Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) (37 page)

54

HE WAS PLAYING PEEKABOO WITH JOHNNY IN
the kitchen garden when we arrived. His handsome face darted in and out of the shadows of the mint that grew in wild profusion and scented the air. Every time Johnny saw his father’s face emerge, he gurgled a high, phlegmy giggle.

I espied Isaac behind the cottage, shooting crab apples off the fence with a slingshot. He had grown a head taller since last
I’d
seen him. When he heard our two carriages arrive, he stopped and gaped.

“Isaac!” I cried. He came running and I hugged him tight. Then Cassie grabbed hold of him and wouldn’t let go.

Then John saw me. He stopped playing, picked Johnny up with his one strong arm, and approached as if I might disappear. I looked at him: my free man—or nearly so—in Braintree, among my dear friends. How beautiful he was, and how right it seemed for him to be here. So perfectly right.

Mr. Miller helped Mama down from her carriage and set to removing our trunks. He then paid the coachman, and off he went.

I recalled our brief conversation on the journey from Cambridge. Cassie and I had said nothing for the first half hour, merely clasped each other in shock and amazement. At last, round about Boston Neck, I asked Mr. Miller if Isaac and John were truly well, truly in Braintree.

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Miller assured us. “They are both quite well, and no doubt enjoy the company of the Adamses as we speak.”

“But I have so many questions. Mr. Richards? What about him? Oh, I’m so fearful he follows upon our heels and that John shall be caught.”

“Eliza,” Mr. Miller forestalled me gently. “Mr. Richards and his wife are gone.”

“Gone?”

“Fled the country. They got word that they were about to be arrested. It seems that Mr. Richards didn’t sign the Association Test.”

“Ah,” I said. “Well, thank God for that.”

Now Mama stood there, in Lizzie’s kitchen garden, looking utterly lost, just as Lizzie herself emerged from the cottage. Seeing my mother, Lizzie’s eyes darted in my direction, her pupils huge, uneasy question marks. But then she approached my mother with great good cheer and curtsying, said, “Welcome, Mrs. Boylston. It has been too long! I’m sure you’re tired from the journey. Would you care for some tea, or cider?”

“I am parched,” said Mama. “The road was very dusty. I should like some tea, if you are making it.”

“Of course.”

Lizzie curtsied once more and came at last to hug me. Her face next to mine she whispered, “Thank God you’re back. We were so worried; you have no idea. But you must be falling over.”

“Oh, I’m all right.”

Lizzie ruffled Johnny’s hair. “He was such a good boy while you were gone!”

“Your Thomas has been very good to us,” I replied, “and he not yet entirely healed.”

“Well, you may praise him all day if you like, for he stops awhile. Martha has cooked something very special. But—your mother?” her eyes widened. “That is a surprise.”

“There will be time to talk, I hope,” I said. I smiled at her, then handed Johnny to Lizzie. I glanced back at John, willing him to follow me as I hurried into the house and up the stairs.

“Excuse me,” he said to the general crowd. I had not introduced John to Mama, nor had he greeted her. That would be too much to expect from either of them. She had been polite to Lizzie, and would hopefully be cordial to the rest: that was all I prayed for.

John followed me. I had lain down on Lizzie’s bed, and he lay down next to me. I shut my eyes and held him, endeavoring to cover the surface of his body—arms, legs, torso, ankles, feet—with my own, leaving no place unjoined. We lay like that, just feeling each other. Just breathing in and out.

Finally, John spoke. “I have been here but a few hours,” he said, “and yet I can see why you would find it hard to leave. These women are—extraordinary.”

“Indeed. But, John, what
you
must have been through,” I replied. “I have as yet asked no questions. You must tell me every detail, when I have rested.”

“Of course. There’ll be time, my love. But I myself did almost nothing. I had but to use my legs to run and follow Colonel Langdon to the ship. Indeed, I was too weak, too low, to do more. I shall never share the depths of my resignation with you—” Here, John broke off. I said nothing, only waited for him to continue. “But never mind that. I’ll say instead that the coordination of the plan was like nothing I’ve ever known. Not even the smuggling of Langdon’s arms.”

“Mr. Miller tells me the Richardses are gone—fled the country.”

“Yes. I believe both Adams and Langdon had their hands in that, though neither will admit it. They are both quite closed-lipped in that regard.”

“You have that in common with them, then,” I replied.

John smirked, as if it were absurd to compare him to them. He changed the subject. “Your mother is here.”

“She is.”

“I had not expected—”

“I know.” My eyes closed; suddenly I was overcome with exhaustion. The room had begun to spin about me, and I felt faint. “I can’t speak more just now. Forgive me. It is all too much.”

“There will be hours and years for us to speak, Eliza. Sleep now. That’s it.”

The room was dark, and my love’s arms were around me. He did not move. In his arms, I felt at peace at last, and fell asleep. When I woke, he was gone, and I sat straight up, panicked at the thought that perhaps I had been dreaming.

I hastily descended to find Mr. Miller sitting behind little Johnny on the floor. Mr. Miller’s long legs were splayed as he beat a pot with wooden sticks and sang a silly song. Johnny was laughing wildly.

John sat on the parlor bed and watched Mr. Miller and our babe. He seemed content to watch them, and when I sat down beside him he took my hand. Mama and the women were elsewhere, perhaps in the kitchen. That was good. Two worlds lived in Lizzie’s cottage now, and I knew not how I would make them one, so I didn’t try. Instead, I thought:
They will have to make themselves one, somehow.

John was very quiet, watching his son and Mr. Miller play. I asked him, “What is it you’re thinking?”

“Selfish thoughts, I’m afraid.” He smiled at me, but those aqua eyes were liquid and near tears. “I missed a year of my son’s life.”

