Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (35 page)

“You leave tomorrow,” said Abigail flatly.

“Saturday,” he corrected her.

“And did you have a good trip otherwise, Mr. Adams?” I hazarded.

“Dismal,” he replied. “If I had to spend one more minute with Dr. Franklin, I should have gone stark raving mad. The man is always right!”

“As are you, dear,” said Abigail, patting his shoulder. “How very inconvenient for you.”

We laughed at Abigail’s wit, but Mr. Adams merely waved her comment away, content for once to let her have the last word.

The Adamses had just said their good-byes when Martha stood up and cried, “Oh, dear! I entirely forgot!” She ran upstairs and returned with a letter in her hands. “This was under the door when we returned from the Quincys’ last night. It is addressed to you, Eliza. Forgive me, I—”

“Don’t apologize, Martha. There were far more important things to think about last night.”

I sat back down with the letter in my lap, hesitating only a moment before breaking the seal. It was from my mother.

August 2, 1779, Cambridge

Dear Eliza,

The fog has finally lifted from my grieving eyes. No longer can I in good conscience allow the crime upon you to go unpunished. I write to tell you that tomorrow I go to Portsmouth—Cassie says I do wrong, but who is she to say so? She has grown most impertinent! There, I hope to bring the father of your child to justice. It is right; it is just. For, when the villain is hanged by his Neck, your Reputation shall be returned to you. Then may you take up your life once more in Cambridge. —Mama

Martha, who had been reading over my shoulder, sucked in her breath.

“I can’t believe it,” I said.

“Might I share this with Lizzie?” Martha asked.

“Yes. But I must go to Cambridge at once. Oh, I fail to understand! She never expressed the least interest in Johnny’s father. She’s gone mad.”

I handed Martha the letter. She moved silently into the kitchen, and I followed her. Lizzie read in ominous silence. She then met my eyes, as if searching for my own understanding of the letter.

“Mama knows perfectly well that it was not a case of ravishment. She—but I must ready myself at once.”

“A moment, dearest Eliza,” said Lizzie, touching my arm. “Let us think what to do.”

“I know what I must do. I must go to Cambridge.”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “but I believe you told us that Colonel Langdon has offered to help?”

“He did,” I agreed. “Yet I fear that whatever he had in mind to do, the time for it has run out.”

“Before you go,” Martha held my arm a moment, “perhaps—perhaps you ought to share this news with someone else who might be able to help.”

“And who might that be?” I replied with a bitter, hopeless laugh.

Lizzie and Martha looked at each other.

“You’ll catch him easily, if you make haste,” said Martha.

49

THE ADAMSES HAD GONE AS FAR AS
the meetinghouse by the time I caught up to them. The little couple strolled calmly, hand in hand, enjoying the darkening light and the calm that had finally fallen over the town.

I coughed, and Abigail turned around.

“Oh, Eliza, it’s you. You frightened me. Have I left something behind?”

“No, no.” I curtsied. “I wished—Lizzie, Mrs. Boylston that is, and Miss Miller, thought I might do well to speak to Mr. Adams upon a most urgent question. I have only just now received a letter—”

“By all means,” said Abigail, moving away slightly, to give us privacy.

Mr. Adams turned to me.

“Shall we sit? I find my legs are yet a bit wobbly. Would it be terribly inconvenient if I sat upon the steps, just here?” he pointed to the meetinghouse steps.

“Of course not. I shall join you, if I may.”

I sat upon the steps, and this great man sat down next to me with a relieved sigh.

“I should say at once, Miss Boylston, that I have no idea of being the least help to you. I know a little of your story—a very little. But naturally whatever is in my power, I shall do.”

Mr. Adams, do whatever was in his power? I tried not to think of the many times Mr. Adams might have said those very words to the likes of His Excellency George Washington, or to the king of France. Who was I to ask anything of this man? Yet I inhaled and soldiered forth. I told Mr. Adams about the letter from Mama, and about Colonel Langdon’s former intent to help John and me.

Listening, Mr. Adams’s demeanor changed from the affable country rustic I had met but an hour earlier. His face became grave, his voice low and steady when he said, “From everything you say, the situation has become critical.”

