The Midwife's Revolt (18 page)

Remain, etc. etc.?!

I rose from my seat in the kitchen. “I must leave as soon as possible.”

“What’s that you say?” Bessie asked. I believe she had grown mildly deaf, for I found myself often shouting at her.

“I must go. There is illness in the parish. I’m greatly afraid for Martha.”

“There is no one to take you now, ma’am,” she said, confused.

I resolved to send a message to the Boylstons, for I had clothing and linen I would take to Braintree. But just as I was about to send word to the Boylstons requesting their help, Mr. Miller pulled up in his chaise. It was a sunny morning with a perfect blue sky over the Charles. People strolled or rode down Brattle Street just as if there were no war, as if rumors did not whisper of the imminent destruction of Boston.

Mr. Miller alit from his chaise with a bright step. He bounded up toward me.

“I have resolved it!” he said by way of greeting. “We must extract you from this tomb. I have a burning desire to take you to the public garden for a walk. The cherry trees are simply—”

But when he saw my face, all comedy ceased. He reached for me and, quite unconsciously, placed his hand gently on my arm. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“The distemper. It’s in my parish. I’ve had a letter from Martha and—foolish girl!—she has been among the sick, as heedless as you please. Mr. Sharp is perfectly clear on the matter of visiting those sick with distemper.”

“Who is that you speak of?”

I had been referring to one of my most useful medical texts, Samuel Sharp’s
Surgery
. I could not expect anyone else to know of it. I said, “Never mind. I must go at once. I await only a word from the Boylstons as to whether they can lend me a chaise.”

“Hang the Boylstons,” said Mr. Miller. “I’ll take you home. Is not my chaise as good as the Boylstons’?”

“Indeed, it seems excellent. But there is the matter of my horse,” I replied.

“Hm. Well, he shall have to trot alongside, for I have not a double harness.”

“That shall do very well. I thank you,” I said, grateful that he should have come at such an auspicious time, sorry only that now I would miss Steadman by a mere day or two and would not be able to interrogate him. I had, however, prepared a letter for my brother, which I had written in haste the night before and thankfully now remembered to give to Bessie.

Giles made his appearance with the trunk I had packed. He looked at Mr. Miller’s chaise and at me and rolled his eyes. Apparently he was excellent at geometry as well as chemistry, for he had quickly determined that either a trunk or I might go with Mr. Miller, but not both.

“What shall I do with this, ma’am?”

“See if the Boylstons will allow their carriage to be used for the delivery of my things. It needn’t be today. And Bessie—” I turned to her, for suddenly I felt sorry to leave her alone. She had been my companion these past weeks, and I hers. But I was going toward friends, and she would be left with no one.

“Bessie,” I repeated. “You’ll not forget to give Mr. Steadman my letter?”

“I won’t, ma’am.”

“Good.”

She curtsied and then, seeing that I was soon to depart, came toward me and threw her heavy arms about my neck. Giles brought my beloved Star and attached him by means of a rope to the side of the chaise. Star kept butting his head upon my hand, as if asking why it was he was not being put to better use.

“Oh, Star, we’re heading home. You shall get a carrot for your patience,” I told him, rubbing his forehead, which he liked.

Once we had taken off down Brattle Street, I was silent, and soon became lost in thought. Mr. Miller sat calmly by my side, looking out at the day, also quiet. I was thinking at that moment about the letter I had written to my brother. I used to write him with such feeling, such love and longing, as would make my bodice wet with tears. But last night I had resolved to write in as mechanical a fashion as possible to save myself that grief. Yet, try as I might, I did not succeed at my task of remaining unmoved.

Suddenly, Mr. Miller turned slightly, but as we were quite close it was enough for me to startle at the sight of his amber eyes. He turned forward quickly and said, “You’re smiling. I’m glad you’ve thought of something to smile about at last.”

“Oh, I was merely thinking how immutable are certain impressions and feelings. When one remembers the dead—really remembers, in every detail of voice and manner—they seem so fully alive. Have you not found that so?”

He frowned. “I don’t know. I try not to think of the past.”

