The Midwife's Revolt (35 page)

I shall remember that evening as one of the finest and most joyous of the war years. For dinner we made an excellent creamed chicken stew with garden vegetables. Harry sat with his shoulders back and ate slowly, with the excellent manners my mother had taught us. But I could tell he had not eaten such a meal in many months. The glory of the evening, however, was the orange cake, with real orange juice in both cake and frosting! Mrs. Quincy greatly admired it and even asked me for the recipe. As I do believe it is one of my finer creations, I include the recipe here for the enjoyment of my reader. May it serve as a reminder that one must always endeavor to enjoy the sweet along with the bitter.

LIZZIE’S SPOILS-OF-WAR ORANGE CAKE

FOR THE CAKE:
Beat together eight soup spoons butter with one cup sugar until fluffy. Mix in two eggs and three soup spoons juice from an orange. In a small bowl, blend one and two-thirds cups flour, a teaspoon baking powder, and half a teaspoon salt. Add dry to wet mixture along with one cup buttermilk. Blend well. Stir in one cup raisins, half a cup chopped walnuts, and one soup spoon finely grated orange peel. Pour the mixture into a buttered pan and bake forty-five to fifty minutes. Cool before icing.

FOR THE ICING:
Stir two soup spoons juice of orange and two cups powdered sugar together until the sugar dissolves completely and the icing is smooth. The icing should be thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. If it is too thick, add more liquid; if too thin, add a little sugar.

Throughout the evening, Harry was so jolly that he set everyone else at ease. He had a great deal to discuss with Abigail, being an almost worshipful admirer of her husband.

“Quincy and I have spoken of it, and we are in total agreement.” My brother called the colonel “Quincy,” just as if he were a boyhood friend and not the wealthiest, most esteemed member of our community. Harry said, “While rats in Congress have crawled behind Mr. Adams’s back to vilify him, who was it secured five million guilders from the parsimonious Dutch? Adams, that’s who!”

At this speech, Abigail glanced at me in astonishment. My brother, with his long blond locks and brown skin, looked every bit the buccaneer. But his proud bearing and his ardent speech were those of a true gentleman and patriot. I observed other things about my brother that evening. Apart from his handsome countenance, he had our mother’s gently humorous manner, her noble confidence, and that sincere curiosity about others that draws out even the most reluctant stranger. Our women were all entirely smitten.

The wine Colonel Quincy had brought did no harm by way of loosening tongues, and soon we were all laughing at one thing and another. Harry told of his travels in the West Indies and Spain. Finally, when it was very late and some of us could no longer hold our eyelids open, the Quincys took their leave. It was then near one in the morning. Harry yawned, then unceremoniously pulled off his shirt, exposing a tanned, naked chest. He undid his belt, much to our horror, and then, quite unconscious of our feelings, lay down on his bed in the dairy and began to snore, the door remaining wide open. We continued to stare at him for some time, as if a beautiful jungle animal slept in our midst!

After cleaning up, Martha and I finally collapsed together into our bed upstairs. It was one of the longest, happiest days of my life.

“I cannot move a limb.” Martha giggled.

“Nor I. Shall we be better in the morning, do you think?”

“I know not. If it be not so, we shall have Johnny bring us breakfast in bed.”

I slapped her for her insolence, my hand landing on her elbow in the darkness. “Johnny shall never serve, not if I have my way.”

“Oh? And what is ‘your way,’ madam?”

“I’m fashioning a plan in my brain just now.”

“Indeed,” she said, “I am honored to know a woman of such great genius.”

And that was the last word I heard, for after that I was fast asleep.

43

OH, THAT SUMMER of ’79, when I
was young and strong, and the grain grew tall and wavered in the salty ocean breeze! The sun grew hot, and gulls cawed overhead. Though Eliza’s suffering was never far from my thoughts, with my brother by my side, my cup overflowed.

Each day, as Harry repaired our roof, mended our fences, and chopped and carried wood, we felt more secure, more cared for. We had been so used to doing everything for ourselves. What a luxury it seemed!