I nodded. “Mr. Adams, I’m most grateful for your solicitude. But I have no wish to involve you in my troubles. You’re just now safely arrived yourself, and Abigail cannot do without you—”

Mr. Adams cut me off. “That is a very pretty speech, Miss Boylston. But I’ve been involved in troubles almost since birth. I hardly know how to occupy myself without them.”

How gracious he was! This was hardly what I had expected of the man whom all our broadsides drew as a loud and vulgar clown.

“Rest assured,” he continued, “that if I do manage to help you, I shan’t budge from my beloved farm to accomplish it.” Then, his thoughts seemed to change tack: “By God, we’ve not gotten this far without—without our human web, as it were. We are all a part of it, in however small a way—you, Lizzie, Martha, even Watkins, from what I gather—” Here, he broke off, as if h
e’d
revealed too much. “The web is sturdy, Miss Boylston. Upon its strength
I’d
stake my life. Yes, my very life!”

Mr. Adams was silent for a moment. He then asked in a whisper, “But this Richards fellow—has he a wife and family?”

“A wife, I’m told. A cruel mistress to her slaves.”

“Hmm. I shall have to see whether . . .” he trailed off. “Well.” John Adams cleared his throat and turned to face me. “Are you prepared, my dear?”

“In what way, sir?”

“Prepared to get what you wish? If we’re successful, and we get them, you must realize that your troubles will just be beginning.”

50

THE ROAD TO CAMBRIDGE WAS HOT AND
dusty: I coughed much of the way. At another time, I might have enjoyed the views outside the carriage, of boats both small and large, of fishermen and merchants. I would have delighted in the birdsong and the occasional wild creature I saw darting in and out of the bushes. But on this day, I felt only deep, engulfing fear.

Along the way, I recalled my remarkable conversation with Mr. Adams. I know not quite how to describe him. The best description was perhaps that of his wife’s: He was like Odysseus, born for trouble. Indeed, I had thought I detected, upon hearing my dilemma, a lift in Mr. Adams’s spirits, a welcome engagement of his natural energies. They had idled far too long—a full nine hours!

But as we approached Cambridge, my thoughts grew darker. I had little faith that Adams could do anything from Braintree. But even if he could, even if this “web” of his managed to free John and Isaac, they would be hunted like animals. How long might they remain undetected in Braintree?

I suddenly recalled my dream of the night before: that mythical place across the ocean, bare, clean, and filled with light. All these months, when I dreamed of John’s escape, I had unconsciously dreamed of us living with Johnny in Braintree, among the friends whom I so dearly loved.

I saw that dream for what it was now, as I rode in the carriage on the way to my ancestral home. Braintree could not be our home. And, for all I had come to love the Cause, I knew that this war was not
our
war, nor would its victory be
our
victory. This could never be
our
America, mine and John’s. I looked out at the coast and the sea through eyes that saw the truth.

Three long hours later, having stopped not once, we finally arrived in Cambridge. The chestnut tree that stood upon our front lawn was in full flower. Bluish-lavender Rose of Sharon trees bloomed on either side of the door. A second bloom of bright-pink roses and dusty catmint made a fine display on either side of them.

At first, the house looked just the same as when
I’d
left it near one year earlier, after Papa’s funeral. But as I descended the carriage and walked up the path, I noticed that its once-pristine white paint was peeling, and the once-neat lawn had gone to seed. I looked toward the stables: they were empty, neither horses nor men within.

A hammering sound came from the vicinity of the orchards. There, just beyond the apple trees, I discovered the frame of a house going up. Mama must have sold off the back lot. The estate that had once seemed an infinite wilderness in our childish games of hide-and-seek was now quite finite.

Mama noticed the carriage and, by the time I came round to the front, was standing in the doorway. For a moment, she just stood there looking at me. I approached, but soon stopped at half a rod’s distance: How old sh
e’d
grown! There were thick streaks of gray in her hair. Her gown had biscuit crumbs all down the front. She looked wilted and decayed, like a plant eaten by disease from within.

“You’ve come,” she said. “I had no notion that you would.”

“I came immediately upon receiving your letter,” I said coolly.

“You are too thin,” she observed. “They have worked you to the bone.”

“Only such work as I wished to do,” I replied. Then I reproached myself. There was a purpose to my visit, and I would do well not to lose sight of it. “Well, it’s good to be home, anyway,” I said, entering the house and endeavoring to smile.

