Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (3 page)

“It’s no use,” he whispered. “They’ve already been sold.”

3

I HAD BEEN A GREGARIOUS AND SOCIAL
child, but after this event, I fell silent. I lost the desire to speak to anyone—not to my parents, nor Jeb, nor even to Cassie, whom I bade leave my meals outside my chamber door. What might I say to comfort her? Such words had not yet been invented. My heart grieved in a way I did not know how to fix. My gold cross burned me and kept me from sleeping until, one night, I removed it. I kept recalling how, in the tavern, Toby’s little hand had reached for it. I could still feel his fingers in the hollow of my neck.

I knew not what had brought about this calamity. But things were far worse when I finally left my chamber to eat breakfast with my family—for there, all was as if
nothing
had happened. Cassie, now upright once more, placed the eggs, the ham, the biscuits, the salted fish, and the applesauce on the buffet, and everyone heaped their plates. Jeb ate wolfishly. Maria wrote surreptitiously in a little notebook on her lap. Her dark curls tumbled over her forehead, and her ink-stained fingers moved quickly, as if she feared interruption.

“What do you do, child?” asked Mama.

“A moment, Mama. I have just one more thought.”

“Thought? What thought should a girl be having at table?”

Wisely, Maria made no reply.

“Hello, Eliza,” said Papa, noticing my entry into the dining room, though his eyes remained downcast.

Mama said, “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. And very timely, too, for I was wondering what you thought of a sugar swan as a centerpiece for the dessert course. And—oh, did I tell you? The Inmans are coming. Apparently George Inman said, ‘I wouldn’t miss the Boylston’s party for the world.’ Isn’t that an auspicious sign, Eliza?”

I endeavored to smile—for Mama
was
thinking of me, was she not? But, lips quivering, I managed to say only, “Mama, I fear I haven’t the heart for a party.”

“Haven’t the heart?” She laughed nervously, her eyes flitting toward my father. “Why would you say such a thing? Of course there will be a party. The invitations have been sent and answered. Besides, what would I tell people?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell them someone has died,” muttered Jeb, “for it would be true enough.”

Papa rose from his seat as if he might accost my brother, then sank back down into a feigned distraction. At the thought of what Jeb might have meant, I blinked back tears and could not eat a morsel.

Later, as Maria and I sat in the library, we discussed the matter of the party. Jeb had gone upstairs with his tutor. He had failed his entrance exams to Harvard that July, much to Papa’s dismay, and was endeavoring to improve his Latin. We doubted he made much progress. Jeb was highly intelligent, though not studious, and I always thought that the expense of a tutor was wasted on him. The family’s true scholar of the family sat right next to me. She had begun to read the
Odyssey
, one of many leather-bound tomes to be found in the library.

Now Maria closed her book and looked at me with her deep, dark eyes.

“Surely you will attend your own party. Mama has gone to such effort.”

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t see how I can smile my way through such an evening. I feel it very keenly, Maria. I know Papa must have had a very good reason to do what he did. He must be in very great trouble of some sort, though I cannot understand it. Can you?”

“Our parents are used to doing what they please with their property. I doubt Papa felt he needed a
very
good reason.”

“Papa said it was either the slaves or his carriage.”

Maria smirked. “You see. Not a
very
good reason.” She continued, “It’s a terrible thing Papa did. But whom shall you be punishing by refusing to go to your own party? Our guests are innocent of the crime, and Cassie will not get her family back.”

“No.” I considered. “But perhaps Mama and Papa will take the opportunity to reflect upon their actions. Yes.” I nodded. “Reflect and . . . and
feel
for poor Cassie.”

Maria sighed. “Think you Mama will ever consider how Cassie, or Cato, or how any of them
feel
? Sh
e’d
as soon consider the feelings of her shoes.”

We had recently heard the news of the British ships in the harbor and their hostile vigilance of us. We had heard, too, of the throat distemper and the canker rash that had made their way up the coastal routes that fall. These plagues had begun to carry off our Boston neighbors and instilled dread in our hearts: in the former, the sufferer grew a dense, black fur in his throat and eventually suffocated. The latter was more insidious: the victim would seem to recover, only to collapse in sudden death, days—or even months—later.

But our parents seemed little concerned. Papa continued to sit in his study and pore over his papers, no doubt finding more ways to “retrench and consolidate.” My mother busied herself planning for my party, and, as there was little else for me to do, I joined her, though perhaps not with the same alacrity I once had felt.

It grew quite cold, and we finally prevailed upon Papa to light the fires: wealthy though he might have been, he was quite frugal in certain matters. Sometimes we went near into December before he let a servant use the wood that had been drying in the bins since the previous year.

At these times, we refused to bathe. Though a bath in the kitchen was warm enough, our hair would turn to icicles by the time we returned to our chambers. Between ablutions, we kept a discreet distance from one another.

Our first snowfall came on Sunday, November 19, three weeks before my sixteenth birthday. It arrived with such sudden fury that we did not go to church, neither morning nor afternoon service. By three
o’c
lock, the snow was two feet high, and soon the gathering wind blew the snow into drifts of five feet and more. When the storm had begun to taper off, Maria, Jeb, and I stuck our noses out the front door in wonderment at the whiteness. We exhaled in unison, to watch the smoke from our mouths gather and disperse. The shrubs and walkways were white, and the pointy tips of gates and fences stuck up like giant, jagged teeth along the road. There was not a soul abroad. We saw only the brown and black backs of our neighbors’ dogs bounding up through the snow and heard the anxious cries of owners and servants, calling them back.

