The Midwife's Revolt (38 page)

Later, after the sun had descended behind the hills, and I had bathed and changed into my own clothes and felt somewhat revived, I took a tankard of cider out with me and walked down through the dunes to the beach. I spoke little that evening to either Martha or Eliza. My experiences—of Star’s agonizing death, of my new knowledge of Martha and her brother, and of the anticipation of what was soon to come—seemed to me far, far beyond words. Indeed, I felt that a year’s silence would not be long enough.

As the sun set upon me, I felt consoled by the sound of the ocean waves breaking along the shore. I heard the crickets sing among the reeds and dune grass. I saw swallows dart in and out of the shadows and ghost crabs the color of the sand scuttle sideways across the beach. And I thought:
What terrible, cruel beasts we humans were.
I saw us as a species of Cyclops stalking the earth in rage and hate, unworthy of our Maker’s bounty. How could I continue to live among them?

I turned my attention back to the red glow of the departed sun and the sound of the wind, water, and gulls. I shut my eyes and let the sounds and the warm sand calm me. Then, all at once, I felt gentle hands upon me.

I looked up to find Martha. She smiled tentatively. “May I sit by you?” she inquired. “I think Eliza comes as well.”

“Certainly.”

She sat down by my side and looked out toward the water.

“Wait you for the ship? It may be quite late when it finally arrives.”

“Not particularly,” I said. “I wait for peace. And wisdom. And the absence of pain.”

“You may have to wait a long while yet, as will we all.”

Eliza came up to us then; she told us that Johnny was asleep in the house. “I saw Martha leave and had no wish to be alone,” she said. “I daren’t stay long, though.”

“Oh,” said Martha, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

“I’m quite all right,” Eliza assured her. “And Johnny sleeps—for the moment.”

A sudden gust of wind whipped my hair across my face. I pulled it back. I had no thought of telling Eliza what I knew about Martha. I saw no point in sharing the truth with her. Of the three of us, she was the most helpless, and therefore the most vulnerable. Had she known that Martha was a target for death, she could not have remained long under our roof, for Johnny’s sake if not her own. Where else had she to go?

Martha had held herself erect as a general all afternoon. Indeed, when I recall her composure, I believe it no hyperbole to say that I considered her one of the greatest women of our generation. But though she could bear danger, retribution, exposure, and even rejection, the thought of my brother’s departure was too much for her.

“Oh, I cannot bear it,” she said, buckling down to the sand as if seized by cramps. She curled into a ball and covered her head with her hands. “No, it is too much. I cannot bear it.”

“Come now,” I said, lifting her hands away from her face, “you have borne far worse. He shall return, and you shall marry and have sixteen children, and Bessie shall be run off her feet, and Giles shall have to invent a new sort of carriage to seat you all.”

She grasped my hand hard as I comforted her, stroking her head until she calmed.

Finally, Martha opened her eyes and looked up at me. “I might be able to bear it, Lizzie, if—”

“If what, dearest?”

“If I knew
you
still loved me. It is a selfish, sinful wish. I know myself to be unworthy of love.”

I thought about her words and everything I had discovered. I leaned my head on her shoulder and stared out to sea, my hand still clasping hers.

“Who am I to judge you, Martha? There are times in the affairs of men where right and wrong are not knowable except by our Maker. I’m grieved for Star and for you, too deeply to speak of it. But I still love you. I always shall. On some long winter night, when peace comes, we shall read the story of Moses together, for he, too, had a death upon his conscience, yet went on to achieve God’s forgiveness.”

Whether Eliza thought this conversation odd I know not, for she asked not a single question. Later, when we had all returned home, we would tell her near everything. For now, though, we sat in silence, the three of us staring out to sea, until a dusky darkness rolled across us.

Eliza rose to leave. Not wishing her to walk the path alone, we got up and accompanied her.

“Dear Eliza,” I began. “I hope you do not think that because so much has happened here that we have forgotten your despair. I know I do not. Not for a moment.”

“And it is my hope, Lizzie, that you do not think my despair forbids me to rejoice in your happiness. Indeed, only knowing of your happiness shall keep me from utter despair.”

