The Midwife's Revolt (20 page)

It was only after these trying weeks had passed and Martha’s fever was gone and she was out of danger that I was able to walk abroad. One morning Martha and I walked together behind the stables toward the orchards. It was a fine July day, slightly cooler than it had been. I had brought a carrot for Star. Martha kept picking at her many scabs, and I had to grasp her hand and say, “You must resist that temptation. Who will want you all pocked, then?”

“I care nothing for men.” She sniffed.

“You may not now, but you will later. Pocks last a lifetime.”

Glancing about me, I noticed as if for the first time the farm’s devastation. All was now dead and dry. The few surviving tomatoes had burst their skin with thirst. The peaches were blighted, food now only for the animals and the greedy crows.

“I’m sorry, Lizzie,” Martha said, depressed. “This devastation is my fault.”

“Don’t be an idiot. I’d rather have one live Martha than all the tomatoes in the world.”

She smirked. “Fulsome praise.”

We were passing behind the stables when we came upon a sight that made us gasp: between two rows of thriving corn, a soft mist of water magically sprinkled a golden spray. The stalks were vigorous and healthy. On every one, small juicy cobs looked ready to burst from their silken sheaths. Corn was difficult to grow in the best conditions; this to us seemed a genuine miracle.

“What can this be?” Martha asked, astonished.

“The work of Mr. Cleverly, no doubt,” I replied, although I was as astonished as she.

Soon Martha confessed that she was tired. I brought her back inside. I then went abroad once more and found Mr. Cleverly at the well. He was adjusting a metal lever at the terminus of a long waxed cloth tube. He was drenched in perspiration from his efforts. I had the impulse to lean across and wipe the wet lock of his blond hair from his forehead.

“What have you done here?”

He glanced up. “My invention works, you see.” He was wrestling with something that appeared to be stuck and did not stand to greet me.

“This is your invention? This tube?”

“The same. It’s really rather simpleminded. Is your patient better?”

“Oh, much. She’s out of danger. But you look parched. Come in for some refreshment, at least. The noon sun scorches.”

His bright eyes met mine with unabashed interest. “An excellent idea.”

And with that he stood. I helped him with a hand, as one of his legs had painfully fallen asleep in his long crouch. I blushed at touching his hand again.

“It is a watering system,” he said. By his smile, I knew he had seen my blush. “Quite simple in concept. It involves pricking the hose with even rows of holes, then channeling the water under pressure of a pump. I’m certain it’s been done before, though perhaps not in these parts.”

Cleverly’s system looked to be working brilliantly, and I was exceedingly grateful. But I kept wondering:
Why did he take an interest in me and Martha?
What could I, a penniless midwife and widow, have to offer such a distinguished gentleman, scholar, and inventor—one who had the ear of our esteemed General Sullivan?

Abigail was not lacking an opinion upon the subject, which I heard later that same day as we sat having tea at my kitchen table.

“You see thyself in the most abject of lights. You have a great many skills, forty acres of land, a horse, several sheep, and two cows.”

“One cow,” I corrected sadly. “I was obliged to sell Bertha, if you recall.”

She continued, “You’re of noble lineage, though that may count against you these days. You’re not entirely unattractive, though a little tall. And, apart from certain eccentricities, you’ve quite a pleasant, if slightly headstrong, personality.”

“A ringing endorsement, indeed.” I smirked. “Besides, who is calling the kettle black?”

“You forget I’m already happily married. Presumably, John married me despite my many flaws.”

“You concealed them well,” I muttered.

“Hardly.” She laughed. “About as well as you, I should say. Anyway, if Cleverly likes what he sees, what harm is there in getting to know him? He comes recommended by Richard Cranch himself. One can hardly do better than that.”

“No, indeed,” I mused. “Yet I know him so little. He says he is on business with General Sullivan.”

“If that is true, he must be very highly regarded. Not just by Sullivan, but by General Washington as well.”

“He is wonderfully clever,” I said.

“And far more handsome than a man has a right to be,” she replied from across the kitchen table.

I blushed. “Yes. But you must come and see how he saved my corn and apples. Perhaps he could fashion something similar for you.”

