The Midwife's Revolt (29 page)

Mr. Jones had been a Tory sympathizer. Three years earlier, his tavern, the Golden Ball, had been broken into and vandalized by a group of violent men disguised in face paint and masked. They had smashed bottles and windows, destroyed furniture. They turned out to be Paul Revere’s men. But if Mr. Jones had any political convictions remaining to him, I neither heard nor saw a hint of them that evening.

The smell of good food and cheer surrounded me; on the day’s menu was turkey. I had another rum punch as it gradually grew dark. I spent a pleasant several hours alone with my own thoughts; I cannot tell you these thoughts now but recall a feeling of hope that suffused itself with the rum. It was in such a hopeful mood that I finally broke down and ordered the turkey, giving up my last earthly sou
to do so. I nearly swooned when this turkey—moist, succulent, and smothered in gravy and potatoes—arrived. Oh, it was nearly as good as love!

I grew warm within, but alas, in those hours, learned nothing save perhaps for the fact that our few remaining Tories were sitting out the war in excellent good cheer.

Giles emerged at the same time I did with a scowl upon his face. Although it had grown dark, the moon was rising bright and round. When I asked him how he had fared, he merely said, “A coarse lot, ma’am.” I could see his faint distaste and smiled, recalling that Giles had no more been among “coarse” servants than I had.

“Well, but do you have news?”

“Aye,” he whispered, leaning in toward me, “but none as I dare recount here.”

“Shall it wait, then, till we are safely home?”

“It’s in here and shall not get out.” Giles raised a finger to his gray noggin.

It was seven in the evening now, and the coach stood waiting. Just as we were to board, I turned back to the tavern to find someone staring at me. I squinted against the darkness: was that Mr. Miller inside the doorway, standing next to an elegant young woman? Was it he? But it could not possibly be.

I looked briefly toward the carriage. The coachman had extended his hand for me. I turned back to the tavern entrance, but the man and the woman had disappeared inside.

I was shaken by this apparition, having banished Mr. Miller from my mind—or so I thought. Now, on the slow, dark ride back to Cambridge, I recalled our embrace. Had that been a dream, too?

I must have dozed off, because Giles soon nudged me awake. I had been leaning on his shoulder, drooling slightly.

“We’re nearly there, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Giles, I’ve not been
snoring
, have I?” I whispered to him and ignored his mistaken address.

“No, miss.”

“That’s a relief, at any rate!”

I readied myself to descend. Once on the ground, we walked quickly home, for it was now quite, quite cold.

We ran the last three blocks from the Common, Giles barely keeping up and gripping the box against his chest. Once we were inside, heaving for breath, Bessie brought us tea and got a fire started for us. When we had thawed out, Giles finally unburdened himself of his intelligence. Bessie and I leaned in, the better to hear him.

“Well,” he began, “there was a great deal of nonsense at first. But I did learn two things. The first is that our Isaac Jones is a Tory no longer. It seems he takes the better bet. He now delivers supplies to the French in New York.”

“Then I was entirely mistaken,” I said. I felt foolish for my ignorance. “I’ve wasted your time, Giles.”

“No, miss, wait a moment. There was a servant by the name of Billings. This Billings, of New Hampshire, began speaking to a mate about someone named Holland. This Holland, well, he’d launched a scheme with someone by the name of Benjamin Thompson. Billings had seen both men with his own two eyes, he said. In Boston. I set the conversation to memory, Miss Elizabeth, recalling as how you mentioned Mr. Holland once.”

“And what were these men up to, did he say?”

“Only as they had a plan backed by ‘high money.’ What means that, ma’am? ‘High money’?”

“Someone of position. Someone with the means to finance such a scheme. And?” I encouraged Giles to tell all he knew.

“That’s all,” he said, folding his hands expressively, as if closing a book.

Bessie was unimpressed. “A day orf gadding about fer
that
?” she spat. “Why, I coulda told ya as much meself.”

“Be silent, Bessie,” I scolded. “
You
had not the courage to go.”