“Not to think of the past? Is that possible?” Though but twenty-
three, I felt that a great deal of my life was already behind me.

“I said I tried, not that I always succeeded.”

“But if you forget,” I said heatedly, “then they are
truly
gone.”

Mr. Miller’s face clouded over, but he said nothing.

“Forgive me, Mr. Miller,” I said. “It is my own anxiety for your sister that makes me heedless of the feelings of others.”

“It matters not.” He shrugged in a way that made me feel even worse. “You meant no harm. I did love my parents, you know.”

“I’m very sorry,” I repeated, and indeed I had a lump in my throat for Mr. Miller.

“Really, you needn’t be. It matters not.”

“But it
does
, if it gives you pain,” I insisted.

We were past Roxbury now, and I heard the gulls overhead and saw boats drifting up and down the coast. The scene was so charming, so calm, it served almost to mock us.

“Look you how beautiful the sea is today,” he remarked.

“Yes.”

And then, apparently, we neither of us dared say another word and were silent all the way to Braintree.

23

WHAT TRANSPIRED THE moment I set foot
in my parish prevented me from taking further notice of Thomas Miller, who in any case became swept up in the arms and attention of his agitated sister.

The farm was far worse than Abigail had indicated. The earth was parched, and a dozen hale men would not have sufficed to carry the necessary water from the well. With labor now at twelve pounds a month, our case was hopeless. How we would survive the winter without our crops I knew not.

Martha and her brother went off together. I saw them down the road a piece. They were taking a walk, and I could see only Martha’s back, which shook as if in mirth or grief. But I knew it could not have been mirth. About what did my dear Martha have to grieve? Mr. Miller flung an arm protectively about her shoulders.

I was not home fifteen minutes before I received an urgent message from Thornton, a servant of the Cranches, that Dr. Flynt had taken a turn for the worse and could I come immediately. He had run down through the dunes and was covered in sweat.

“Thaxter!” I called. “Saddle Star at once.”

He hesitated, unused to taking my orders. I felt that I had grown older during my Cambridge stay and now clearly saw that Thaxter considered himself his own master. He had treated me without proper respect since Jeb’s death, and I had let him. I resolved to be his master from that day forth.

I was soon trotting past Martha and her brother, who looked up at me as if from a very great distance.

“My carriage—” Mr. Miller offered, reaching out to stop me.

“Not necessary!” I called, then left them behind.

I arrived at the Cranches’ farm drenched in perspiration. Mary came to the door, embraced me, and pointed upstairs.

“He’s in the second chamber on the right.”

I ascended and soon saw for myself that Dr. Flynt was quite dead. He lay on his back, his belly making a hill of the bolster, his powdered wig protruding up off his bald pate on one side, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. A teacup lay spilled on the floor, miraculously unbroken. A young servant, weeping in a chair in the corner of the room, told me the gentleman had died not half an hour earlier.

“Thank God you are come,” said Mary. She embraced me tightly.

“Please go, Mary,” I told her, nearly pushing her out of the room.

“But I have had the distemper,” she said.

“I’ve not yet ascertained what ailment he suffered from.”

She deferred and left me. Richard Cranch soon made his appearance, but I asked the same of him: to allow me to examine the deceased.

“Perhaps you might locate his family,” I said, as he seemed quite eager to be of some use.

“I have set Mr. Cleverly to the task. He says he knows the whereabouts of a sister in Philadelphia, though the parents are dead.”

“Philadelphia? He must be buried before her arrival, then,” I said, referring as delicately as I could to our scorching heat.

“Of course. I shall call upon the parson.”

“Yes,” I said, adding, “though it is my recommendation you remain vague as to his illness. We mustn’t alarm the entire parish.”

Richard thought this very wise. Once he had left, I invited the maid to bring me towels, warm water, and a slab of soap. When she had done as I asked, I shut the door and carefully undressed Dr. Flynt.

