Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (36 page)

51

WE ATE OUR SUPPER AT THE TABLE
in the kitchen garden. The air had cooled somewhat, though it was still quite hot. My mother ate little but spoke with animation about everything we would do together now that I was home. Certain of these activities seemed reasonable, such as her suggestion that we attend a concert in town. Perhaps the sale of the parcel of land had given her a little security. But then she said, smiling mysteriously, “And of course there shall be a Harvest Ball, and but—oh!—we must order you a gown from London at once.”

I sat back in silence. Cassie, coming out to clear our plates, met my eyes briefly. Her look was knowing, and I nodded dispiritedly.

Mama’s mood, on the other hand, had grown nearly jubilant: “Eliza, I can’t tell you my relief that you have returned from Portsmouth at last. My brother was very naughty to have kept you so long. I shall scold him soundly anon.” At these words, I smiled, excused myself, and ran into the kitchen, where I let out a moan.

“You see now,” said Cassie, appearing by my side in the kitchen.

“Yes, I see. Oh, God, Cassie. She has not mentioned Johnny—or Lizzie, or Braintree, or any of it. It’s as if none of that ever happened. She is far gone, and yet she wrote to me with such odd lucidity on the subject of Johnny’s father.”

Cassie nodded. “Dat truth ’ees a thorn in her side, Miss Eliza. She need to pull it out.”

“Dat truth” reached my sluggish brain at last: Were Mama to dispense with father and child, it might be as if no time had passed. Nothing would have changed. My virtue would be reestablished, and I could return to her barren bosom and life in Cambridge once more. O, hellish fate!

I moved out of doors and said resolutely, “Mama, let us order that dress as soon as may be. I am thinking perhaps a lilac color.”

“Lilac is quite beautiful, Eliza, and looks well on you. But it is hardly appropriate for winter. I don’t know—” she tapped her pointy chin with the fingers of one hand. “I’m betwixt and between—dark green might suit in the event of a winter soiree.”

“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Mama nodded with satisfaction. She sipped her tea and ate another bite of cake. I nattered on. I told Mama I was looking forward to the Harvest Ball, and to Christmas. Though it was August, and sweltering, I spoke fondly of a white Christmas.

“Do you remember when Jeb and I made snow angels? I was so happy then,” I blurted, then regretted it at once.

“I do,” she said guardedly, her eyes flitting toward and then away from me.

“I always thought those angels were real, but of course they weren’t. You had a beautiful family, Mama. I have many happy memories.”

She stared into the apple trees, her hands now clasped together. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?”

Mama seemed so contented to have me home that I allowed myself to think that perhaps she would forgo her mission in Portsmouth. But as if hearing my thoughts, she said, “You know, Eliza. I have had sufficient time since writing you to realize that, as the court will certainly want your testimony, you will need to come with me to Portsmouth. There is hardly a point in my making two trips when one will suffice.”

“Of course,” I said, hiding my disappointment. “When did you wish to go?”

“I had planned on leaving first thing tomorrow. But as you seem quite tired yet, perhaps we’ll head out on Friday. Would that suit?”

“Let us depart on Saturday. There are things I would yet do—in Cambridge. There was a particular bonnet I wished to buy . . .” My tongue felt suddenly heavy with lies, and I could not continue.

That night, sleeping in my old bed, I allowed myself to pretend that I was a child once more. I would wake to a cheerful houseful of noisy children. Maria would descend with her notebook, and Jeb would send a kite over the railing for me to chase. Or Maria and I might, after breakfast, play a game of chess in the library, watching the Vassals’ maid shake out the carpets. Waiting for Mr. Cardinal to appear. How pleasant the illusion was! I understood why Mama had chosen never to wake from it.

Early the next day, I descended and took my morning coffee alone. Mama rose late. She breakfasted and allowed Cassie to bathe her. The previous evening,
I’d
managed to convince her that it would be prudent to bathe before donning a new gown. She had assented, much to our relief.

After breakfast, Mama said she wished to help me unpack. But I told her that it was unnecessary, given that we would soon leave for Portsmouth. I would merely remove what items I needed for the next few days.

“How very sensible of you, Eliza.” She smiled.