With Harry working in the fields, I felt free to take Star on a daily ride across the dunes. I could tell he looked forward to his ride, because the moment I approached his stall, he whinnied, shook his withers, and stomped his hooves. Once I had saddled and mounted him, he fairly galloped out of the yard down the path he knew and loved so well. Over the dunes we rode, rider and animal happy to be alive, to move freely in the soft, warm breeze. When I finally dismounted and led Star to his stall, he would roll his brown eyes down at me and bump my bosom with his muzzle. Oh, the joy of this mute yet unconditional love!

At night, after we had lit a good fire, Harry would tell us another story of his travels. As the darkness cooled our heated little crust of earth, we listened raptly to his tales of men as black as coal. Men with gold teeth and ear bangles large as coopers’ staves. Powder a man could smoke in his pipe that would take him to heaven for days without end.

Harry told of battles, too, and dead and wounded mates. He told of His Excellency, whom he had met twice delivering goods in the South. A finer, straighter man he’d never met, he said, though he was a man of few words.

“But when did your ship fall into service?” I asked during one of these conversations.

“That first summer, July of ’75. We turned around as soon as we heard the news of Washington’s appointment.”

While Harry spoke, little Johnny played by his feet. The child was much taken with the golden-haired sailor, and it clutched at our hearts to see him call for Harry every morning, happy to have a man about.

“Ha ha!” he called Harry. Johnny then would squirm out of his mother’s arms toward my laughing brother. We began to call Johnny “Ha ha.”

Martha watched Harry with increasing interest. I knew she admired my brother, but one night, when he had gone to the stables, she admitted to me, “I have never much cared for the men of my acquaintance. But he is made of different stuff. What is it, do you think, that makes him stand apart? Apart from his good looks, I mean.”

“I am hardly impartial.” I smiled. “But I think it is his unspoiled nature. He judges not others, but seems to find the good in everyone. You noted, no doubt, how he has not asked a single question about Eliza or Johnny?”

“Yes, I have,” she said. Martha then went on to speak of other things.

Working out of doors each day, Harry’s sandy hair grew lighter, his skin turned darker, until we hardly recognized him. More and more frequently did we find Martha stopped in mid-stride, to gaze at him, his body aglow with perspiration. And when he came in from his labor, she was the first to pour him a mug of cider and hand him a water basin and cloth. It was clear to Eliza, me, and certainly the ever-observant Abigail, that Martha had formed an attachment to my brother.

At night, after supper, when Harry told us stories of his travels, he would sometimes glance Martha’s way, and we watched her fair complexion blush scarlet. But secretly I worried for Martha, convinced that her affections were in no way returned. In his travels, Harry must have had many experiences with women. He was so fair, so affable—to pluck the native beauties from each shore would have been easy enough. With what might little Martha tempt such a man of the world?

In another era, Martha might have been a very attractive girl. Her thick, dark hair was healthy. Her amber eyes, like her brother’s, were large, careful in the measure they took of others, but not hard. She had a strong chin, a pale complexion, and an excellent body, which I have previously described.

But we had long since set aside our vanity. We were shrouded in plain linen caps, which had been washed till frayed and patched. Our shawls were stained yellow with Johnny’s burps, which no amount of scrubbing could remove. Our hands were woefully red and callused, fingernails cracked and dirt-filled despite repeated scrubbings. No, we were scarred fruit. Unchosen.

Nevertheless, each evening, after the chores were done and the sun declined in the sky, I walked by my Harry’s side along the shore. I did not ask when he would leave, nor did he mention it. Our walks, as our days, seemed to go on forever. Oftentimes, lost in conversation, we walked all the way to Milton and back.

But on one of these long walks some time in mid-July, my brother told me he would be leaving again. He knew not when but had no doubt it would be before the harvest.

“For where?” I grasped his arm.

“I cannot say.”

“You know not, or you cannot say?”

“I cannot say.” He turned to me entreatingly. “Dearest Lizzie, let us be grateful for what we have and not mourn what we cannot control.”

“But you
can
control it!” I said, feeling spiteful and sorry for myself. I recalled how I had almost not forgiven him for being at gaming when our mother died. But the truth was, now that I had my brother back, I could not bear to give him up.