The coachman followed with my trunk. I looked about the foyer and then at the front parlor. Our few remaining pieces of furniture were gone. In my father’s study, silhouettes of dust remained on the parquet floor where the sofa and table had once stood. Only the books in the cabinets remained. I moved past Mama, after the coachman and my trunk. Passing her, I noticed a distinctly unpleasant odor: it was the rank, sour smell of unwashed clothing.

As I began to mount the stairs she said, “I am glad you are home, Eliza. Most glad. We shall have time enough to talk—you must be exhausted. Cassie!” she called.

Cassie soon appeared from the kitchen; seeing me, her eyes widened in shock. Her face seemed longer, sadder, and older, too. I ran and fairly flung myself into her waiting arms.

“Oh, Cassie!” I cried.

We held each other, and after a few moments Cassie pulled back and looked at me questioningly, though she did not dare to utter a word in my mother’s presence. Clearly, she knew not why I was there, without my child, nor why the coachman hoisted my trunk up the stairs. But she finally said, “I make you a dish of tea.” She moved toward the kitchen, but I stopped her with a touch upon her arm.

“Wait a moment. I have some things for you both . . .” I ran up the stairs to my trunk. Opening it, I found the boxes of tea, the sugar, and a bag of flour my friends had given me from Harry’s spoils of war.

“Your mama will be very happy to see all dis,” she said, but the items did not seem to cheer her.

“There’s more—I shall unpack it all later.”

Mama had mounted the stairs and stood watching us from the doorway. “But where did you get these goods?” she asked suspiciously.

“It’s a long story,” I said. “I’ll gladly tell it by and by.”

“Well, but such tea will be a delight, after all this time,” said Mama, putting aside her scruples. “Cassie, do make us some.” Cassie nodded, and I took the sack of sugar and moved off to the kitchen with her. Once I knew we were alone, I drew her to me and whispered, “Cassie, it’s most urgent that I speak with you. But not within these walls.”

“I go later to de market. Come wit’ me. I go around four. Dey sell cheaply at de end of de day. Sometimes dey even give away de food.”

“So it has come to that,” I remarked thoughtfully. Of course, we had been accepting handouts from the Adamses and Quincys for nearly a year. But I suffered to think that we fared far better than Mama and Cassie. “Very well. I shall accompany you.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mama and I were sitting out back in the kitchen garden—she had placed her one remaining tea table and a set of chairs out there, finding it more pleasant to enjoy the occasional breezes that came up from the river. At night, Cassie brought the table and chairs inside, in the event of rain. But it had hardly rained at all that month.

“Oh, isn’t this wonderful?” said my mother, closing her eyes and sipping her Bohea tea.

“Yes, we’ve been quite spoiled—in some ways. Lizzie’s brother, Harry, returned from sea one month ago. H
e’d
been gone many years. He brought us two sacks of British goods.”

“That was very lucky for you.”

“It was,” I agreed. “And so, how fare things here?” I endeavored to sound cheerful. “I see you sold a parcel of land.”

“Yes. It was—necessary. The owners built themselves a fair-sized house, though of course it will not have the gardens we do.”

“Have you met them?”

She shook her head. “But I hear from Papa’s lawyer that it is a colonel and his wife and two children. They are not likely to know our circle.”

“No, indeed,” I agreed, doubting whether anyone of Mama’s former “circle” remained in Cambridge. All had long since fled.

After tea, I went upstairs and rested in my own chamber. I lay upon the bed and stared at the ceiling and asked the Lord to give me strength for what would come. After a while, determined to resist my sinking spirits, I rose and sought out Cassie. I found her by the hearth, drenched in perspiration, making a cake with the flour
I’d
brought her.

“Cassie, you’re melting. Let us go to market.”

Cassie pulled the cake from the coals, wiped her brow with an elbow, lifted the pan with a rag, and set it upon a heart-shaped trivet. At the sight of Cassie continuing to do what she had always done, stuck in the iron grid of service and lost dreams, my heart suddenly lurched, and a decision took hold of me.

Cassie moved from the fire and took a moment to tidy herself. Then, emerging into the hallway, she called, “Miss Margaret! I go to market. Eliza come wit’ me.”