I turned back to Giles. “You did excellent well, Giles. Better than I. Thanks to you, we have another name: Thompson, of New Hampshire. And we know the Golden Ball to be no threat to us. That is a step forward, I should think.”

A little life came back into Giles’s dejected countenance. “Thank you, ma’am. Anything for the Cause,” he added.

It was late, near ten o’clock. We retired soon thereafter. I resolved to take our findings to the one person I trusted most: Richard Cranch.

As it happened, Richard and Mary were staying at a friend’s house in town, having been successfully inoculated against the distemper. Mary still had some eruptions and fever when I arrived at their door, but I was able to greet Richard warmly in the parlor. It was good to see my dear friends.

“Lizzie, how the sight of you gladdens me!” Richard exclaimed.

He offered me refreshment and, when I had declined, made certain that the servants had gone and that the doors to the parlor were shut. I then told my friend about Giles’s findings, and also of my having seen both Mr. Cleverly and Mr. Miller at the Rose and Crown tavern.

“Mr. Miller recognized me and pursued me into an alleyway,” I added.

“Into an alleyway?” Richard asked, alarmed. “Was it a threat? Goodness, Lizzie, you take your life in your hands.”

I had told too much, and yet not enough. I blushed deeply, then hastened to add, “No, no. He meant to warn me, to exhort me to take care. He said a tavern was no place for a lady.”

“And with that I really must, if nothing else, agree with the man.”

Richard was thoughtful as I told him about Giles’s findings at the Golden Ball.

“I shall make inquiries regarding this Thompson of New Hampshire,” he finally said. “I must also warn Cleverly, if I can find him. I would not have his death on my conscience. Why is the fool in Boston?” Richard muttered to himself. He then glanced at me. “But perhaps I err to mention him in your presence?”

“Not at all.” I smiled. While Cleverly’s regard for me had turned out to be superficial, mine for him had clearly been equally so. No, I mused with an ironic smirk, I had no feelings whatsoever for our patriot, and all the feeling in the world for his enemy!

“And Lizzie,” he continued, “I won’t patronize you by scolding, but if you don’t value your own life, think of those who do. I hesitate to tell you, but we’ve had deaths in your absence.”

“Deaths? Not more poisonings, surely?”

“No, no. Women—”

I caught his drift at once. “Women in travail, you mean?”

“Precisely. Women and their innocent babes. There is some woman calls herself a midwife come down from Milton to profit from your absence. Of her three deliveries, two have ended in tragedy.”

My heart cramped in my chest; I could say nothing.

Suddenly, Mary appeared through a crack in the parlor door. I ran to her, and she took my hand. Hers was hot with fever.

“Lizzie, what Richard says is true. You’re greatly needed. Leave revolution to the men and come home.”

I embraced them both and said I would think upon it. Richard said he would return the next day to Braintree. I made my way back to Cambridge, where Bessie boiled me a hot bath and later shared her supper with me in the kitchen, by the hearth.

To say I was torn in my desires is to discover the weakness of words. I wished to continue at the Golden Ball. I felt certain no one there suspected my identity. I wished to see Thomas again, or at least to ascertain whether it was he I had seen in the tavern doorway. But I also longed for home—my real home, on the farm, with Martha and Eliza and Johnny.

One wish, at least, was answered. The following morning, I was awakened by the sound of a ruckus at the front door.

Bessie had let me sleep unaccountably late—it was near nine in the morning! I wrapped my dressing gown about me and padded out into the hall in my bare feet.

“But the missus ain’t awake yet,” I heard Bessie say.

“So wake her.” This was a man’s voice.

“That I wil’na do—it’ll be a full hour before she’ll be fit to receive anyone.”

The man would not be gainsaid.

“She may greet me in her shift, for all I care!”

“Oh! Scoundrel!”

I arrived just in time, it seemed, to prevent my loyal servant from coming to blows with Mr. Miller. I stared at him and clutched my dressing gown to me. My hair was in a braid down my back.

