The Midwife's Revolt (30 page)

“Then do not play it.” I removed my hand from his and stood.

“I fear we have no choice.”

“Well, then,” I said softly, knowing him to be in the right, “perhaps we should change the subject.”

“Yes, let’s do.” Mr. Miller sat back.

“I’ll begin. Tell me. Was that you the other night at the Golden Ball? I thought I saw you in the doorway.”

“Me? At the Golden Ball? What would I be doing there?”

“I know not.”

“You would have seen me come and go. There is but one coach per day.”

“How knew you that?” My eyes flashed quickly at him.

He recovered quickly. “Everyone knows,” he replied.

“You might have arrived previously,” I suggested.

“Which returns me to my previous question—why?”

“To spy on me, perhaps.”

“But how could I have known you were there? No, fear not, Lizzie. I have better ways to occupy my time.”

Yes, we played a game. A terrible game. But neither of us could quit our playing.

“The woman you were with—she was quite beautiful. A cipher, no doubt, but my brother, Harry, once told me that men do not wish their women to be overly burdened by intelligence. Is that true, Mr. Miller?”

He considered my question and then chose to ignore it. “Did it bother you to see me—or rather someone you mistook for me—with a beautiful woman?”

“Not in the least! Why should it? I merely wondered whether congratulations were in order.”

Mr. Miller observed my annoyance and pursed his lips. “But we ignore the central question.”

“Which is?”

“Why
you
were at the Golden Ball.”

“I cannot say. Let us change the subject once more.”

“By all means.”

Here, there was a long pause.

Mr. Miller sipped his tea, then looked up at me. “Tell me,” he asked, “for I believe it is now my turn: Why is it you became a midwife? You had no need of such a living, surely.”

I was taken aback by the question. For one, it was not seemly to discuss such a thing with a man. Then I reasoned that if Mr. Miller was not put off by the topic, I would not be.

“My dear mother was quite skilled at midwifery. She used to take me with her, and while the
. . .
work
. . .
was often onerous, the rewards were very great. Not all of us women were born for leisure, Mr. Miller. Some of us wish—indeed,
need
, from the depths of our souls—to be
useful
.”

I sipped my tea, which was now quite cold. It was a gesture not unlike my mincing steps, but Mr. Miller did not laugh at it. Instead he asked, “And should you like to have your own children someday? Or are you content to be forever helping others do so?”

There was a moment when I might have given a bitter rejoinder. I said merely, “It seems the Lord has not blessed me with that particular gift.”

One look at me and Thomas Miller broke off his line of questioning.

Finally I smiled. “It seems there is little we may talk about, Mr. Miller.”

“Yes,” he replied. “And a great deal we must not talk about.”

With that, he rose. “But you must have wished me gone from here long since. I beg your pardon. Good morning. Send Martha my love, if you speak to her.” Far from love, his voice was filled with anger. He then bowed and was gone from our midst.

I stood there, stunned. Why had he come? Why had he left? Why had he been angry?

“Bessie!” I called.

Bessie came running. “Miss Elizabeth! Are you well?”

“I’m perfectly well. Mr. Miller has come and gone.”

“Did ’e do somethin’ unseemly?”

“Not at all. Oh!” I cried, and stormed back to my chamber.

By late morning, I was easier in my mind, for, replacing sleep with reflection, I believed that I had resolved my problem quite logically: I was not in love with Mr. Miller. The very idea was absurd. Look how ill at ease we were together, how impossible for us to speak comfortably on any given subject. Words were the medium of communication, but it was precisely with words, it seemed, that we could not communicate. How else, then? No way else.

I turned my mind in the direction of home, and had begun to pack when I was interrupted by a quick succession of raps at the front door.

I called out, but neither Giles nor Bessie replied.

“Is there a Mrs. Boylston residing here?” The boy who stood before me looked a great deal like myself in disguise: pale, young, a slight fuzz above his unshaven lip. He even wore a dirty vest.

“Yes?”

“I was told to deliver this to Mrs. Boylston.”

“Well, then, you have hit the mark.”

The boy thrust the message at me, tipped his cap, and rode off.

I shut the heavy door against the frigid cold, white fog following me inside. I moved toward the parlor and the warmth of the fire, where I opened the letter.

One glance had me springing toward the kitchen. “Bessie! Bessie!”

