The Midwife's Revolt (19 page)

24

DR. FLYNT’S SISTER never did materialize for
the funeral, which took place that Wednesday. In attendance were Abigail, the Cranches, and myself. I had not seen Mr. Thayer since I had arrived home, and was informed that he had left for town the day of Dr. Flynt’s death. Now Cleverly had disappeared as well, leaving word that he had business in town that could not be put off. I thought it odd that the two men who had arrived with Flynt should now be absent for the poor man’s funeral. While they had been strangers to one another, having arrived all in a convergence, they had been much thrown together at the Cranches’ and Quincys’, and by all accounts had become great friends.

When I finally was able to visit Abigail the following day, she greeted me with a storm of tears, just as if she had not seen me for a year. She gave me a detailed account of what had transpired in my absence. In particular, she spoke of that final dinner at the colonel’s on Sunday. After a fine meal of roast fish and savory tart, she, Mary, Mrs. Quincy, and Martha had retired to the south parlor, the one in which Colonel Quincy himself stared down at them from a very fine likeness above the mantel. Across the hall, the men had gone on talking and drinking until late in the evening.

“I’m ashamed to say we spied on them from time to time. For how long is one expected to speak of the season’s style in ladies’ bonnets or the best way to mend a petticoat?”

“You ask a rhetorical question.”

“Very well, Lizzie. But listen. These men discussed the British offer for a truce. For the most part, they were entirely of one mind. Although,” she added thoughtfully, “there was a slight altercation over the relative merits of His Excellency. Things got rather heated.” She looked at me as if there were perhaps some meaning to all of this.

“But Abby, what does it signify? Gentlemen speak such nonsense every evening of the year.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I have no idea.”

I, however, continued to wonder at whether Dr. Flynt’s death might have had something to do with the altercation over His Excellency’s merits. It seemed far-fetched, but not entirely so. However, I thought it prudent not to share my thoughts with Abigail just then.

After Dr. Flynt’s burial, and with no other deaths for several days, a terrified parish began to return to its normal activities. Martha and I had a great deal to do on the farm, and for two weeks following these events we worked eighteen-hour days with scarcely a break in between.

We struggled mightily that parched summer to keep the potatoes, corn, and fruit trees sufficiently watered, but it was simply not possible. How little I desired visitors in the midst of these struggles can hardly be overstated. I was thus in a truly baleful mood when Mr. Cleverly decided to pay a call one morning.

It was a fine morning, if hot. The unseasonable heat reminded me of May of ’75, when Jeb left me, never to see me more.

Cleverly was perspiring. He wore a simple white shirt and linen breeches; his fair hair was combed and handsomely tied with a bow. And, no doubt, in his heart was the hope of a dish of tea or mug of cider for his troubles.

I glanced at Martha. Seeing him, she glowered beneath her thick brown eyebrows.

“I suppose you must greet him,” she said.

“I can think of nothing else, except to pretend I have not seen him.”

I began to dust off my pinafore when Cleverly leapt into our potato patch.

“Good day,” he said, bowing to us both. “Nothing I like better than the sight of women working.”

“Nothing I dislike more than the sight of an able-bodied man
not
working,” Martha replied.

“Come, come, we each work in our own ways.”

“And what might you be working at?” she asked with rude bluntness, looking over her shoulder at him but not ceasing her arduous labors.

“If you make me a dish of tea, Miss Miller, I will tell you.” Cleverly smiled winningly.

“It grows hot. Martha”—I glared at her, setting my basket down—“come.”

She knew what I wanted: a civil tongue. Cleverly, amused, followed us into the house. I bade him sit in the parlor, but he had no wish to sit. Rather, he walked about, poking into everything as we put the kettle on.

“Or would you rather a glass of cider?” I suddenly inquired. It was a hot day, and I was not heartless enough to make a man suffer, even an arrogant one. I myself was already drenched and had no great desire to find myself before the fire.

“Oh,
je l’ignore
. I am indifferent—yes, cider, I think. Thank you.”

Martha removed the kettle, scattered the gathered coals, wiped her brow, and went to the cellar to fetch a pitcher of cider.