I was so surprised by my mother’s approbation that she must have noticed, for she looked at me in a way she had not for many years. She took my hand. “I love you, Eliza, despite what you might think. I always have. Even more than the others. Perhaps that’s why I expected so much of you. Anyway, it was Mr. Boylston’s particular wish that I make that clear to you.”

I stared at her in stunned silence. She had surprised me in many ways, but this outburst of kindness was the deepest surprise of all. When I thought of a reply, a lifetime of unspoken words came crowding in on me. So did a great deal of hurt and anger. I replied simply, “I love you, too, Mama.”

Her shoulders felt so thin as I embraced her, the cage that held her heart so fragile. How strange, I thought, that she should begin to love me now, now that she wished to do me the greatest harm of all, and I planned to abandon her forever? O, when would this torture end?

Later that day, Cassie and I walked to market; the vendors erected makeshift tents to keep off the burning sun, but on windy days, such as it was on this day, the tents swayed and threatened to crash to the sides of the stalls. I looked about the town at the old vendors and shopkeepers I knew, many of whom remained, though their clientele was not what it once was: We all looked quite plain in our homespun gowns. The silk gowns and bonnets were all gone.

At home, Mama and I partook of our scant dinner at the garden table. Just as we began to eat, I put my fork down in unfeigned disgust.

“Mama. Cassie eats all alone in the kitchen, and, honestly, I don’t see the point. Why can she not eat out here with us? It is stiflingly hot within, and having her with us would be far more companionable.”

“Companionable? A slave?” Here, I thought she would launch upon one of her diatribes, but Mama cast me a flinty look and said, “Oh, yes, very well. But tell her to hurry up. I find I’m quite hungry. Cassie!”

Cassie came running to serve us, but Mama growled, “Hurry and pull up a chair. And bring your plate. You shall eat out here, with us. And
do
endeavor to add a bit of conversation to the meal, Cassie, for it won’t do to sit there like a stone.”

The look on Cassie’s face I shall never forget: it was as if she had just seen the parting of the Red Sea.

52

WE DRANK OUR TEA, BUT CASSIE WAS
too flummoxed to eat. She had never put a fork to her mouth before Mama, and she looked as if God might strike her dead were she to do so.

“Mama, shall we stay at Uncle Robert’s in Portsmouth?” I asked.

“Heavens, no,” she replied. “No, we stay at Stavers’s. I hope it shall be of short duration. But these days the courts are in such disarray, I should imagine we’ll remain there for several weeks.” Mama soon excused herself from the table. She rose, hesitated, then curtsied shallowly in Cassie’s direction. Cassie nearly fell off her chair, and I thought,
Given a hundred years, Mama might well become a decent sort of person.

The moment she was gone, I whispered, “Cassie, have we any writing paper about? And do you know a messenger? You must call upon him at once.”

“I go look, Mees Eliza.”

Hastily, we cleared the table, then set about finding paper. Cassie met me in the foyer after scouring Papa’s study—she handed me an old note from his attorney in Barbados, affirming the sale of several slaves, dated three years earlier. Using his old pen and ink, I crossed the note out with distaste and used the back of the paper:

Dearest Lizzie.

I find myself in direst circumstances. Mama brings us to Portsmouth on Saturday. It was the best I could do, given her wish to leave immediately. But as she has no carriage, we are obliged to go to town for the Flying Stage Coach. We leave Boston at ten
o’c
lock. I know not when we expect to arrive in Portsmouth—Sunday afternoon, perhaps. Give my love to those who feel its absence.

Yours, Eliza

I was repacking my clothing upstairs when Cassie returned half an hour later with a sad-looking Negro boy of about thirteen, accompanied by a bony old horse. I saw them out the window and cringed lest Mama should see them as well.

Cassie appeared before me and I gave her the letter. Quickly, she moved to give the letter to the boy, who untied the horse and took off in the direction of the bridge. Ten minutes later, Mama descended the stairs and regarded me with a level gaze:

“Who was that?”

I shivered. My mouth was growing accustomed to it, but my body was unused to lying. “Oh, I sent word to Lizzie that we would be out of town some weeks. In case she needed to reach me.”