“Then I should be a coward.”

“And now you’re a fool!” I stormed off toward a cluster of rocks by the water.

He came up behind me. “We spoke in jest about my foolishness, but do you truly believe it, Lizzie? For that would wound my heart.”

“No.” I sighed. “You’re no fool. I am proud of you and only ashamed of myself.”

“You have borne your misfortunes like a soldier. You will be remembered for it.”

“Remembered by whom?” I laughed.

“Your children. And mine. For surely you must have a goodly number of suitors?” he asked. “Indeed, I expect to find you married again, with a large brood of chicks, next time we meet.”

Could Harry understand the depth of my love for Jeb? Could he understand the hardships I had suffered, which made what few men there had been in my midst largely irrelevant? Could he understand my fleeting attraction to Mr. Cleverly or my hopeless yearnings for Mr. Miller? I didn’t believe so.

I said merely, “That’s not possible.”

“I can’t believe that. Well, in any case, one day we shall look back with our families and recall these difficult times from a great distance.”

“Perhaps,” I conceded doubtfully.

“But Lizzie, you seem low—and not only on my account. Does something else trouble you?”

“No, no,” I assured him, for I was neither willing nor able to speak of Mr. Miller with my brother.

Not one to dwell on womanly emotions, Harry said more cheerfully, “Just you wait. In five or six years’ time, we shall be doddering after our many children, bemoaning the passing of these days.”

“Bemoaning, indeed!”

“Mark my words,” he asserted, pointing a finger at me, which I tried to grab. But his reflexes had grown too quick. He threw a hearty arm about my shoulders and we walked home in silence, the wind at our backs. It felt good to have a man’s heavy arm about me.

Martha seemed even more distressed than I was about Harry’s news.

“But why? Has he not done enough? He has fed Washington’s army. He has fed us, though one could tell at first sight that he himself had not eaten in months. Lord, do these men not deserve a rest?”

Martha couched her distress in patriotic terms, but I saw right through her.

44

IT HAD BEEN some time since we’d
seen Abigail. The July days were long and hot, and at the end of them we none of us wished to do more than wash ourselves and eat a simple supper before going to bed. Now, though, I felt inclined to visit with her, and I was just about to set off for her house when, as luck would have it, a messenger arrived with a dinner invitation from the lady herself.

The prospect of going to Abigail’s to dine lifted our spirits. But, arriving at Abigail’s door on the appointed evening, Abigail met us, clearly in great distress. I had baked a fragrant apple cake and brought it for her. Martha set it down on the kitchen table.

“I’m sorry, dear friends, but I have just read something most terrible—” Abigail could not finish her sentence.

“What is it?” I asked.

We followed her into the parlor, where I noticed the London broadside at once. According to this paper, a ship had been lost at sea, the result of sabotage. John Adams and John Quincy Adams were presumed to have been upon it.

I threw the paper down in disgust.

“This is rubbish,” I said. “What evidence have you of its truth?”

“None,” she said, wiping tears with the sleeve of her gown.

I took her hands. “You mustn’t let this shake you, for I believe it signifies
good
news.”

“Good news? Lizzie, I fear your words. If you love me—” She backed away without finishing her thought.

“I believe this news tells us that Mr. Adams is on a ship at this very moment, headed directly for home.”

“I have received no letter about it.”

“You have received no letter of any kind for six months. And yet we know him to have written. The letters do not get through. You know that far better than I, Abby.”

“You’re right. Oh, Lizzie, how you have calmed my quaking soul!”

She gave us all a little smile. She then took Johnny in her arms and hugged him to her as if he were the husband she had not seen in seventeen months.

“Mr. Lee, I apologize for my outburst.” She turned at last to my brother, who had been standing quietly by Martha’s side in the doorway.

“Don’t apologize, Mrs. Adams. I admire your courage, indeed I do.”

With that he bowed to her, and she, like a mother, embraced him.

Lighter in spirit, Abigail proceeded to serve us a dinner of mussel soup with a baked stuffed haddock, and she served my apple cake, made with British flour. Over dessert, Abigail, much to our surprise, suddenly bent her head and prayed.

