his hand. One evening in early July, Cassie told me that my father wished to speak to me. I thought this odd, as
I’d
visited with him only several hours earlier. I entered his chamber and found him sitting up.

I was big with child, and Papa stared at me. “I wonder, shall I live to see my heir? I doubt it.”

“Oh, Papa—surely—” I began.

“I regret the years in which I deluded myself, Eliza,” he broke in, “and I shall not do so now. I wish to apprise you of my situation and my final wishes.”

Here, with what scant breath remained to him, Papa gave me to understand that a sizable portion of his property yet remained in Barbados. He had not divested himself of the entire estate, as he had let on to Mama. He had sold the slaves, and most of what remained consisted of a spacious but simple house and about eight acres, upon which many fruit trees and some sugar cane still grew.

“Your mother shall have this house and a small savings I have amassed for her. But the house in Barbados I give to you. I was well regarded there, once, as you shall be, regardless of your . . . situation. There, people are not so very . . . particular. Nay, in Barbados one had sooner be an adulterer than a rebel.”

Papa thought this comment quite amusing and managed to laugh briefly before coughing.

“Thank you, Papa.” I kissed his hand tenderly. I knew it was all he had to give. Equally, I knew that I could never leave my homeland for an island in a distant sea, under secure British rule. What use would I have for an old plantation house filled with echoes of atrocities?

As if he knew what I thought, Papa said, “I must say now that I do believe I was wrong to let Cassie’s boy go. God punished me well and good for that.” Papa sighed and patted my hand. Tears of gratitude came to my eyes.

“Oh, Papa, the Lord forgives, as must I. Please don’t leave me.”

“If I’m given a choice in the matter, Eliza, I shall not leave you. But there is one more thing.”

He had been holding my hand, but he grasped it tighter now, conveying the urgency of his thought. I waited. He needed to catch his breath, and it seemed he never would. Minutes went by before he said, quickly, “It grieves me to see you and your mother grow so distant. Soon you shall only have each other.”

“Mama does not speak to me.”

“Then speak to her, Eliza.”

“I’m afraid Mama does not—love me.”

“Nonsense. She’s not good at showing her feelings, that much is true.”

I thought Mama quite capable of showing disapprobation and meanness of spirit, but I did not say so.

“You think her a cruel woman, I know. But it’s because she suffers so. She suffers her losses deeply.”

I would not accept Papa’s explanation, though I dearly wished I could. I had seen enough of life, enough of generosity of heart—John Watkins, Colonel Langdon, Prince Whipple, Dinah and Cuffee Whipple, and even my own Cassie—to know better.

“Many suffer, Papa. But some would rather die than inflict suffering on others. Yes, some would rather die than do so. Excuse me,” I said. “I’ll return by and by.” I kissed Papa’s flushed cheek and fled the room before the tears came.

Mama stood in the hallway, and I nearly ran into her. She wore a blue silk gown I had not seen her wear since before the Troubles. Cassie had done her hair in a style that I recalled from my earliest childhood.

“Mama, where go you like that?”

“To a ball for the king’s birthday. The Baroness von Riedesel has kindly invited me.”

“But you cannot possibly wish to attend such a thing.”

“Why not?”

“You know well enough. Besides, isn’t she an enemy prisoner?”

Mama stared at my purple-paneled gown with a cruel smile, as if to say, “Yes, the Baroness is such a prisoner; but then, so are you.”

At her withering gaze, I drew myself up. “Oh, go, then! Go! Think of me what you will. I no longer desire your good opinion. Or your forgiveness.”

“That is fortunate for you,” she replied coldly.

It was a hot summer, and as I grew larger, I could not bear to don my gowns, even let out as they were. I remained in my shift: in my chamber reading or in the gardens beyond the house and human eyes. There was consolation in picking raspberries for Cassie or smelling the green beans that grew on the vine. Now that it was summer, we ate better, as Cassie had had the foresight to plant seeds the moment we returned from Portsmouth.

I spent a good hour or so every day with Papa. Nearing death, Papa seemed at last to become a very good sort of man. He threw convention aside. He told me that he regretted having been slow to rally to the Cause. He regretted his behavior toward Jeb, whom he now firmly believed was one of our first heroes. We spent many hours speaking of how I and my child might live a useful life, despite the inevitable obstacles. On one visit, I confessed, “Papa, I wasn’t truthful when I allowed you to believe the father of my child is married. He is not. He is by no means such a scoundrel.”