Bessie came out, holding a dishrag. “What is it, ma’am? Is someone ill?”

“Bessie, kindly finish packing my things at once. And tell Giles to saddle Star. I must make for home immediately.”

“But what’s happened?”

“The letter is from Martha. We’ve been raided. Our provisions, my supplies—they have been smashed to bits.”

35

IF I HAD deluded myself previously that
the danger had been to Abigail or other prominent figures alone, I could no longer. For this attack on my home, I saw at once, possessed a personal, vengeful quality. Our parlor window had been smashed through. The barrels of cider in the cellar had been cleaved with an ax. Several chickens in the yard had been beheaded, their glassy eyes glancing wistfully toward their bodies across the way. In the kitchen, my medical sack had been rifled through and many costly supplies taken. Teas and powders had been removed from their bottles and poured all in a heap.

What a waste lay before me!

Had it been thieves, I would have understood. But this act was conceived out of sheer spite. Most alarmingly, my vial of belladonna, marked clearly with skull and crossbones, was missing. It had not been dumped and left like the others, but removed, with what monstrous purpose I knew not.

Martha was engaged in picking up bits of the smashed glass from the window. Eliza had Johnny on her hip in a sling, a wool cap upon his head. She was washing the kitchen floor and looked done in. Within, it was freezing despite the fire in the hearth. I could see our foggy breath.

“Take care you don’t cut yourself,” Martha said. “There are shards everywhere.”

Clearly my friends had passed through whatever state of rage or terror now befell me. It would be many more hours before I could share their calm.

“Eliza, Martha, cease your labors a moment and sit with me. I must know the particulars of what has happened.”

Eliza wearily set down her mop and approached me. Martha, who had been on hands and knees looking for the last bits of glass, stood and came forth. They both embraced me sadly.

Looking about, I saw a farm at the brink of winter: solitary, vulnerable, bereft of men. Whatever strength we’d shared had shattered and become as invisible as the shards of glass.

“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked. “Please, spare no detail.”

Martha silently glanced at Eliza, and a terrible thought ripped through me. I asked at once, “He didn’t harm either of you in any way?”

“Oh, no,” Eliza assured me, seeing that I had misunderstood their look. “It is thanks to the Maker of all things that I had been sleeping upstairs with Martha in your absence. We kept but one fire burning that way, and it is warmer for Johnny, who was sleeping between us.” She glanced at me to see if I would meet her words with reprobation. I did not. Eliza continued, “No, thank God, we were not downstairs and thus could block the door against them.”

“Them?” I uttered in horror. I had imagined but a single culprit.

“Yes. There were two at least. We heard their footsteps.”

“They must have heard you upstairs. Oh—heavens!” I suddenly realized the treachery they had narrowly escaped.

“Perhaps,” said Eliza. “But they seemed little interested in us. They made a great ruckus destroying what they could. That seemed to be their purpose, not to harm us.”

“I wonder if they knew I was in town, and you within,” I mused.

When I thought of the danger and terror my friends had undergone on my account, I felt deeply ashamed. I took their hands. “This is my fault and no other’s,” I said. “Someone must have seen through my excellent disguise, though how that could be I know not.”

Thomas Miller sprang to mind. He was the only one who knew. I did not believe Thomas would knowingly endanger his sister or me; indeed, he had sworn to it. But could he have told someone, warned someone of my knowledge? I thought it likely that he had, however inadvertently, caused this devastating occurrence.

“Who knows but that
I
may be the target and cause of this mayhem,” Martha blurted suddenly.

“You?” I said. “What have you to do with anything?”

I did not mean to be dismissive. Martha had been so brave; her courage had been a key to our survival. She flinched at my words, then said, “Perhaps there are those on
our
side who wish to send my brother a message.”

I shuddered. “I do not like to think those of our own side capable of harming us in this way just to get at Mr. Miller.”

My friends knew me too well. The way I said his name gave me away.

“You—and Mr. Miller?” Eliza said, repeating my words, now in a wholly different sense.

“I thought so,” Martha concluded. “Lizzie”—she was moved to grasp my arm—“you mustn’t see him. Please listen. Perhaps when the war is concluded, one way or another. Promise me!”

“I have no need of such promises,” I replied disdainfully.

“Nonetheless,” Martha said, her eyes narrowed. “Swear you will not.”