“Why would she need to reach you?” Mama asked warily. How pointed, how shrewd, she could be on the topic of my life, if not her own!

I shrugged. “Mr. Miller suffered a grievous wound in a skirmish, and I should like to know if he takes a turn for the worse. He has been a loyal friend.” This explanation seemed to satisfy her, though she did say, “Well,
I
should like to know, in future, if you plan to send messages.”

I felt the old-familiar rope tightening about my neck. This time, however, it had a salutary effect: it distilled me of remorse for what I was about to do. No remorse for the remorseless. That was the Rebel credo, was it not?

I slept very ill Wednesday night; fear was my steadfast companion. Thursday and Friday passed with excruciating slowness. I knew not when, or if, someone might endeavor to find me. I sat in the front parlor pretending to read, listening for horses’ hooves.

Mama kept asking, “Why do you not go into the library? Would it not be far more comfortable? There is a breeze from the open door.”

“Nay, I am content,” I replied, though I was sitting upon a garden stool.

“Very well, suit yourself.”

Saturday morning came with still no word from anyone. I thought of Harry’s ship, the
Cantabrigian
, readying itself to set sail from Hogshead Point that Monday. Would we be passengers upon it?

I rose but could not settle and paced about restlessly. Cassie emerged from the kitchen with an old leather case, wearing her wool cape. She looked absurd, and already perspired beneath it. However, it would be just the thing for a sea crossing. Mama did not notice it, being occupied with all our last-minute chores.

“Have you means to pay for the coach?” I asked her.

“Why do you inquire about such matters?” she replied. “Of course I do.”

“Never mind. I simply thought it prudent to ask.”

I stepped outside, onto the stone landing. I looked up at the ancient trees that had made it through the arboreal massacre of ’76. I looked back at the house and through the open doorway at the foyer, now empty. At one time it had contained a beautiful carved mahogany table and a splendid china vase of flowers. I saw the staircase, once the envy of all Cambridge. How long ago that life seemed!

I heard horses’ hooves and whipped round, but it was only the coach that Mama had hired to take us to town. There could be no delay now, no further means of stalling.

For a brief moment, I thought of pretending some kind of fit. No, I was far too poor an actor. It was all I could do to lie with words.

Cassie and I walked down the path toward the waiting coach. I shut my eyes for a moment and imagined: Where were they now? Where were John and Isaac? Had anyone reached them? Had John done something foolish? Perhaps our friends arrived too late for rescue. Surely John would not leave Isaac . . . no, no. He would be more likely to attempt an escape for the both of them . . .

It had been too long since I had nursed Johnny, and my milk came in, seeping through my bodice. Mama was fussing in the hallway when all at once she caught sight of the waiting carriage out front. “Eliza! Why did you not tell me that the carriage awaited?”

“It only just arrived, Mama.”

“Well, then, let us be off.”

She moved out of doors, then suddenly spread her hands up above her head. “Goodness! What is the matter with me! I have left my hatbox upstairs! I’ll be but a moment. Coachman!” she called. “Take our trunks at once!”

When Mama had gone, I turned to Cassie. There was something I wished to say to her about our journey. Just then, a tall man who had been moving haltingly in the distance approached our coachman, but I was bent toward Cassie and so did not see his face. I then felt a sudden tap upon my shoulder and nearly jumped a foot in the air.

I looked up. Beside me stood Mr. Miller. Down the street, before the Vassals’ house, a small carriage waited, along with two hot and dusty-looking horses. Mr. Miller bent down to whisper in my ear. He said but three words:

“We have them.”

53

“CASSIE, DID YOU HEAR? DID YOU HEAR?”

Cassie was by my side; she heard. We gripped each other, laughing in disbelief, and moved with Mr. Miller toward the waiting carriage. I turned back and looked at my house. Mama was within, retrieving her hatbox. I had planned to leave her, to flee without so much as looking back. But I had looked back. Now she was at the door.

Had I felt no remorse, I should have been forgiven by all who knew my story. But as I stood there beside Mr. Miller, carriages waiting, questions waiting, I
did
feel something, regardless of whether I wished to or no.