It took only moments to notice two remarkable things about the deceased: the first being that he had
not
had the distemper, though I noticed upon his face and torso old marks from a childhood case. The eruption that had been reported by Martha must have been a mistake. Perhaps she had confused his old lesions for new ones. The second thing I noticed were his eyes: they were wide open and ablaze in his round, soft face, and the pupils were unnaturally dilated. I closed his eyes gently, greatly puzzled, and finished my task of washing and dressing the body.

When I had finished and had washed myself and just emerged from his chamber, quite drenched with perspiration, I nearly ran into Mr. Cleverly. He seemed to have been pacing the hallway with some agitation—altogether natural, given that there had been a death in the very house where he was staying. The question crossed my mind as to why Mr. Cleverly tarried here in Braintree, but good manners forbade my asking. I would inquire of Richard by and by and get the answers I sought.

“Mrs. Boylston,” he said, frowning. “A grievous business to come home to.”

He took a step toward me. I blushed suddenly at the notion of my miserable appearance—and smell.

“Indeed it is. Have you found the sister?” I asked, backing away with mincing steps.

“I’ve sent word to her, yes.”

“Is there no other family?”

“Not that he mentioned. He was not married, at least.”

I nodded, understanding his meaning. At least there would be no wife to notify of the tragedy.

Cleverly seemed heedless of my disheveled state or the possible contagion upon me, for he leaned in so close his lips nearly touched my ear. “Did he
. . .
did he
suffer
very much?” he whispered.

“In truth, I don’t know. I must speak with those who were with him. Had he a doctor?”

“I don’t believe so. It was thought he had the distemper, since little Billy does, but he took a sudden turn this morning.”

“Was he alone?” I inquired.

“That servant-girl was with him, I believe. He was at the colonel’s on Sunday and looked quite well then. He had a good appetite and spoke cheerfully of his time in Philadelphia.”

Cleverly bade me good-bye and retreated down the hall to his room. I would need to interview the servants and speak to Martha when I returned home. But first I needed some refreshment, as I was feeling quite overcome by my journey and now this hasty, tragic call.

“You look positively ill,” said Mary, coming up before me on the stairs and taking my arm.

“No, I’m well. Just tired and weak. I haven’t yet eaten today.”

“Haven’t yet eaten? It is after four in the afternoon!” Indeed, the timepiece on the parlor mantel downstairs, made by Mr. Cranch himself, confirmed it. Mary sat me down and had her maid bring me a plate of cheese and ham with butter and a fresh slice of rye bread. I ate and soon felt well enough to speak.

She sat across from me, and Richard, returned from Parson Wibird’s, soon joined us. Both waited quietly for me to finish my meal. I espied Mr. Cleverly pacing in the hall. He popped his fair head in now and again, but as no one invited him to join us, he soon disappeared. I felt for him. His friend lost, his lodgings violated by sickness both known and unknown. How dreadful!

When I had finished my meal and was gratefully sipping the last of my dish of tea, Richard said, “We are grieved to impose upon you like this, Lizzie, and you not an hour returned from town, but we had no one else to turn to.”

“I’ve prepared him for burial,” I said matter-of-factly, hiding my fatigue as best I could. “And the sister has been sent for. Have you spoken with the parson?”

Richard replied that he had.

“Then it is all we can do. The rest is up to our Maker.”

They bowed their heads at my mention of the Lord, in whose hands the soul of foolish Dr. Flynt now rested.

Finally Mary raised her head and whispered, “But it wasn’t the distemper, as we thought?”

I shook my head. “I do not believe so. Dr. Flynt apparently had the pox as a child. And his eyes—”

“What of his eyes?” asked Richard with alarm. I was about to tell them about Dr. Flynt’s dilated eyes, but at the last moment thought better of it.

“It is nothing. I misspoke; forgive me.”

Mary had begun to tremble, and I took her hand consolingly. “I do not believe his illness to have been of an infectious nature. That is the good news. You and your guests have nothing to fear. For it was certainly not the yellow fever or the throat distemper.”

My gentle friend’s relief was palpable. Of course, she was thinking of her children, especially little Billy, who, though mending, was confined to his bed.