“You look like a truant schoolgirl.” He smiled.

“I am risen unusually late. I must dress—” I turned as if to retreat to my chamber.

“Oh, do not bother on my account,” he said, glancing with sudden modesty at the floor.

“Not on your account, Mr. Miller. On mine.”

As I went to dress, I heard Bessie say, “She’ll not catch her death if I can help it. She’s been gallervanting about in the cold—”

“Bessie!” I interrupted. Bessie, believing me to have gone a fair distance, nearly dropped the pitcher she was holding.

“I’m sure you’re right, Bessie,” said Thomas Miller. He glanced at me briefly. “I myself have come upon her mid-gallervant.”

To me, he said, “Dress, then, Elizabeth. I shall keep.”

“Please serve the man some tea and cakes, Bessie. I shall return.”

Oh, my heart, how it pounded to see him! But what could he want? On what pretext could he be wishing an audience now? I thought surely it must be to express his remorse, to apologize for his grievous lapse of judgment in the alleyway. Yes. And it was the strange truth of our times that I would gravely accept his apology for giving me one of the greatest moments of my life.

Ten minutes later, I glided into the parlor with mincing, practiced steps. Seeing me, Mr. Miller began to laugh until tears leaked from his eyes.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, still laughing but trying to stop.

“What do you find so amusing, Mr. Miller?”

I sat across from him as Bessie entered with the tea. “I—” here, as Mr. Miller looked at Bessie, something in her appearance, some grave if utterly false propriety in her manner, got him roiling again. He put his hands out before him. “Forgive me,” he said. He could literally speak no more, and waited until Bessie had left, though she did not do so before casting me an alarmed look, as if to ask,
Should a doctor be called?

“It is all right, Bessie,” I assured her. “You may leave us.”

“I’ll be in the garden, ma’am, and Giles is in the cellar. If you need us, that is,” she added.

“I shan’t need you. You may go.”

When Bessie was gone, I was finally able to ask, “What, pray, has prompted you to such an
éclat de rire
? Or daren’t I ask?”

“Forgive me, forgive me,” he pleaded, looking at me through an outstretched hand. “It’s just that your walk, those little steps you took just now, struck me as
. . .
”

I cut him off before another attack came upon him.

“Mr. Miller,” I said severely, “you’ve awakened me and I have not yet had my tea, though granted it is unconscionably late. Pray do not judge me into the bargain.”

“Oh, I do not judge
you
,” he said. “Your steps were perfect.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only that you could no more convince me you are a Brattle Street lady than a dirty messenger boy.”

His words mortified me. I had been born and bred on Brattle Street, and my mother would have been counted a noblewoman in her native England. She had taught me perfect manners. Indeed, I had spent much of my eleventh year with a book on my head, walking from room to room until I would forget it was there.

Of course, my anger stemmed from the fact that I knew Mr. Miller to be right. “Kindly state your purpose here at this early hour, Mr. Miller. Surely you must have had some purpose, if only in your own mind.”

He saw my face and reached out to me. “I’ve given offense. Oh, Lizzie, I had not meant to. Indeed, I—”

I looked at his eyes, at the mouth I had kissed, now pursed in dismay.

“I meant simply to ascertain whether you had
. . .
recovered
. . .
from the tavern. I thought you might have suffered some ill effects.”

So, an apology for his boldness in kissing me would not be forthcoming. And while neither the gesture nor its acceptance would have been sincere, the notion that he thought me ill-bred enough to continue on without such an apology further infuriated me.

“That was full one week ago,” I said. “Six days,” he contradicted.

“Why seek me out now, so belatedly?”

“I wished to come the very next day,” he asserted, leaning toward me.

“And why did you not?”

“I—I did not feel myself welcome.”

“And do you now? Feel yourself welcome?”

Mr. Miller grasped my hand and, lowering his voice, said, “I feel I am trapped in a game, a game I do not even wish to play,” he said, far from his previous nervous laughter.