“My what?” I suddenly turned and looked at Eliza, thinking I had not heard her correctly.

“
Your
happiness, Lizzie.”

“Oh.” I smiled, suddenly divining her drift. “I’m not built for happiness such as you speak of.”

“Are you not?” Eliza’s eyes shone steadily through the shadows.

48

TIME SHALL UNFOLD WHAT PLAITED CUNNING HIDES.

—King Lear

AUGUST 2, 1779.
“THE ship! Harry’s ship
has arrived!” we cried.

Worn out by the terrible events of the previous day, Eliza was dead to the world. We decided to let her sleep. We ran down the stairs, nearly tripping and falling on our heads, then out to the back of the house, from which we could easily see my brother’s ship—full three masts, bowsprit and jibboom, then a scurrying of silent bodies to furl the sails. I then saw four—or was it five?—men descend upon a dinghy and make their way toward us in the low moonlight. The ship, moving very slowly, crept out of sight.

Recalling that we were still in our shifts, Martha and I ran back to the house to ready ourselves for visitors. When the men finally arrived, we were primly dressed and sitting in the kitchen with the kettle on the boil like two good little spinsters. My brother came in with four others, one of whom was Mr. Miller.

Seeing us sitting calmly in the kitchen, Harry did not know which of us to embrace first. Martha solved his dilemma by springing up from her calm pose and running headlong toward him.

“Oh, Harry!” she cried.

Coming from Martha, Harry did not seem to mind the name he had, earlier that summer, thought too childish for him. He buried his head in her breast.

Mr. Miller remained by the front door. He glanced at me, and I at him, and such was my emotion upon seeing him—the real man this time and not the poseur—that I was overcome. To my changed eyes, he now appeared tall, quite noble, and full of dangerous conviction. There was none of that levity about him that had once allowed me to dismiss him as shallow, if charming. Had he ever laughed about my mincing gait? Had he ever requested I show him how to bake a cake? Helped me stir it? Impossible.

He may yet hang
, I thought. But at least it would not be on Washington’s command. No, quite the opposite.

Behind our brothers stood three other men, drably dressed, their faces streaked with tar, naught but their pewter buttons shining beneath their cloaks in the wavering candlelight.

Harry introduced them. There was the
Cantabrigian
’s captain, Captain John Wiles; Colonel William Livingston of New York; and Colonel Joseph Palmer. This last I had known slightly in my early days in Braintree, before he had left for the South with his regiment. After the war, I would have occasion to get to know him better at his estate at Germantown. For now, I merely gawked at him: he was tall and looked every bit the haughty officer. Later, he revealed himself to be a tenderhearted lover of dogs and children. All of these men were high-ranking officers of the Continental Army, sent by Washington himself.

“Lizzie,” began my brother, a note of apology in his voice, “we need a place to rest for what remains of this night. We dare not expose ourselves even so far as the colonel’s house.”

“Say no more,” I replied. Martha and I busied ourselves laying pallets about. From my kitchen window, the men could take turns watching for
La Sensible
.

When our distinguished guests were crowded around the kitchen table with their tea, Colonel Palmer thought to extend to us the information the men already held:

“
La Sensible
approaches Boston,” he said.

“No!” I exclaimed.

“Is it true?” Martha asked.

The colonel nodded. “It was sighted before we left, and it has been confirmed that John Adams and John Quincy are aboard.”

“Dear Abigail!” I cried, involuntarily placing a hand over my mouth.

“Not a word must come from this house,” Colonel Palmer warned. “A simple word or deed in the wrong ears could spell death for them, and ourselves.”

“Sir, we shall not stir,” Martha affirmed, looking at me.

Colonel Palmer nodded respectfully at Martha, for he must have known who and what she was.

After some silence, I rose. “We should retire. Please make free to use my home as your own. Should you need us, don’t hesitate to wake us.”

“Good night, dearest sister.” Harry embraced me. He took Martha’s hand, looked at her long and hard, and said, “Yes, you should sleep now, while you can.”

Thomas Miller neither said a word nor glanced in our direction, but continued to stare out the window as he paced the room.

