The Midwife's Revolt (24 page)

29

MARTHA RAN TO Thomas, and so great
was her relief at seeing him that she wept in his arms. I saw him obliquely, since I occupied myself with Eliza, for whom the long carriage ride had caused great discomfort. But though I made no outward notice of the reunited pair, I did notice one thing: the eyes of Thomas Miller. As he held Martha, he glanced at me briefly. It was not the jovial face I knew. Tears had pooled beneath his amber irises and threatened to careen down his face. For whom or what did he grieve? Catching me looking at him, he attempted to smile, as if to say, “All is well, truly.” I was moved but showed it not, and went inside with Eliza.

The weather was growing cool, especially at night, and I was glad I thought to give Eliza the parlor bed. In the parlor, one could easily start a fire with coals from the kitchen, and, when her sickness was upon her, I could watch her progress while continuing my work.

Eliza set her bags down; Thomas still had the trunk in the carriage. My house was cozy, with signs of industry everywhere. It was not entirely tidy, but it was clean. Not like Abigail’s house; there, if someone filched a pin in the night, she’d know it come morning.

No, my house had herbs and fruit strung up here, sewing there, and the loom and its accoutrements taking up the entire “good” parlor, along with chairs and strings set up for candle-making. In that room, the floors were never entirely clean—keeping them so would have been a livelihood unto itself.

I expected Eliza to make a cutting remark about her new abode, but she merely sat herself down on my one fine chair and said, “Thank you, Lizzie. I don’t know what I should have done had you not allowed me to come here. I think I should have died. That infernal house! I have paced its halls these many months till I thought I should go mad!”

Just then Martha and her brother banged through the front door with Eliza’s trunk.

“You may leave it here—by the bed. And Martha, could you make some tea? Hello, Thomas,” I said, for I had not yet had the opportunity to greet him.

It would be woman’s work in my home soon, and for that I would need to send Mr. Miller packing. But as he had just arrived, I thought it only good breeding to ask him to stay for tea. He accepted with alacrity, and we were soon sitting comfortably by Eliza’s side. Any dark fantasy I had had concerning Eliza’s love for Mr. Miller or his for her quickly vanished the moment I saw them together. He acted as a kindly brother to her—nothing more. When she smiled at him, it was a smile of gratitude, not love. But the real question was, What difference could that possibly make to
me
?

Martha brought us cheese and oatcakes and the one remaining jar of last year’s raspberry jam. There would be no more once it was gone.

Eliza dug in hungrily but pronounced herself full after a minute, holding a hand to her breastbone. Conversation between the four of us was awkward. All our minds save one were upon the dreadful murders, but it was knowledge I had no intention of sharing with Eliza. Martha and her brother implicitly agreed, I could tell, because when something is on one’s mind of which one cannot speak, those thoughts tend to halt speech altogether. Therefore none of us had much of anything to say.

Of course, I had a great deal to discuss with Eliza, but her forthcoming pains were nothing I cared to mention with Thomas present. Finally, looking around for some conversation, Eliza said, “You have a great number of apples. And yet, I have heard talk of a terrible drought this year.”

Here again, Martha and I looked at each other.

“A happy fluke,” I said, “and one that you shall certainly enjoy while you’re here.”

“We have had terrible shortages,” Eliza complained. “I haven’t had so much as a teaspoon of sugar these six months.”

I merely smiled. There seemed so much we could not say to one another.

Mr. Miller said, “I doubt very much if these ladies have had a slice of bread in six months, much less sugar.”

“Oh. Indeed. I am sorry. It is always more difficult in the country. But in truth, though there be goods in town, we have no money for them and must barter for everything. My dowry is gone—”

Eliza looked quite downcast for a moment, but only a moment. Then she did the most extraordinary thing: she burst out laughing. “My dowry! Imagine!”

She kept laughing and could not stop. She laughed so hard I thought she would bring on her travail, and I stood up to take charge of her.