“He shan’t remember it.”

“Yes, but I shall.”

The ruckus of banging pots and off-key singing had grown so loud that no one had heard the persistent knocking at the door. Suddenly the little baffled face of Mrs. John Adams appeared, followed by the bewigged and powdered head of Mr. John Adams himself.

“Hallo!” Abigail called. “Are we to let ourselves in, then?” In her hands she held a pie.

“Oh, sorry!” Lizzie motioned for Martha’s brother to cease his banging. Martha came barreling out of the kitchen at the same moment and nearly collided with Mr. Adams.

“Pardon!” she said and then burst into embarrassed laughter, as did Mr. Adams. He pat at his limbs to see that all four remained in his possession.

Just then, Mama, regal and pathetic in her frayed silk gown and erect bearing, emerged from the kitchen. I had no choice but to introduce her to the Adamses, which I then did.

“Mama, allow me to introduce Mr. John Adams and his wife, Abigail. You have heard much about our esteemed citizens, I’m sure.”

“Indeed,” said Mama. Thankfully, she curtsied.

“Well, well. Welcome to our humble parish, Mrs. Boylston,” said Mr. Adams cheerfully. “Did you have a good trip?”

“Not very,” grumbled Mama. “The roads were dusty.”

My heart clutched; I knew not how Mama would behave, nor how she would be received.
Two worlds,
I thought,
and I alone cannot make them one.

Suddenly Mr. Adams let out a hearty laugh. “An honest woman. And annoyed, too. Well, why shouldn’t she be? It is hot, the roads are dusty, and for her troubles she finds herself surrounded by the likes of us!”

Mr. Adams thought this was vastly amusing, but Abigail nudged him.

“Hush, John,” she said.

Lizzie went to fetch tea, and Mr. Miller at long last broke off his singing to help carry the garden stools into the kitchen garden.

Martha had made us a fricassee of chicken with our own peppers and a salad of beans. Mr. Adams carried the table from the kitchen into the garden, refusing to let Mr. Miller help him, as Mr. Miller’s wounds were not yet healed. He had trouble once he got to the front door, however, and Abigail grabbed one end of the table in exasperation. It was a comic sight, watching the two of them argue about how best to get the table through the door. At last, they succeeded, much to our relief.

The Quincys soon arrived, bringing wine. Once more, I made introductions, and once more, Mama, though dour, was civil enough. She seemed to realize that she was outnumbered.

But I soon nearly forgot Mama, her feelings, her thoughts, or even her behavior. Abigail pointed to a pie she had set upon the table, and I laughed with joy at the sight of it.

“What have you made for us, Abigail?”

“An apple pie. Some of yours were already ripe—I took the liberty of purloining them for the occasion. It
is
an occasion, is it not?”

“Oh, Abigail, it is!”

We had not enough chairs for all of us, but it mattered not. Throughout the evening, Abigail and John argued over one chair, pushing each other off of it at unexpected moments; they seemed to enjoy this fight for chair mastery, and it was hard to tell who had won until, finally, at the dessert course, we heard a thud, and Mr. Adams disappeared momentarily. We rose in wonder, to find him splayed out on the ground. Abigail exclaimed triumphantly, “There—at last! The chair is mine!”

“It seems you’ve managed to do what no one else has yet accomplished, Abigail,” said Martha.

“What is that?”

“Unseat the great John Adams.”

At this, we all laughed.

That night, Mr. Adams told memorable stories: of France and Paris, Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson. But he also listened with great interest to my John, who spoke about the
Ranger
, the
Raleigh
, and the
America
. I burst with pride at John’s modesty, his simple eloquence, and his ease among these illustrious citizens.
He was born to mingle among such company,
I thought. At one point, he even glanced Mama’s way, though she studiously avoided meeting his eyes.

Cassie observed us all in silence. But her head pivoted this way and that, as if she were watching a game of catch.

Isaac chimed in with his own panegyric upon John Watkins: “Watkins taught me everything! The men of Portsmouth loved him!”

But as my John spoke, Mr. Adams grew increasingly thoughtful. Finally, he said, “I’m most aware of the sad irony, Mr. Watkins, that while you built the ships that are to win us freedom, you were not free to enjoy that which the rest of us fight and die for. It is a fact of our times for which I am heartily ashamed.”

“You need your own country,” Lizzie suddenly blurted to us, then glanced at Mr. Adams to see if she had given offense.

I smiled at my John. “Imagine that,” I said. “Our own country.”

“It is hard to imagine. Perhaps I shall be able to dream of it while I sleep.” He returned a gentle smile.

Mr. Adams gazed at Isaac, and at Johnny, who sat on Martha’s lap. He said, “True equality, I fear, shall fall to the next generation to accomplish.”

“Speaking of accomplishments,” I finally managed to bring up the subject I had wished to address for some time, “I feel the need to thank you, Mr. Adams. I have no idea how the miracle happened. I should dearly like to know.”

Mr. Adams pursed his lips. He glanced at Mama, quickly calculating whether she would be a risk, then let out a sigh. “Braintree was in dire need of grain, as you know all too well. Portsmouth, as it turned out, had a . . . a great deal of grain, housed on board a French brig. I was able to wrest from Congress approval to have Colonel Langdon send the grain immediately to us, upon his new ship the
Hampton
. I dare say no more.”

Mr. Adams, meanwhile, looked about the table and then raised his wineglass. “To Colonel Langdon.”

“To Colonel Langdon!” we all cried.

We made many other toasts as well—to His Excellency, to Mr. Adams, and to the barrels of grain that, I suspected, would leave many a loaf tasting of gunmetal.