We excused ourselves and retired together to my chamber, where Johnny lay sprawled on his back, taking up nearly the entire bed with his long, outstretched limbs. We gently righted him and piled ourselves alongside, having given up the second chamber’s bed to the men. But sleep was not to be had; I managed only to doze for a while.

“You’re snoring.” Martha shoved me. Eliza was asleep on the other side of her. It was close and hot.

“I certainly am not snoring,” I murmured.

“You do not hear yourself when you are asleep,” she said and poked me.

“
Shhh.
They will hear you,” I said, eyes still closed.

“Why, is there someone you do not wish to know you snore in your sleep?”

“Martha, hush!”

Soon thereafter, I felt her sit up. “It is hopeless. I rise.”

She got up, dressed, and went to feed the animals—what few were left to us after the bloodletting. Martha knew it would be some days before I could approach the barn. The poor animals were ready and waiting for her, as it was just past four and the sky over the ocean already grew light. I soon rose as well, as silently as I could, allowing Eliza to sleep.

Previously I had been too shocked to feel, but on this early morning I stifled tears at the thought of Star out there somewhere, beyond my sight, stiffening on Mr. Billings’s cart. At least
he
felt no pain, I consoled myself. It was in this grieving state that I sensed someone approach from the shadows. The rustle frightened me half to death.

“Elizabeth.”

I turned to find Mr. Miller. “You gave me a start,” I said.

“You’re up early.”

From the looks of him, fully dressed, with only his face washed of its dark camouflage, I discerned that he had not slept at all.

“Martha said I was snoring.”

“And were you?”

“I deny it utterly.”

He smiled slightly and turned his head, gazing off into my fields, which were just beginning to lighten beneath the rising sun.

“Let us walk there”—he nodded to my garden—“for what I have to say is for your ears alone.”

“If you like,” I said, with some trepidation. I followed him behind the barn to where the orchard boughs hung heavy with ripening fruit. Mr. Miller stopped under one such bough and stood before me. His hands hung by his sides, his head bowed.

“There is something I cannot get out of my mind,” he began. “How you have suffered—” He paused, apparently unable to continue. He pressed his fingers against a lowered forehead. “You have suffered loss, privation, hostility, and deceit. Throughout, I have observed how you have kept your head, taught another, and given shelter to a third. Unbearable has been the thought that I—”

Again, he was unable to continue.

“That you—?”

“—that I might have added to your suffering, which you’ve borne as few men could have.” Then he said, “I beg you now forgive me.”

Reader, I had already forgiven him. I found, to my surprise, that I could bear anything quite easily, so long as I did not have to suffer my previous disdain for him. Still, I could not resist saying, “And why should a woman not suffer as much as a man during these times?”

He did not come back with his usual rejoinder, and I was all too swiftly reminded that this was a new Thomas Miller, one whom I could not presume to know, one whose feelings I could not predict. I feared I had given offense.

But Mr. Miller, glancing once at me, lowered his head as if to consider my question seriously. At last he replied, “Many have done, and no doubt shall continue to do so. But not all women can bear such suffering. And it is not all women that I care about. None have borne it as you have. Oh, Lizzie!” He grasped my hands in his. “I’m glad you know the truth. You think it torture to
love
the enemy—but you cannot know the torture it was to
play
the enemy, to play the fool, knowing every moment how you despised me!”

“I
wished
to despise you, yes,” I considered, allowing him to keep my hands in his, “but somehow I never could. Dare I hope that the silly boy you played was not entirely an act, and that somewhere you still harbor him? For it is a rare man that retains the freedom of the boy, however infuriating. No, while I despised your politics, I could not despise him.” Here, I rolled my eyes at that ne’er-do-well who had made himself at home in my Cambridge parlor.

“If that concerns you, rest assured he still exists. But these rough times are not auspicious for him.”

During this conversation, Mr. Miller had gradually, almost imperceptibly, been closing the distance between us. The hands that had taken mine were now above my elbows and fast approaching my bare shoulders.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” I said. “No, I believe I suffered most when—” Now it was my turn to hesitate.

“When
. . . 
?”

“When for a moment I thought you loved Eliza. Oh, I despised you then.”

“Jealous, eh?” He smiled. “Ah, so that was it. I recall being angry with you then for the first time. I had no thought of your being jealous, only petty and spiteful.”