Mama had done little to earn my love or loyalty, and yet, standing at this crossroads, I discovered to my surprise that she had them. It would have been simpler had things been otherwise: Life without her in it was indeed a consummation devoutly to be wished. Yet what kind of monster would I be to abandon her, alone and unwell, without so much as a servant to tend her? It would spell her slow but certain death.

“A moment,” I said to Mr. Miller. I turned back to the house. Mama had just shut the front door and hurried down the path with her hatbox.

“I can’t believe I nearly forgot this,” she said. “But I suppose you may as well know—I’ve become a little forgetful of late, Eliza. Muddling things up.” Here, she placed a hand to her head. I was about to say something but she continued more cheerfully, “But, oh, well, perhaps it shall pass.”

“Mama.” I stood there, making no attempt to move.

“What is it, pray? The carriage awaits.”

“I have something to ask you, and I must do so now.”

“Whatever nonsense is this, Eliza? We shall miss the coach in Boston.”

“It was never my intention to board that coach, Mama. You see, I meant to leave you. Meant to, intended to. Cassie and I, we leave for Braintree this very moment. The question is, Shall you come with us or not?”

“Come with you? Whyever should I wish to do that? And what do you do with my Cassie? We go to Portsmouth,” she insisted. “You yourself agreed.”

“No.” I smiled sadly. “I lied. All this business about helping you to bring my ravisher to justice—it was a means of stalling you while we endeavored to procure his freedom. And, oh, Mama—we have succeeded! But even had we failed, you must know that I love the father of my child. The father is John Watkins, and we shall be joining him immediately, in Braintree.”

“John Watkins?” Mama murmured to herself. She looked about her, as if no longer sure where she was. “That cannot be. Watkins is a slave. Your uncle Robert’s slave.”

“It
can
be, Mama, and it is. Your brother is dead. He sold John to another, from whence he was rescued by loving friends—thank Heaven. Before you tell me that I shall be an outcast, know that I have come to care little for our so-called society. My sustaining joy is the thought of my family, growing and prospering. I wish to hear the playful cries of children, as you once did. I long to see my husband’s face each morning when I wake. I have a boy, Mama. He is very fine, bright and good-natured . . .”

I broke off and reached for her, but she took a step backward in horror.

“Mama,” I begged, weeping now. “I know I have disappointed you. I never thought of myself as a particularly good person, but neither am I wholly bad. My heart has traveled great distances, to places where you said it could not go. Now I find that it has traveled back to you. Of this one gift am I proud. You should take it.”

Mr. Miller approached. “I dislike intruding, Eliza,” he whispered. “But we must depart at once. Do you wish to stay and join us later? It might be arranged.”

“No, indeed,” I said, drying my eyes. Cassie took my arm. The three of us headed toward the small carriage.

Mama faced the other, muttering, “Well, but I shall send someone for Cassie by and by.”

“You won’t find her, Mama. You must choose, and choose now. Time has run out. You have not the luxury of your fond delusions any longer. Shall you remain here, with your illusory comfort, or shall you come with us?”

Mr. Miller’s carriage had been backing up slowly and now stood expectantly before us. The coachman came round and helped me up, then helped Cassie. It would be a tight fit, and I knew not where we might put all the trunks, which were still in the hired carriage.

Mama looked up at me, a sudden panic of understanding in her eyes. It was almost as if she had not known what was happening until this moment.

“But Eliza—where do you go?” she asked.

“Back to the cottage. And thence—God willing—to Barbados.” I grasped Mr. Miller’s hand as he mounted the carriage. “Come, Mr. Miller.”

Mama turned away from us. She paused, turned back around, and looked at the hired coach waiting to take her to Portsmouth. She glanced back at the house, up to our chambers above, and down to the roses and catmint and the Rose of Sharon trees that bloomed so luxuriantly.

Her moment of indecision lasted a long time. But at last she mounted the hired carriage bound for Portsmouth. She set her hatbox by her side and looked directly ahead, not at us.

Involuntarily, I cried out, “Oh, Mama!” Cassie took my hand and pressed it in hers.

Then, to her coachman, Mama called in her high, imperious voice: “To Braintree. The Quincys! And be quick about it!”