“Martha, lie her down just there, will you? I’ll walk Thomas to his carriage.”

At first surprised by my abrupt halting of the tea, Martha caught my intentions at last. She hugged her brother good-bye for a long minute.

Eliza called out after Thomas, “Thank you, Tom! I am more grateful than I can say.” She wiped the tears of mirthful release from her eyes.

“And I wish you a—er, safe—” Thomas backed out awkwardly, bowing, his sentence left unfinished.

I followed him into the yard, as there were things I would talk to him about alone.

“She may be weak, but she is not without courage,” Mr. Miller said as he waited for his horses to be hitched to the carriage. Without, it was a crisp fall afternoon. The surface of the ocean, black and inscrutable in its depths, reflected the brilliant gold of dune grass.
It was a dark-gold color not unlike Thomas Miller’s eyes
, I thought.

“Yes,” I answered. “She complains not at all for herself. I have always believed that hardship brings out one’s true nature. It appears she is less spoiled than I thought.”

“Perhaps, in her circumstances, she merely played a part because it was expected of her.”

“Perhaps,” I replied. I looked toward the sea. Great gray herons had not yet seen fit to leave us for the winter, and they blended with the dune grass like tall shadows. Beyond the dunes, the old maples and oaks of town glowed in vivid reds and oranges. I then sought to meet Thomas’s eyes, but now he, too, was looking in the direction of the sea.

“How fares her father?” I asked.

“Very ill. Mrs. Boylston—” he began, turning toward me at last, and my heart thumped an extra beat in anticipation of what he would say. But just at that moment, Thaxter came round with the horse, which he had fed and groomed and hitched to the carriage.

Mr. Miller did not continue his sentence, and I said, “You have heard about our town treachery? I had no wish for Martha to tell anyone else, least of all—”

“A sympathizer,” he finished my sentence with an ironic twist of his mouth.

“They’ll be found and brought to justice, despite your sympathies,” I said.

He leaned up against the carriage as Thaxter waited. Then, without any warning, he grasped my hand in his and held it close. “You must be very careful, Lizzie. There are dangers. Think of me what you will, but know that whatever I may be, whatever my unfortunate circumstances, I would do nothing to harm you or those you love. It is my solemn promise.”

I felt a wrench in my heart then, I knew not why. His voice
. . .
his voice held such a different tone from the mocking one I’d heard in Cambridge! His eyes were quite level and quite grave. And his hands were warm, engulfing, and firm.

“Mr. Miller.”

He looked at me intently for a moment, then stepped into Thaxter’s waiting hands and soon disappeared up the path to the road. I stood there looking after him, puzzled at my own feelings. It was as if we had glimpsed something in each other that belied appearances. I shivered in the breeze and looked away. Then I returned to my warm house and, with some effort, turned my attention to Eliza.

As my first task, I endeavored to put aside my feelings for this woman who had once disapproved of my marriage to her brother and then treated me so poorly after his death. Her behavior was unforgivable, and yet I found it easy enough to leave the question of forgiveness for another time.

I was a practiced and knowledgeable midwife, and that is what I resolved to do: practice. To that end, I steered my patient clear of all discussion of our common family, connections, or our history. I set Martha the task of weaving a dozen clouts, which took her the better part of that day and the next.

On that first day and the ones following, I strove to improve Eliza’s state of mind. It is my experience from the many births I have attended that the outcome of a woman’s travails depends upon her mind’s preparedness.

I had not been sanguine about Eliza’s laughter. No, in it, I saw the telltale signs of hopelessness that often lie behind such outbreaks. In such a case, I did not think it prudent to be too subtle. Nor had we the time for subtleties, judging by her false pains that came and went all the day she arrived and into the next. I judged her to be but a week or two away, for the babe was fully engaged in the pelvis now.

I asked her directly, “Eliza, do you wish to live to care for your baby, should the Lord grant it come into the world in health?” It appeared that I startled her with my brusqueness.