I shuddered. “You cannot know how I despised myself for that! Envy is the Devil himself.”

“I never meant to make you feel so. But it is wonderful to hear!” He smiled openly now. “You must have loved me somewhat, even then.” He moved closer to me, hopeful as he had not been before.

“Fighting myself at every turn,” I said, frustrated at the memory. “Yes, I knew it as the saddest fact of my life when you ran me down outside the tavern.”

“I can never forget that kiss.” He laughed, pulling me closer to him. “You in your mustache and that appalling vest!”

“Oh, do not remind me of my foolishness. An auspicious beginning, indeed!”

“Never apologize for that, Lizzie. It was the most wonderful kiss from the bravest woman. And I should like to repeat it now
. . .
”

Here he kissed me tenderly, unencumbered by either resistance or an unsavory mustache.

We walked then through the orchards, not saying much, but every minute or so asking the remaining few questions that lingered in our minds.

“And was that you at the Golden Ball, after all?”

“It was. I felt compelled to follow you wherever you went. I knew there to be danger, though you did not.”

“And the Rose and Crown? You were not there on—”

“Orders? Oh, no.” He smiled. “I learned little in the taverns, though I spoke with a number of men. I made myself out to be a gambler at cards. In this noble pursuit, I lost what little family money I had inherited. We had long suspected Mr. Cleverly of his pseudonymous involvement, and others as well. I daren’t say how we learned things. When we have won
. . .
”

“Not if?”

“No, we shall win. And when we have, I shall reveal everything to you. Oh, dearest Lizzie, how good it is to finally speak to you!
You,
as yourself, and I as myself.”

“And who
are
you, Thomas Miller?” I looked up at him inquiringly. “What are your likes and dislikes? What are your particular habits? Your favorite foods? You see, I know nothing about you. I fear that if I fell in love with you as a despised Tory, I am sure to faint dead away when I learn of Thomas Miller the hero, intimate acquaintance of His Excellency himself.”

“ ‘He was a man, take him for all in all,’ ” he said, his voice tinged with sadness.

I looked up at him. “You have read
Hamlet
?”

“Oh, Elizabeth.” He laughed. “I am not so well read as Mr. Cranch, I admit, but I’m not an ignoramus because also a soldier. Like all good Cambridge boys, I took my degree at Harvard and planned to pursue the law before our Troubles began. Then I could not sit idly by. And when the colonel asked me on behalf of Washington himself whether I would accept a most delicate position, I felt it my duty to accept.”

“Oh, do not
mention
the colonel to me. I reserve the right to be furious at him for some time yet. He fooled us all with his jovial drinking and vulgar gossiping. He had us all convinced that you were the worst of all our enemies. Even Abigail was fooled!”

Here, not wishing to join our friends just yet, we stopped by the side of the barn. My hand was still in his.

“Every night I thought of you, knowing I could not love you, knowing that I did. Of all the things I suffered, I should say that was the worst. And I had no one to share my feelings with. Abigail thought you the worst sort of traitor. Martha needed me to believe it as well. When she warned me against you—it was with a ferocity I had not yet seen in her. Only your sworn promise to me gave me any hope at all. I could not entirely let go of that promise, even when all hope had gone.”

“It’s over now.” He pulled me close, and his hands, which had begun in mine, made their way around me at last. “Think no more of it, darling. All those secrets and lies are behind us. But, Lizzie”—he pulled away from me to have a better look—“can you truly love again? I have never loved before, but you—”

“Yes, I have loved. I loved Jeb. We were so young. He was the best sort of man. He taught me that I could love. Without that, I should have had no hope at all. But I’m just now thinking
. . .
” I hesitated.

“What is it, dearest?”

“Well, I suppose if we are to be together, you must learn to tolerate the language of midwifery.”

“I’m not squeamish, or entirely ignorant, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, I was thinking just now that perhaps the heart is made of the same stuff as the womb. It can stretch and may easily be reused.”

I placed a finger to my chin and must have looked like a true philosopher when, grinning involuntarily, I said, “Indeed, I find it quite a miraculous thing that I love you now quite as much as if I had never loved before.”