The cider was cool, and we drank it gratefully, especially knowing as we did that we would likely not get a new batch that year.

Cleverly sipped his drink, sighed, and sat back in the chair as if he might just stay all day. He looked about him, and his eyes came to rest on Jeb’s musket, which hung on the wall.

“A fine musket, Miss Boylston. It is yours?”

I might have corrected him on his address, but I merely replied, “It was my husband Jeb’s. He died on Breed’s Hill.”

Cleverly paused a moment. “Yes, I have heard. I am sorry for your loss. You know how to use it?”

“Indeed I do. I have improved my aim by practicing on crows. You know, our town now pays us to get rid of them.”

“I didn’t know. A handy sport. I myself do not know how to use one. Perhaps you might show me some time.”

Martha had taken up her mending, not wishing to waste our precious daylight. She glanced up momentarily at the sound of my nervous laughter.

“And what would someone like yourself want with a musket?” I inquired, unable to keep the derision from my voice.

“Do you mock me? I detect a distinct note of mockery.”

Mr. Cleverly crossed his muscular legs, rubbed his hands together, and cocked a pretty smile at me.

“No, not at all,” I said. Then I could not help it—I burst into laughter again. Oh, it felt good to laugh. The Devil knows his work!

“Go ahead, laugh all you like,” Mr. Cleverly said affably, waving at me. “But you’re right; the work I do requires more brain than brawn. And why should I be ashamed of that?”

“What work is that, Mr. Cleverly?” Martha asked, not looking up from her sewing.

At this, Mr. Cleverly leaned forward, as if he had been waiting for the question. “I promised to let you in on the secret. Well, the colonel could have told you, had you asked him. Or Mr. Cranch. For they are by now both well acquainted with me. I am unfortunately not at liberty to speak of it beyond telling you what is common knowledge: I work for General Sullivan.”

“General Sullivan?” I could not help exclaiming. “Is he not at this moment in Newport?”

“Ah, I remind you that I can say no more. But you shall see me come and go.”

“A spy, then.” I smiled, secretly gratified. I fervently wished to tell him my suspicions regarding the death of Dr. Flynt, but held my tongue.

“It is said the Devil can be many places at once,” Martha muttered.

“Martha!”

“I’ll say nothing more.” He tightened his lips and glanced back at the musket.

Martha did not seem too impressed. She merely scowled while I marveled at the power a grudge had over my little friend.

“Well, if you’re a spy, you had best be careful, for Braintree is a hotbed of Toryism. Indeed, your namesakes were most vocal in that regard.”

“Yes, I have heard of the Braintree Cleverlys from Mr. Cranch. They are thankfully no relation of mine.”

“I suppose our policy of live and let live is the Christian one, though it grows more and more difficult for them to remain. Were Abigail to have her way, she would round up all the Vezeys and Cleverlys and put them on the next ship bound for England.”

Cleverly smiled genially, then looked at Martha. “You are very busy today, Miss Martha,” he observed, ready for some playful banter.

Martha scowled. “There is a great deal of work to do. No time for palaver.”

And with this, she bent so low over her sewing that her nose nearly touched the needle.

I was ready to scold her, but Cleverly suddenly tossed his fair ponytail, slapped his thigh, and exclaimed, “Ladies, I’d nearly forgotten the reason for my visit.”

“We thought it a social call,” I said. “Or perhaps to condole with us the loss of your friend.”

“It is, it is.” He frowned, but in fact it was as if he had forgotten all about Dr. Flynt’s recent death.

Cleverly continued, “You may recall from our first meeting that I am a dabbler in science and inventions. And there is one invention of mine I thought might do you a service.”

“And what is that?” I inquired suspiciously. “No elixir that contains the key to eternal life, I hope.”

“No, no,” he said, his blue eyes glittering with flirtatious mischief.

“Then what?” I asked again, curious in spite of myself.

He stood and peered out of my kitchen window upon the dunes. I could not help noticing his strong jaw, his cleft chin, his fine brow.