After we had finished our tea, I took her to see the watering system.

“Oh, goodness!” she exclaimed at once. We stood between two rows of healthy corn.

Abigail turned to me. “It was exceedingly kind of him to help you, Lizzie.”

“It was. And yet, Martha doesn’t like him.”

“Then Martha doesn’t have to marry him.”

Martha appeared as though summoned by these words. She stood in the dooryard, a quilt around her shoulders. “Whom don’t I have to marry?” she asked. She looked pale, and it was obvious to Abigail and myself how much flesh she had lost. The chickens pecked at her thin hands as she fed them.

“What are you doing out here in this unhealthy air?” I asked.

“Oh, I grew so bored with that hideous old kitchen. I’ll go mad if I spend one more minute in there.”

Martha gained her strength back and was soon sneering at Mr. Cleverly again. He came every day, ostensibly to check on his “system.” Soon, however, he would abandon this pretense.

Eventually even Martha had to admit it was a relief to have a man about. Clearly, Mr. Cleverly had never done a day’s farming in his life, but he made a good effort at it now. Martha and I often fell to laughing as we watched him clumsily mount a ladder or squish about in the chicken coop with his fancy boots. He particularly enjoyed grooming Star and was amazed to discover that I rode him astride, like a man.

“Shall I see you ride?” he asked me one day.

“Indeed you shall not.” I frowned. “Unless there is a babe impatiently seeking entrance to this world.”

“He is a beauty,” he said, leaning into Star’s stall and petting his nose.

“I agree. The breed is nearly extinct. He was a wedding gift from my husband’s parents.”

I glanced at Mr. Cleverly and blushed to find he was looking not at Star, but at me.

Cleverly often took his meals with us that summer. He did his best to engage us in our favorite subjects, such as literature and philosophy, although his natural bent tended more toward Galileo and Newton. He was an attentive listener as well, and had a lovely way of falling silent mid-sentence, as if he found everything we said most fascinating.

“Oh, how exceptional. You must show me how to work this,” he said one time about our loom. And when he saw my medicines, he was struck positively speechless. Holding a pouch of snakeweed, he looked at me as if I were Hippocrates incarnate. “And when, precisely, does one use this?” he asked. In short, he was every bit as gentlemanly as Abigail had insisted he was. Even Martha grew to tolerate Cleverly.

In late August of 1778, the drought was at its worst, and there was little to be done for it. Most people had given up all hope of having corn, potatoes, or fruit that year. My flourishing apple orchard was the talk of the parish. I had to shoo the neighbors’ boys away from my apples, though they were not yet ripe.

Meanwhile, the Battle of Newport raged. We heard bad reports, which grew ever more distressing until news of a decisive defeat finally reached us. All of this was offset by wild, reckless hope, fostered by news that France had declared war against Britain.
Surely we must beat the British now!
we all thought. Yet there were no signs of it.

Abigail brought news. Apparently she had met two travelers from England who had told her that her husband and child were alive and well. Though she would not hear from them directly for another month.

“I shall roundly scold them as soon as may be.”

“Capital idea. Then John shall write you less than ever.” But at this joke, tears sprang to Abigail’s eyes.

“Oh, dearest, I meant no harm,” I said.

“I know. But Lizzie, he doesn’t write me as he should.” She wiped her tears. “I have written a dozen letters and received nothing in return.”

“Abigail, I’m certain that is because his letters are intercepted. Read the London papers, and you shall no doubt find his letters printed there.”

She smiled briefly and nodded, glad of the condolence. But I told myself to take care with my words next time. We were all rather fragile inside, despite our intrepid appearances.

When Martha was quite well, we received an invitation to dinner from the Quincys. We arrived at the great house on a hot August evening looking like ladies of the Orient: in her convalescence, Martha had fashioned fans from reeds, and we used them now to combat the heat. When we knocked at the door, the colonel himself opened it. It made us wonder whether he’d been obliged to let his butler go.

“Lizzie, we’re overjoyed to see you!” exclaimed Ann from behind him.

“As are we,” I said, kissing her.