Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (29 page)

I had not as yet divulged the name of Johnny’s father to Lizzie or Martha, nor had they asked. The babe’s complexion had darkened slightly since his birth. My friends must have been dying of curiosity, but Lizzie merely said, “I think it best that, in your absence, we have a ready story for our inquisitive neighbors.”

“Something at least approximating the truth,” Martha added cagily.

I looked at them and sighed. “Well, you shall have your approximation.” I then proceeded to tell them everything: about my uncle Robert, and Colonel Langdon, and the shipyard on Badger’s Island. And I told them, at last, about Watkins, my handsome, prideful love, son of the governor and his slave. When I was finished, Lizzie looked at me with sincere puzzlement.

“Eliza,” she said, “I could not be more surprised.”

38

THREE WEEKS EARLIER, I HAD DREADED COMING
to Braintree. Now, I dreaded leaving it. The only thought that gave me any comfort was that I would see my beloved Cassie.

Lizzie told me that while I was gone, she and Abigail were to have dinner with the Admiral d’Estaing at Colonel Quincy’s house.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“He’s a very great man. A French admiral, come to aid our army,” Martha explained.

“Who shall care for Johnny, then?”

“Oh, I shall be happy to. I wasn’t invited,” Martha replied.

Thursday afternoon, I paced the cottage in a state of dread. I had nothing to wear to my father’s funeral. Martha had an old black gown, the one she had been wearing when I first brought her to the farm, but it was far too small for me. Lizzie had none. “But only think, Eliza,” Lizzie said. “It’s November. The chapel shall be cold, and you shall have no reason to remove your cape.”

“But afterward,” I fretted, “Cassie will surely have made a tea or something back at the house.”

Lizzie considered. “Wait—does Colonel Quincy know of your father’s death? They were blood relations, were they not?”

“I don’t see how he would know. Mama would never write to him. They haven’t spoken in many years.”

“Well, don’t you think it might be proper that he know?”

“Lizzie.” I shook my head. “I’m in no state to make the acquaintance of the colonel.”

“Allow me to take care of this. All will be well. Trust me.” She placed a steadying hand on my forearm and smiled warmly.

Lizzie excused herself, and from the parlor window I soon saw her make her way in the wind and growing darkness, guided only by a sure knowledge of the path, to the Quincys’ house. I sighed and caressed my babe, who slept soundly, his thick eyelashes dewy with sleep.

About an hour later, I was startled to see Lizzie round the front of the house with a couple in tow. The man, portly and of medium height, in his mid fifties, wore a raccoon hat and hunting jacket. The woman wore a woolen cape with the hood up and a scarf across her face. She held something in her arms. In a moment, they all entered the cottage, stomping the cold off of them, removing their outer garments and hats. I stood up from the bed, readying myself for mortification, when the elderly couple ran to me, accosted me with hugs, and swarmed my child as if they were his long-lost grandparents. On the bed, without a word, Mrs. Quincy lay a fine black gown.

“What on earth did you say to them?” I asked Lizzie the following morning, as I readied myself to depart. The black dress fit me well, though I was obliged to don Lizzie’s stays and have her tie them fairly tight.

“Nothing,” she replied. We were in the parlor, awaiting the colonel’s carriage.

“Nothing? That cannot be.”

“Well, almost nothing. Only that Jeb’s sister was lately arrived at our cottage from Portsmouth, that your father had died, and that you wished to go to his funeral. Colonel Quincy said he was very sorry to hear it, as, despite the rift, he had been fond of your father as a child. Indeed, he should have liked to attend the funeral, but Ann objected that his presence would by no means be a comfort to your mother.”

“Well, I suppose that is true enough. But, oh, it was very kind of them to visit with us, was it not?”

“That is their way,” Lizzie replied. “The colonel can be loud and blustery, but they both are most kind. They do not stand on ceremony.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“No, I don’t expect you would have,” Lizzie mused. “Braintree is a long way from Cambridge, or even Portsmouth. We are a true country village with all its bumps and warts.”

“But what did you tell them about Johnny?”

“I told them that, three weeks ago, I delivered you of a fine, healthy boy, and that circumstances required the father to remain in Portsmouth.”

“Circumstances—I suppose that covers a whole host of evils.”

“They asked not a single question, Eliza. Indeed, they were so excited to have a babe in their midst, they hardly cared who the mother or father were. They insisted on coming at once.”

I shook my head in grateful disbelief. The reactions, the sentiments of these Braintree people—how different from all
I’d
known before! They were as inhabitants of a distant planet, one I wished never to leave. With a kiss for Lizzie and Martha, one final smothering hug for my child, I was off in the colonel’s carriage.

The funeral was a grim affair. From it, I garnered no special consolation, particularly since Mama would not look at me. The service was out of doors, at the cemetery down the road to Watertown.

It hardly mattered. Papa’s friends had long since dispersed, and it was only myself, Cassie, and my mother. Uncle Robert had sent his condolences but said that he was not well enough to travel. I wondered what he meant by that but didn’t inquire of Mama.