Mr. Cleverly turned ’round. “If you were to save one crop this summer, ladies, which would it be?”

Martha looked up from her work. We exchanged glances, then said in unison, “Corn.”

“Corn. Yes, yes, I suppose you must have corn. But that is so—prosaic. I shall see what can be done about your apples as well. That way, come fall, you will have no objections if I stop by for a slice of pie.”

Martha glowered at him from beneath her dark brow.

“What do you plan to do?” I inquired uneasily.

“Water them. Nothing more, Mrs. Boylston, I assure you. Water them.”

“With what shall you water them? Is there a source I know not of?” I asked, all astonishment, with hope rising in my breast. My baleful mood vanished beneath the stubborn good nature—and even better physiognomy—of dear Mr. Cleverly.

His secret made his blue eyes brighten. “You shall see by and by. I must leave you now, but will return. Might I return tomorrow?”

“If you can save our crops, of course.”

“Then return I shall. Good day to you both!” And off he went.

“I dislike him,” Martha pronounced when he had gone.

I sighed. “Oh, Martha, he seems quite amiable. Indeed, he seems quite truly patriotic.”

“Nay, madam, I know not ‘seems,’ ” she said, quoting
Hamlet
, of which we knew every word, having often read it aloud to each other.

I tried another tack. “Well, just think of it: he wishes to try out his invention on our orchards—it is diverting, is it not? Perhaps he may turn out to be a useful sort of man after all.”

“Doubtful,” Martha muttered.

“Oh, Martha. You are turning into a regular old grouse.”

“Call me what you like,” she said indifferently and, with a final sip of her cider, stepped outside, banging the door behind her.

25

LATE THAT SAME afternoon, when the hot
sun was thankfully low in the sky, we made ourselves a simple supper of soft cheese and turnip greens. I had just glanced across at Martha, thinking she looked particularly pale and drained, when a carrot-topped boy I did not recognize rode up to our house and alit, a message in his hand. It was from Bessie.

“Oh, Bessie!” I cried happily. I thanked the messenger and offered him a glass of cider, which he accepted gratefully. As he eyed our supper, I offered him some of that as well, which he also accepted.

“Did you see her?” I asked the boy.

“I did, ma’am,” he said, his mouth full of food.

“And is she well?”

“She seemed so, ma’am.”

With relief, I sat waiting for him to finish his meal and be gone so I could read my letter in peace.

He seemed disinclined to get back on his mare and was no doubt hoping to stop the night, but Martha and I did not encourage him. He soon left, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve and thanking us for the refreshment.

Once he was gone, Martha sighed and said she would lie down; she was all done in.

“Are you unwell?” I asked.

“Oh, no. Nothing a few moments’ rest won’t cure.”

She unloosed her bodice, undid her thick brown hair from its knot, removed her shoes, and lay down on the bed. The evening was warm, but I noticed her pull the bolster over her.

I went to read my letter.
“
Dearest Miss
,”
it began in a very poor hand.

I have news as must gladdin your heart. Forgiv my hastey pen, but Master Jon Steadman stands here awaitin’ to be off.

I have made the inquerees you instructed and have just now heard from Mr. Steadman that, accordin’ to his Contact, there is, alive as of this writing, one Henry Lee on the frigate Canta—Canta whachamacaulit as whats been these three years in the West Indies and other distant Ports. I know naught else, but Mr. Steadman says your letter this time should find its way through to him, and you can expect a reply come autumn.

“My brother lives!”

As for other news—

“What other news could I possibly wish to hear?” I exclaimed, yet read on.

Giles is well and will soon grow rich enough to buy your estate and kick us both off’v it. Mr. Boylston, I have heard, does poorly, but no worse than when you were here. And I have heard reports of Mr. Miller at the house from Cassie as says he has been calling upon Miss Eliza. There is whispers among them as he has an idea to save her from her circumstances. What circumstances could they mean, d’you think?

I had little knowledge of Thomas Miller, but I thought it low indeed to trick a young man, however reckless, into marriage. Unless she had told him, and he accepted her dire circumstances?