Mama was in the library, doing I knew not what. She replied, her voice too shrill, “See if they have a halibut. I fancy a halibut for my daughter’s return. And have we gooseberries for a sauce?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

At an earlier time, my mother would have thought it most rude to speak from such a distance. Cassie sighed, but not at Mama’s solecism. I looked at her, expecting her to say something, but she did not. Only when we had left the house and had gone half a block toward town did she stop and turn to me.

“Your Mama not too well, Eliza.”

“What do you mean?”

“In de ’ead.” She pointed to her own. I stopped walking and touched her elbow.

“Please explain yourself, Cassie.”

Cassie was reluctant to speak ill of her mistress, but at my insistence, she let out a sigh and began. “Some days, she confused. She tink it maybe de year 1770. Some days, she believe Jeb away and return soon.”

“That cannot be,” I frowned. “She seemed perfectly well to me, except”—here I broached the subject of my mother’s hygiene—“she
smells
.”

Cassie nodded gravely. “She won’ let me bathe her, Miss Eliza. It been many monfs . . . you stay a little longer, you see for yourself what she like.”

“Perhaps it is but a temporary state, a breakdown from which she’ll recover. She has been through a great deal, what with Papa’s death.”

Cassie merely shrugged, unconvinced.

“But Cassie, listen. I have information I must impart. Urgent information that shall cause you no little pain.”

From the corner of my eye I perceived a bench by the blacksmith’s shop, half a block away. I motioned for us to go sit there. I took Cassie’s hand—whether to steady her or myself I knew not.

We sat down. “Here’s what I know . . .” I began.

I told Cassie about my uncle’s death and the confiscation of his home. I recounted the news of Isaac’s discovery at the auction house, his return to his former master, and John’s sale to this same master as well. At my news, Cassie inhaled, bent over, and put her hands to her mouth.

“
But
,” I added quickly, “there are those who help us even as we speak, Cassie. People of great weight and connection.”

I had endeavored to impress her, but by Cassie’s demeanor I knew her to be wholly disbelieving. I then addressed the other urgent matter: “Do you know that Mama wrote to me with the intention of finding Johnny’s father?”

Cassie nodded. “I thought so. Oh, Miss Eliza! I don’t know what anyone can do. Your Mama, she’ll get Watkins for sure, now. She talk of nutteeng else for weeks and weeks. It keep her alive.”

“Yes, it seems so.” I sighed, “Though I can’t imagine why.”

“You can’t?” she looked at me.

“Not really. What good will it do her to punish Watkins?”

But Cassie shrugged, as if she felt I must discover this for myself.

“Cassie,” I continued, touching her shoulder so that she would look at me. “I have no intention of going to Portsmouth with Mama.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I merely stall for time. These people who help us, if perchance they do succeed—”

“Don’ ask me to hope for dat, Miss Eliza,” Cassie interrupted me. “Please don’t.”

“But if perchance they
do
,” I persisted. “Well, you must know we could not remain here.”

Cassie waited for me to say more.

“It’s a dangerous time to travel, but I have only one place I can think of to go. There will be terrible dangers, difficulties.”

I looked about me, but there was no one save a few children who raced past us, playing a game.

“Cassie, I have a question to put to you. An important one.”

“Yes, Miss Eliza?”

“My question is, Do you wish to come with us? You and Isaac? I know not what we shall find. I know not how we shall live, though John is a goodly shipwright—or was . . .” I trailed off uncertainly. “Isaac is skilled now as well. But your only certain possession shall be your freedom. That—and to live among friends. That’s all I know, and all I can offer.”

Cassie had closed her eyes and now seemed to be praying. I knew not to whom or what she prayed, nor did I ask. When she was finished, she stood and began to walk along the road toward the market, saying nothing. I trailed after her.

“Cassie? Cassie, dear. What is it? Please. Share your thoughts with me. Share your true feelings—for once.”

She turned to me. Her face was wet with tears. “I pray for dees every day since you were a little girl.
Every day
. Do it come true today? I ask myself. Every day.”

“Oh, Cassie,” I said. “Then we shall have each other. Surely that is no small thing.”

“No, Miss Eliza. ’Eet’s no small ting.”