“We thank our Redeemer for this bounty and for a safe voyage for my men.” Then she added, her head still bowed, “Let us also thank Henry for the flour with which Lizzie made her cake.”

“Hear, hear!” exclaimed Eliza and Martha in unison. Johnny, sensing the merriment, banged on his plate with a spoon, staring at his beloved Harry and crying, “Ha ha!” until Martha had to take the spoon from him. Thus the evening concluded in far better spirits than it had begun.

Johnny was fast asleep when we arrived home, and my brother carried him into the house; the child had grown heavy. Eliza could no longer carry him about as she used to, though he still dearly wished it.

Martha and Eliza descended carefully in the darkness, and I was about to call for Thaxter to unhitch the horses when I remembered that we’d left Thaxter in Portsmouth. Someone suddenly grasped my arm, frightening me so much that I cried out.

“Forgive me for startling you.” The voice was familiar.

“Allow me to help you down, Mrs. Boylston,” he said.

At the sound of Thomas Miller’s voice, I cried out, “Oh! Martha! Eliza!” The fear must have sounded in my voice for Martha returned to me at once.

“What is it, Lizzie?”

“As you see,” I pointed into the gloom where her brother stood. “It is your brother. What business does he have just now with us, and at this late hour?”

“I know not,” Martha replied, apparently as startled as I. “But as he’s here, I shall offer him tea.”

“I come with no ill intent,” said Mr. Miller.

Was he daft? Did the man not know he was at any moment to be arrested and perhaps hanged? “Well, why did you come, then?” I asked.

Mr. Miller smiled uncomfortably at us and asked merely, “May I come in?”

I curtsied and led him in.

Once inside, I introduced Thomas Miller to my brother, and they shook hands. There was nothing else to be done. Harry, who knew nothing about Mr. Miller or his loyalties, launched upon an amusing tale of his attempts to improve our farm. He was so affable, and so ignorant, that I cringed for him, and I imagined that Martha did so as well.

Martha went to put the kettle on, but Mr. Miller forestalled her with a hand on her arm.

“Do not trouble yourself, Sister, on my account. It is very late, and I’ll stay but a moment.”

“You shall not stop here, then?” she asked.

“Oh, no. I am staying at—”

Here he thought better of divulging his lodgings and turned to me. “You are very quiet tonight. Are you well?”

“Yes, very.”

“Two words? Is that all you care to say?”

“I am tired.”

“That is three,” Mr. Miller said, a lift in his voice, but he had not the heart to joke further, as the mood around him was grave.

“You came from the direction of Mrs. Adams’s,” he said. “Did you dine there?”

“Why do you wish to know?”

Martha cast me a look.

“Oh, no particular reason.” Suddenly, Mr. Miller grew uncomfortable. “Indeed, it is too late. I see you are eager to have me gone. I was in the village and longed to see—my sister. Forgive me. It was a selfish wish. Tomorrow is her birthday, did you know?”

“I didn’t know. She never shared that with me.” I turned to Martha. “Martha, is it true?”

“Oh,” Martha said, looking at her feet, “I dislike a fuss.”

“Well, I shall make an enormous fuss tomorrow,” Mr. Miller said. “For now, I retire. Good night.” Thomas Miller bowed formally and was gone the next moment. But my heart continued to pound long after he had left.

“Seems an excellent fellow,” said my brother, helping himself to an oatcake in the kitchen.

“Looks can be deceiving,” I whispered, for I did not wish Martha to overhear us. “More on that topic by and by. Now,” I said more loudly, “you’re keeping Eliza up.” I gave a backward glance to poor Eliza, who was nearly falling over with fatigue. She could hardly undress before Harry retired to his chamber.

“Oh! Sorry!” My brother nodded, then made off to the dairy with a mouthful of oatcake. He returned a moment later, craving water and making choking signs at his throat.

“Go to bed already, Brother.”

“I’m going! I’m going!” He trailed back with a wave of his hand. Martha’s eyes smiled after him.