But my mind returned to the first part of Bessie’s letter. My brother! My dearest, sweet, rash, impetuous Harry. Alive!

I moved to wake Martha, for it was not the kind of news one can long keep to oneself.

“Martha,” I said, shaking her. “Martha, my brother lives!”

She groaned but did not otherwise wake. Finding her hot to the touch, I thought to open her bodice and was horrified to discover no less than two dozen angry eruptions covering her torso. She had the distemper, and a serious case.

For two weeks, I thought I would lose her. Such diseases are often stronger for the delay. Had she had the illness ten years earlier, it would not have been nearly so grave. I spent my hours keeping her fever down by applying wet cloths to her entire body. The cool cloths, plus the willow bark tea, kept her this side of life. But she could keep nothing down and at times did not seem to know where she was. The pustules by now were everywhere—beneath her eyelids, in her mouth, on her groin, between her toes. They were eating her alive.

I slept but little, watching her writhe and moan, doing what I could.

“Really, it is hardly necessary,” she would whisper as I ministered to her.

“It is necessary, Miss Miller, if you wish to stay this side of the grave.”

“No, please. I cannot, I cannot,” she would repeat, for she was in such distress of body and spirit there were times it seemed death might have been preferable to her.

One night I felt certain that Martha was expiring. I sent word to Abigail and to Dr. Tufts in Weymouth. I had not the arrogance to assume I knew everything and did not want it upon my conscience were she to die.

I could not keep her fever down. She shook, she trembled, and her teeth clacked together. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and by the time Dr. Tufts and Abigail arrived, they found us both so ill they could not at first tell who was the patient.

Dr. Tufts asked us to excuse him for a moment, and Abigail sat quietly, bonnet in hand, in my parlor.

“You are ill yourself, Lizzie. Why have you not called upon me?”

“I didn’t wish to bother you. You have your own affairs.”

“In time of need, you know that your affairs are mine.” Even Abigail could see I was too beaten down for her to scold me as she might usually have done.

“I know.”

“Though I could do nothing more for her, there are always those willing to help you.”

“I know,” I said again, ashamed, because had things been reversed, I would certainly expect Abigail to call on me. Indeed, I would have been hurt had she not.

“I am used to handling things alone.”

“Too much so, I’m afraid.” She sighed.

I’d written to Thomas Miller several days earlier, but apparently my message had gone astray, as it was only that day that he received news of his sister’s illness. Just as Dr. Tufts was examining her, Mr. Miller’s large form came crashing through the door, the larger, it seemed, for its passionate haste.

“Where is my sister? Is she gone? Am I too late?”

He was dressed in a pale-blue silk costume. Apparently he had been on his way to a formal event. But his eyes and hair were wild, and he had forgotten to button his shirt. I caught a glimpse of a hairless chest glistening with perspiration.

“No, no, no. Calm yourself.” I stood. “The doctor is with her.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” He sank into a chair, noticing as he did so the unbuttoned shirt. After he had buttoned it, his eyes looked imploringly at me, but I had nothing to tell him.

Dr. Tufts came out of the kitchen then, quietly shutting the door behind him.

“She sleeps,” he said.

Thomas looked at me in astonishment. “Has she not had a doctor before now?”

Abigail and I looked at each other. I suddenly felt stricken: perhaps I had left her in my own care too long.

Intervention from these thoughts came from Dr. Tufts himself: “Mrs. Boylston has done as much as I could have, maybe more. I believe she has saved your sister’s life. But now only time will tell.”

“May I see her?” Thomas begged. “I had the distemper as a child. There is no danger.”

“Wait until she wakes. Sleep is beneficial. I made to bleed her, but she pushed my arm away and would not have it.”

I smiled to myself. Martha and I had spent many an hour discussing what I believed to be the utter uselessness of that popular cure. More often than not, I told her, it meant the end of the poor body being bled.

Dr. Tufts left with Abigail, saying he would stop at her house until the patient was fully out of danger. I thanked him. Abigail cast me a warning look not to leave her in any further ignorance.

Their departure left me alone with Thomas Miller. For some reason, it was an awkward moment. He had untied his cravat. Having formalized one thing, he now unraveled another. The heedless effect was not greatly changed.