Speaking of cold, Mama had come down with one that week and kept to her bed. Jeb eluded his tutor as often as he dared, going abroad—we knew not where. But Maria and I were content to watch nature from our windows. The library windows, though wavy, were newly cleaned both inside and out. From these we saw Mama’s formal gardens, not yet pruned back for the winter, frozen in their last colorful bloom: pink, salmon, yellow, and crimson, all made more vivid by the partial layer of snow. Beyond our garden, I could just make out the chimneys of the Vassal house.

We played a game of chess, which my sister handily won within half an hour. I endeavored to play a tune on the pianoforte but gave up after sounding so many wrong notes that Maria covered her ears.

“It’s not my fault, Maria,” I said. “Nobody has thought to hire a tutor for me. How should I become proficient otherwise?”

“One hardly needs a tutor to learn a thing.” Here, my sister rose and approached the pianoforte. She nudged me aside and sat down. Then she gently placed her little hands on the keys and began to play one note after the other up and down the keyboard. She then played every other note, and within ten minutes she seemed to have memorized sufficient notes to play the first bars of “Over the Hills and Far Away.”

Mama appeared in the doorway and cried, “Stop at once, Maria!”

“Why should I? Is this not an instrument, meant to be played?”

Mama had no ready reply but needed to have the last word. “Well, but—do be careful!” she said. Once she had left, Maria and I laughed out loud. We thought it was amusing that Mama should not interrupt me but waited until Maria played something melodious. After this, we settled into solitary pursuits—I, a book; Maria, her diary. Papa had given her a large, heavy account book several years earlier, and she carried it everywhere, often writing stories in it. We were thus engaged for perhaps an hour when my sister set her diary in her lap, blinked quizzically, and swallowed hard.

“Maria, what is it?” I asked. “Are you unwell?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I felt a sudden—something.” She reached a hand to her throat.

“Allow me to tell Mama,” I said, rising.

“If you wish. I think I shall go lie down for a few minutes.”

Upstairs, I knocked loudly upon my parents’ door. “Mama! Maria is unwell. I believe we must call the doctor.” There was a rustling, and Mama came to the door, tying her dressing gown about her. Her face was pale, and her nose was red and chapped.

“What needs she a doctor for?” she asked, reaching into her pocket for a handkerchief. “It is but a cold. We all of us have it.”

“I fear it is no mere cold, but something else. She said—she said she felt something
here
.” I touched my own throat, in the hollow where my cross had been.

“It is early yet. Let us wait till suppertime. I doubt very much but it is this same dreadful cold we all have.”

“Yes, Mama,” I said. But, espying Cassie in the hallway approaching with a tray for Mama, I said, “Cassie, bring Maria some tea as well. She is poorly.”

Cassie nodded. Above stairs, we remained correct with one another. And, since Cato and Toby’s departure, I had not ventured into the kitchen at all.

“Yes, Miss Eliza.” She curtsied.

I went to Maria. She was sitting on top of the bedcovers, fully clothed, engrossed in her book, her legs crossed beneath her.

“Oh,” I said. “I thought to find you in bed, not on it. Are you better?”

Maria put a finger in her book to hold the place and looked up at me.

“Not worse, thankfully.”

“That’s a relief! I nearly had Mama fetch Dr. Bullfinch.” Just then, Cassie entered with her tray.

“Look, your tea arrives.”

“How nice. Thank you, Cassie,” said Maria.

“But
brrr
—it’s cold in here. Cassie!” I called, just as she was leaving. “We need a fire.”

“You know Mr. Boylston don’ let me touch da wood, Miss Eliza. Not befaw he say so.”

I silently cursed our father for allowing the fire to go out. He had his barouche and four, yet my sister was to go without a hint of warmth!

“Well, you shall do so now, Cassie, and if there’s a price to pay, I shall pay it.”

She nodded and left the room.

In short order, the fire was lit and raging. I sat upon the bed next to my sister and caressed her hair.

“You’re truly not worse?” I asked.

She leaned her head against my shoulder. “I am tolerably well, Eliza. Let us discuss something else. I find the subject of illness—especially my own—so tedious.”

“Very well. What should we discuss?”

“I believe . . .” she considered, “I believe I should like to discuss our dreams. You go first.”

“My dreams? Why, I—”

Maria turned to me and frowned. “Surely you have them, Eliza. We all do.”

I blushed. “Why, I suppose I have thought about the things Mama has said. Mama says I shall make a brilliant match and be the mistress of a large and stately home . . . Oh, but I
should
like to remain in Cambridge—”

“Stop.” Maria frowned. “Have you so little imagination as to dream only that which Mama has allowed? Surely you must have your own ideas about your future happiness?”

“Indeed I do. As I was saying, I should like to remain in Cambridge, or Boston at the very farthest.”

Maria sighed.

“Well, what do you dream of, Maria?”

My sister closed her eyes. Her hands rested in her lap.

“I see a large house.”

“Ha—you see!”

“Nay.” Maria reached out her hand. “A large house in the country.”

“In the country? Not far, I hope?”

“Yes, Eliza. Far from here. In the western parts of our county, perhaps. A large house filled with women.”

“Women?” I cried, appalled at the thought.

“Women friends. We shall write, or paint. We shall prepare our own meals and wear what clothing we like. At table, we may talk about art, or the books we read—or write.”