Papa seemed pleased by this and nodded.

“I dearly love him and still hope that we can some day live as man and wife.” I did not go so far as to reveal to Papa the identity of the man I loved, for this, I knew, would have been beyond his comprehension.

“That relieves me greatly, Eliza. Your life has not been very happy, I’m afraid. I wish you nothing but happiness in the future. I pray that God will remove the impediments that stand between you both.”

O, precious acceptance! It was all the sweeter for the delay.

35

BY SEPTEMBER, I HAD GROWN QUITE UNCOMFORTABLE.
My ankles were swollen, and I had need of the chamber pot near every hour. The babe kicked me all the time now, as if telling me he had grown tired of his cramped accommodations. I imagined it was a fine boy with very strong legs, and I could not wait to get him out of me and into the world, where I would scold him for kicking me so. Cassie had warned me not to grow attached, not to think of it as anything but a poor creature bound for death.

“What a depressing thought, Cassie.”

She looked at me sternly.
“
’Eet for your own good, Miss Eliza. You have a complaint, you take it up wit’ ’Eem.” Here, she pointed upward at the heavens.

By autumn, Watkins’s letters had trailed off, and he had begun to seem but a beautiful dream. Had he ever been real? Had his strong, tan arms ever held me? Had those scarred yet gentle hands ever touched me? Had I ever caressed those soft curls, or kissed his full lips? My belly told me it was so, yet I hardly believed it. Portsmouth had faded to a dappled shadow in the light of my present reality.

Sometime that September, a tall, loose-limbed man of twenty-
eight or so strode up our walkway. Mama answered the door in a dilatory way, as if her butler were momentarily indisposed. The man bowed and introduced himself as one Mr. Thomas Miller.

I had been watching him from the parlor window, but, upon his knock at the door, I scurried to the top of the stairs. He was quite handsome, though large-featured. His brow was thick and dark, his eyes large and wide-set, his nose quite strong and straight.

Mr. Miller appeared to have dressed somewhat too hastily. His cravat was askew, and a button was missing from one cuff. He gazed past Mama and said, “Might I have a word with your daughter? With Miss Boylston?”

“No, that’s not possible. She is—indisposed.”

I then saw Mr. Miller bend down and whisper something into Mama’s ear.

“Eliza!” she called at once. I was now at the base of the stairs; there was no need for her to shout.

“I’m in my dressing gown,” I said softly.

“Never mind that,” Mr. Miller replied. I approached warily, my arms about my belly, blushing. I had not set eyes upon a man apart from Papa in several months.

Mama introduced Mr. Miller. “Mr. Miller is an acquaintance of Lizzie’s. He says he is the brother of the girl you brought to Braintree, Martha—”

“Oh, Martha Miller. I remember her. How fares she? She must be quite an expert at farming by now.”

Mr. Miller turned to me without answering. But his tone was respectful when he asked, “Might I speak with you a moment, Miss Boylston—alone?”

He pointed to our sofa in the front parlor. It was our last remaining piece of furniture in that room. At one time, this fact might have mortified me. But no longer.

Mama stood in the foyer watching us as he led me there and bade me sit. Mr. Miller hesitated; he was clearly waiting for my mother to take her leave, which she finally did after a painful minute or two.

“Lizzie—Mrs. Boylston—says I am to bring you to Braintree when—at the appointed hour.”

“I see.” I did not blush, but Mr. Miller did. We then proceeded to discuss the likely date of our departure, and the details of what I was to bring. Did I have someone to help me pack? he wanted to know. I said I did.

“If you like, I can procure you a cape.”

“Oh, yes, that would be good.” I had nothing to drape about my enormous girth for the journey.

“Lizzie—Mrs. Boylston—said she might also procure a homespun gown or two from the parish. Nothing so fine as you’re accustomed to, I’m afraid, but serviceable.”

“You are very kind. I’m most grateful,” I said. And I was. But I could not help but think back to the days when I would rather have died than wear that ghastly homespun. The memory made me smile.

Mr. Miller soon took his leave, bowing deeply. He left behind him an impression of a kind, decent man, one who happened to be entirely in love with my sister-in-law, Lizzie, and had not the guile to hide it. I wondered whether she returned his feelings.