Mary said, “Do not take this amiss, Lizzie, but it would relieve me were you not to visit Billy today. I checked upon him myself half an hour ago, and he’s well. He is bored and asking for a deck of cards.”

I smiled. “Boredom is an excellent sign in a patient.”

She returned my smile weakly.

“I won’t visit him today, then. But by all means take him his cards, for if you do not, he may decide to fetch them himself.”

“Oh, you are right!” Mary stood up, excused herself, and went to fetch a deck for her convalescing son.

I understood Mary’s concern, though convinced within myself that whatever Dr. Flynt had died of was no common malady.

Richard stood as well. “Thank you, Lizzie,” he said, taking my hand. “I can only hope we shall see better days than this. Days of good conversation.” He smiled, though behind his eyes I saw a great deal of concern.

I soon took my leave of the Cranches, there being nothing I could do either for them or for Dr. Flynt. By the time I returned home that day, aching and exhausted, Mr. Miller and his chaise were gone.

Martha was in the kitchen mending a petticoat. “My brother was sorry not to have the opportunity to say good-bye to you.”

“I had a great deal to do. The Cranches, as you can imagine, are in a state of upheaval. I did my best to quell rumors of a plague.”

I stared at Martha, who sat quietly, then said, “It was not the distemper, Martha.”

She stopped her sewing. “It was not? What else could it have been?”

“He had no eruptions upon him. I looked at him
cap
-
à
-
pie.
Only old marks.”

I waited for her to say something.

“I knew him to be feverish and assumed he had the same as Billy,” she said thoughtfully.

“I saw no sign of fever,” I said. I then added, “One must never assume.”

“But I left him cleverly last night,” she insisted.

“Dr. Tufts was not called, then?”

“No, indeed! He is much occupied in Weymouth at the moment.”

“Well, do not blame yourself.” I recalled that serious illness was beyond my fledgling assistant’s realm of expertise. It was my fault for being in town instead of at home, helping her. Sometimes a patient may look quite recovered but then take a sudden turn with no warning. It was natural enough for Martha to assume the distemper, but I thought it a sufficient lesson for the day to remind her never to assume.

Always look for evidence—this was another truism my mother had taught me.

“It has been a long day, and I am tired.”

“I will tidy up,” Martha offered. She set her knitting down and her voice quavered, on the verge of tears, as she asked, “You are not angry with me?”

I put my arms around her. “Of course not.”

“I couldn’t bear it if you were angry with me.”

“No, no. Just puzzled and, as I said, quite exhausted. You are an apprentice yet, Martha, and I would do you a great wrong to expect more skill than I myself possess. In truth, I doubt whether even I could have done anything for the poor man.”

“Poor man,” she repeated thoughtfully.

“You think him not?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “But I had opportunity to know him these few weeks. And he was—”

“Was what, Martha?”

“He was no doctor; that much I can tell you.”

“How came you to learn that?” I asked, surprised.

“I questioned him. He knew nothing whatsoever of the medical arts.”

“That is most strange. Why might a man pretend to be a doctor when he wasn’t?”

“I don’t know.”

It seemed a welcome moment to change the subject, and so I said, “It was kind of your brother to take me home. Did you have a good visit?”

“Oh, yes, he’s so kind,” she said, smiling at the memory of her brother.

“Well, let us both to bed, Martha—washing up can wait. We’ve had a terrible blow. I see now that you’ve been overrun, though you wished to spare me the truth of it. Apparently neither Thaxter nor Gaius have been of much use.”

“No,” she admitted. “Though Gaius did mend the fence in the north pasture, where the sheep were forever getting into the colonel’s fields.”

“Fixed a fence,” I harrumphed. “I could have done as much in ten days’ time. Alas, I cannot possibly afford another laborer. Well, we have a great deal to do tomorrow. Let us leave that worry for another day.”

“Come. You’re exhausted. I’ll rub your feet,” Martha offered.

Oh, selfish being! The thought of that made me smile. I fairly ran to my bed and removed my shoes and stockings. And though in summer Martha usually repaired to her own chamber, she would not leave me that night—nor, in truth, did I desire her to.