“Were you on your way to some event?”

“I was. A show at Faneuil Hall. It is of no importance.”

We were both quiet. Words failed me. Thomas rubbed his hands together and looked at me with his amber eyes. The jocular, teasing manner I had beheld in Cambridge was gone. His heavy dark hair had come undone, and he pushed it out of his face almost violently.

“You look worn, Lizzie,” he said.

“I was about to say the same of you. It is nothing. I’ll have time to rest when she’s well. It is the woman’s way.”

“And the man’s, at times,” he muttered. “But to take care of others and refuse all help yourself? It is not
every
woman’s way.”

“Know you a great deal about women’s ways?” I asked. “Oh, but Martha has told me you were once a great favorite among the Cambridge ladies.”

“My sister exaggerates.” He fell silent. This was not the easy banter we had enjoyed previously.

“Anyway,” I continued, “I hear that there is one Cambridge lady in particular to whom you grow much attached at present.”

I regretted my words at once, but it was too late. I saw him knot his fists and started back. Good breeding stopped him from violence, of course, either physical or verbal. But I felt the slap in his eyes when he flashed them at me.

“Shame on you, Elizabeth Boylston,” he whispered, not wishing to raise his voice. “To speak ill of one who is most vulnerable and can never walk among society again. To show no
pity
.”

“Forgive me,” I muttered quickly, turning away from him, cut to the heart by his words, yet knowing I deserved them.

But he persisted, “And should you feel the need to warn me that the Boylstons are setting a trap, I’ve been fully apprised of her condition.”

“Does she say whether she plans to keep the child?”

“It seems so.” He glanced very briefly up at me, not wanting to meet my eyes. Gentlewomen never spoke of such things with a gentleman. But here I finally felt myself on some firm ground.

“I’m glad,” I said. “It’s always best for a child born out of wedlock to remain with its natural mother, if possible.”

Suddenly we heard a weak voice calling from within. “Thomas? Thomas? Is that you I hear?”

Mr. Miller stood so quickly from the chair that he knocked it over. “Oh, forgive me!” he said, righting it and flying to Martha. “It is I. Dearest, it is no dream!”

Thomas’s visit marked a turning point for Martha, even though it spelled a week of sleepless nights for me. We parted quite formally. He bowed and thanked me for everything, neither smiling nor frowning, as neutral as the cloudless summer sky.

After he left, I could not stop berating myself for having sunk so low. I had been jealous and spiteful. And though I did not like Eliza, it had been cruel to begrudge goodwill to one so vulnerable and utterly alone. I recalled that the same blood that flowed through my Jeb flowed in her veins as well. He, certainly, had loved her and wished for me to treat her well. My nights were painful with thinking of it; my days, hardly less so. I burned with shame. Nor could I cease to think of Mr. Miller’s remarks about my always being the healer, never the one in need of healing. Did I use my gift to remain invulnerable? Perhaps I did.

Meanwhile, when news had spread that Martha would live, Mr. Cleverly renewed his visits. At first I shooed him away, but on his third visit, he refused to go.

“Please, let me in,” he entreated. I opened the door for him, and he took my hand at once. The touch of his hand was electrifying, especially to one who had not held the hand of a man in near four years. We soon walked together into the garden. He had just turned to me and was about to say something when I heard a groan from within and went running back.

“What is it?” I bent at once beside Martha. I thought she was in further distress and readied myself to call for Dr. Tufts.

“I would not accept his proposal of marriage if I were you,” she said, her breath exhausted by the long phrase.

I smiled, greatly relieved. “On the mend and meddling once again, are you? I’m delighted to see it.”

But whatever Cleverly was going to say to me that afternoon in the garden, the moment had fled. When I returned, I found him over by the well, staring at it with some intention in mind, the nature of which I could not guess.

After that day, he came and went only to tend to his invention. I saw him linger in the gardens, walking to and from the well and altogether appearing quite occupied. I paid him little mind. Martha had suffered a setback, and I was greatly occupied with her for another two weeks.