“I wish for the child to live,” she replied sincerely. “I care little for myself.”

I shook my head and glanced knowingly at Martha, who had left off her weaving for a few moments and now sat with me in the parlor. Eliza lay propped in bed, her yellow hair loose and hanging in cascades to her waist, her full breasts and belly showing pink through the parting of her shift.

An emotional change had taken place along with Eliza’s physical transformation. That she was despairing, I had no doubt; but this despair was real—and in its authenticity, I saw a glimmer of hope for her.

“The child cannot have a good chance if you have not the will to live. While I don’t wish to frighten you, I’ve heard tell of many a mother expiring before her child was ever born. It is the saddest case of all, for she takes the healthy child with her.”

“Have you seen that happen?” she asked.

“No. But it is a frequent enough occurrence. You may choose to die some other time, if you wish, but not before the babe is in my arms.”

She sighed. “I’m not sure why it is, Lizzie, but I trust you. I promise I’ll not wish to die until—another time, as you say.”

She stretched herself and groaned on the bed, her lower back quite sore.

“Good girl. Now we have the best possible outcome to look forward to. I am very pleased. Indeed, I am.” I stood from my chair and approached the bed. “As a reward, I will now massage your aching back. Martha, help Miss Boylston turn on her knees.”

I massaged her lower back, relieving her greatly. And so we both put things aside: she, her wish to die, and I, my forgiveness of her.

It was not until her third day with us that I asked her whether the father knew of the child about to be born. We were taking our scant breakfast, Martha and I eating but half a biscuit each, while placing a morsel of cheese and two biscuits before Eliza, which we endeavored not to glance at hungrily. Eliza answered in the affirmative, letting go the old lie of his death, which I had never believed anyway.

“And was he not free to marry?” Martha inquired.

Eliza shook her head, smiling wistfully, letting me understand by her smile that it had not been a case of ravishment.

“He has no wife, if that’s what you mean.”

“Do you love this man?” I finally asked. “And does he love you?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, tears starting instantly to her eyes, “but I beg you, ask me no more questions, for I can say nothing else at present.”

Here, I ceased my interrogation, for I thought it prudent not to upset her further.

The day was quite fair for mid-October. Martha and I ventured into the fields to gather our pompions. Remarkably, they had survived the drought, though they were smaller than usual. It was in the midst of this activity that we heard a cry and rose to our feet: Eliza stood by the kitchen door in her shift. Her waters ran down her leg, forming a pool on the ground.

“Don’t be frightened,” I said. “The baby is coming.”

“But I feel no pain,” she replied, confused. “If this is the extent of a woman’s pain, then we are a miserably weak lot.”

Martha and I shared a knowing glance.

“It will come on gradually,” I said.

We then left our pompions and the golden glory of the fields surrounding us to bring another poor innocent creature into the world.

To recount the following dozen or so hours is almost beyond my narrative talents. It was a hard back labor, but Eliza bore it as I have only rarely seen among her class. She breathed with me, she rid herself of all encumbrances of shame or modesty. She ground her teeth, slammed her hand on a table—enough to bruise it quite blue—and altogether reverted to the animal that God or Nature intended us to become at these times. Those women who endeavor to remain genteel or composed have a much harder time of it, driving the pain farther inward.

No, Eliza was like a splendid madwoman—she raged, she shouted, she even cursed. Martha and I encouraged her to such an extent that anyone overhearing us might have thought we performed an exorcism.

In those days, the height of her pains would have been the traditional moment for asking the name of the father, for it was thought no woman in travail could tell a lie. But there was no lawyer present, nor did I see fit to call one. She did feel moved to utter words, however, and what she said came as a surprise. I had just told her she could push at the next pain when Eliza blurted out, “I am sorry I did not love you as I should have. I was wrong. It wasn’t you. I couldn’t bear to lose—to be left alone—” Her pains came again, and she grimaced, just managing to say, “Can you forgive me and be my sister?”