I had only once before seen this ferocious aspect of my dear friend, and then it had been directed at herself.

“All right, if you wish it. I will swear it. In any case,” I said, hiding my hurt, “there will scarce be opportunity to see him now, for I must not go abroad while danger lurks here for you.”

Martha let the matter drop at last. I donned my cloak and mitts and went outside to round up the frozen chicken carcasses; they were too valuable to waste. While there, I fed the surviving animals and hugged my Star, who whinnied with glee to see me. Still, in the way he nuzzled my face, I felt he knew something was amiss.

We all spent the rest of that awful day in silent labors. I made a stew of the chickens, and while the pot was on the fire, I righted what was left of my medicines, knowing I had not the means to replace anything that had been taken or destroyed. Apparently Thaxter had gone to find a glazier in Weymouth—though what we could trade in payment for so many panes of glass I knew not. The apples we had congratulated ourselves upon were all gone, as was the cider. But of all the destruction, the most hurtful had been Martha’s look! So hard and unforgiving!

When my labors were done, it was late, and I was exhausted. Johnny developed the croup that same night and would not stop barking and crying. His unfamiliar wailing was a sound reflection of the mood that had overtaken us. I was seized with an absolute desire to lay my head upon Abigail’s breast, though it was already dark.

Thaxter had not returned; presumably he had decided to stop the night in Weymouth. Thus, I saddled Star myself and fetched a stool. Without saying where I was going, I mounted Star and departed. I had meant to leave in silence, but at the last moment I could not refrain from calling out, “Eat the stew—it is ready!”

Within my house, all had felt broken and violated. But the frigid air braced me, reminded me that I and my friends were whole and unharmed. I rode straight through town and down the main road, crossing no one save a few oblivious drunks reeling numbly out of Brackett’s tavern. The cold air dulled the usual acrid stench of the tannery, too, with its drying, eviscerated carcasses and vats of jellied horse bone. The church was silent and dark as well. It seemed as if Braintree’s parishioners had chosen to remain by their safe hearths until the crocuses showed their purple blossoms.
None of you are safe
, I wanted to tell them.
Not even by your hearths, surrounded by your loved ones. It is all an illusion.

Abigail must have recognized Star’s stride, because I had no need to knock. She was at the door, and I was in her arms before a word was said. I cried as I had not allowed myself to cry in my own home.

It was a full five minutes before she could pry a single word from my lips. However, it became apparent that she already knew of our catastrophe through Colonel Quincy.

Abigail made me tea and insisted I drink it by the fire. She offered me cake, which I could not put to my lips.

Nabby came into the parlor and sat placidly, consolingly, with us. She was such a docile girl. I quite liked her, although around her I was always at a loss for conversation. Thomas and Charles came running in but went running back out again when they saw the tearful scene. Weeping women were not their province, though no doubt they’d seen many such tears before.

Abigail waited patiently. I knew she would wait all night if necessary. It took near half an hour before I had the strength to tell her all that had happened. Finally I recounted Martha’s words, and the fresh, new grief I felt I could never repair.

She listened in utter silence. Then she replied quietly, “You must think of it in this way: she loves you enough to want to protect you, for that is what she does in speaking to you so. Martha must believe her brother to be involved in some very dangerous business.”

“Or perhaps she believes I am dangerous to
him.
”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said quietly. “In either case, the situation is clearly grave, and we have good reason to fear. Let us discuss what to do in the morning. Perhaps we should all repair to Weymouth—”

I looked up in alarm at this suggestion. Abandon the farm and flee to Weymouth? Why should we concede defeat when His Excellency had not done so?

“No, that you well know I cannot do.”

“For now, then, hold on to this one thought, dear Lizzie: your brother lives and shall return to you.”

Oh, a sweeter or more timely reminder could not have been bestowed upon me. It was true. Amid all else, my brother lived and was presumably breaking waves toward me at that very moment. Now I simply had to survive to greet him.

As I rose to leave, Abigail grasped my hands in hers and whispered, “Take heart, Lizzie. You can yet do a great deal of good, even without all your witch’s potions. However, you must think no more of your snooping. Your friends need you.”

Abigail went on to insist that I return later that week for a bushel of her own apples, which I reluctantly agreed to do, for the thought of going the winter without a morsel of fruit or bread made me feel heartily sorry for myself.