Mama would have liked to serve a glass of wine, but the cellar was empty, and there was no real tea. We had herb tea and cakes made of corn flour and a bit of cheese and some dried figs. Cassie remained in the parlor with us. She kept glancing at me, and at my slimmer girth, as if she would like to ask a million questions. Mama largely ignored looking at me altogether. She ate delicately, her pinkie sticking out, as if she were eating quail eggs. Suddenly she stopped eating, grew still, and stood up.

“Oh, but I entirely forgot.” She moved into the foyer and returned holding a letter. “This came for you yesterday.”

“A letter? From whom?”

I thought she would say “from that boy Isaac.” Instead, she said, “From Colonel
Langdon
, of all people. Know you him, Eliza?”

“A very little,” I admitted. “From fishing out on Badger’s Island.”

“Well, what does he
say
?” she inquired impatiently.

“Mama, allow me to read it first.” I moved off into the foyer, but she trailed after me. “You may go to your chamber, if you wish.” Apparently Mama had already bade the coachman to bring my small trunk upstairs, which greatly surprised me.

“Cassie!” I called as I mounted the stairs. “Bring me another dish of tea.”

“Yes, Miss Eliza.” She curtsied. I had not yet greeted Cassie, saving that pleasure for a moment when we would be alone. Upstairs, I shut myself within the grim stillness of my chamber. Then I tore the seal with my finger, my heart pounding thickly in my chest. The moment I looked down, I knew that this letter was not from Colonel Langdon, but from John.

Dearest love—

We received your letter announcing the new arrival to your parish with Joy in our Hearts and a Prayer that we will be able to hold him in our Arms by and by. Our Situation is uncertain. R.C. is being hounded by the Committee of Correspondence. It is rumored that Arrests are to be made. Your uncle readies himself to flee. I know not where we may be headed, but rest assured I shall write when I am able. I send this through a trusted Friend. Your, J.

“Rest assured?” I cried aloud. This letter, far from assuring, filled me with foreboding.

I had feared many things in our months of separation. Would Uncle sell Watkins? And what about Isaac? I needed to write immediately, yet I could not write from my present location. Nothing I wrote would be safe from my mother’s prying eyes. Nor did I wish to alarm Cassie—she would be hurt and worried that I had not remained for tea, or to greet her with open arms. But I resolved to return to Braintree immediately. Oh, if only I could run the other way!

Descending the stairs on tiptoe, I grabbed my cape from the back of the chair where it rested and moved out the front door. I called for Juno to fetch my trunk from my chamber and to bring round the colonel’s coachman and carriage. Cassie, sensing a commotion, came quickly from the kitchen, her hands wrapped around our teapot.

“Someteeng happen, Miss Eliza?”

“I’m urgently needed in Braintree,” I said. “I daren’t stop to tell you now. All shall be well,” I added, touching her arm and attempting a smile. “By and by, I shall inform you,” I whispered.

From the carriage, I looked up at the house and, in the darkening gloom, saw my mother’s shadowy form at her chamber window. The shadow disappeared, but by the time it reached the front door, I was already gone.

“I thought you were to stop the night,” Martha said, perplexed to see me walk through the door. It was near midnight, and she was just heading off to bed. Lizzie had not returned from the Quincys’ dinner party.

“Something has happened, but I have no energy to discuss it just now. It will keep till the morning.” I picked up my sleeping child from our bed and hugged him tight.

“Very well,” said Martha resignedly. She kissed me good-night and petted Johnny before heading up to bed.

I stripped out of Mrs. Quincy’s damp gown and stays at once, then nursed my child. We both slept, but I woke throughout the night. Around four thirty, I rose for the day. Lizzie had returned, and both she and Martha were already awake. They had fed the animals and clasped their steaming dishes of tea at the kitchen table, deep in discussion. When they saw me, they ceased speaking.

“What do you discuss, so earnestly and at such an hour?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Lizzie said silkily.

“How was dinner at the Quincys’?” I asked. I knew they hid something from me but would not press them.

“Fine. Very fine,” Lizzie replied. “The admiral and his officers are impressive, and so kind. The repast was such as I have not had in years.”

Martha asked, “Why did you return from Cambridge last night?”

I removed John’s letter and proffered it to my friends. “I know not what to do,” I said. “I know not what I
can
do.”

Both Martha and Lizzie read John’s letter. Then Martha rose from the table and said, “I shall return by and by.” She soon returned with a piece of foolscap, a quill, and a bottle of ink, which she set upon the table. “You must write to Colonel Langdon at once.”

“But what do I say?” I looked up at Martha.

“Tell him the truth.”

And so I wrote:

26 October, 1778.

Dear Sir. Thank you for your letter of October 24th. W.’s report of the situation in Portsmouth alarms us greatly. It seems something must be done, before the time for action has passed. Where does R. C. intend to go? And what of W. and the child? I must know these things.

Then, for John’s eyes, I wrote:

All is well here, though perhaps you’ve heard the sad news that Papa died. The plant you gave me grows quite lustily and gives me great joy. May God protect you.

I folded and sealed the paper, and Martha ran off to give my letter to Abigail, who would find a messenger to take it to Portsmouth.

Haste and good intentions we had aplenty. But I would not learn of John’s fate for another eight months.