Mr. Miller visited me several times more that September. Sometimes it was to discuss practical subjects, but at other times it seemed as if he was content to keep me company for no good reason at all. On one of his visits I said to him, “You’re so kind, Mr. Miller, to call upon me. I’m truly grateful. For, as you see, I live quite alone . . .”

“People were not meant to live so,” he asserted.

“I heartily agree.”

Mr. Miller grinned at an unbidden thought. “You’ll like Braintree.” He looked about us, at the large cavernous rooms. “It’s quite the opposite of . . . of this.”

“Noisy and chaotic, you mean?”

He laughed. “Perhaps. At times.”

Mr. Miller told me about the farm and the onerous work his sister and Lizzie did every day. He told me about Colonel Josiah and Ann Quincy, and Abigail Adams, whom I would no doubt meet upon my arrival. At this last news, I cringed: how mortifying it would be to make the acquaintance of this great lady in my big, unwed state!

“Oh, but I cannot meet her. That’s impossible.”

“You shall find her a most gracious and enlightened woman.”

“Perhaps. But what shall she think of
me
?”

He considered this. “I believe she shall think that you are very brave.”

Mr. Miller was true to his word and brought me two gowns—simple, country items made of homespun linsey-woolsey, but capacious and quite comfortable. He brought me a cape as well, made of a lovely green wool. Cassie and I packed a trunk. Or rather, I sat on my bed and instructed her. She was moving very slowly and deliberately, as if she were packing my dowry, and I grew impatient.

“No, no, Cassie. There’s no need to be so very particular about the folds—it will take forever this way.”

“You’ve got nutteeng for winter. No good stockings.”

I shrugged. “Upon the subject of undergarments, I am entirely indifferent.”

“You won’ be indifferent when you find your feet frozen solid.”

“What would you have me do, Cassie?” I cried in exasperation. She had no answer, and I let her complain, for I knew it was her way of grieving my departure.

I grieved, too, for my father, whom I doubted I should ever see again. For Cassie, my one and only friend. And for life as I had always known it.

The day finally arrived on which I would leave Cambridge. Mr. Miller arrived at about nine with a coach and four—a luxury in these times, though I knew the ride would be an ordeal. He and Juno lifted my trunk aboard, and the time finally came for me to bid my family good-bye. Cassie and I stood in my parents’ chamber, for Papa had not been able to descend the stairs in many months.

“Oh, Cassie, I shall miss you horribly,” I said, embracing her for a long time. “Should all go well, I promise I’ll visit.”

For once, Cassie had no smart reply. She merely wiped her tears and nodded.

I moved next to Papa’s bed. He was unable to speak, but his eyes were bright with tears. I kissed and kissed him: his dear hands, his forehead, his cheek. “I love you so much, Papa. I shall write every day.”

“Remember what I’ve told you about Barbados,” he whispered. “I am comforted by the thought that I may be of some small service to you after I’m gone.”

I buried my face in his chest, kissed him a final time, and departed.

Downstairs, Mama stood in the foyer, a lone, proud guard of all that once had been. Her manner frightened me.

“Cassie!” I called desperately. Cassie came and, fortified by the grasp of her hand, I moved toward Mama slightly, proffering my cheek.

Mama stepped back as I did so.

“You may as well know, Eliza, that I do not expect to see you again. I have tried to reconcile myself to your grievous mistake, but I find I cannot.”

I sucked in my breath. Cassie grasped my hand tightly. I said, “Why, even God forgave Eve, Mama. Would you place yourself higher than Him?”

To this, my mother had nothing to say. Suddenly, as Mama turned away, I saw Jeb’s portrait lying upon the candlestand in the parlor, next to the sofa. I snatched it up and placed it in my pocket. Cassie saw the theft, but Mama did not.

As I opened the front door, I called behind me, “I pity you, Mama. For you shall very soon find yourself entirely alone in the world, with neither family nor friends to love you. Oh, Mr. Miller!” I cried, turning my back on my mother and releasing my hold on Cassie. “Let us go!”

I cannot describe the black feelings that descended upon me then. Mr. Miller, having been privy to this ugly parting scene, said not a word as he draped the cape about me and nodded to his coachman. I saw the last of Cambridge—its fine houses and strolling couples and brilliant fall leaves—through a thick, wavering pane of tears.