The Midwife's Revolt (13 page)

Finally she said, “All right. Enough. Ready yourself for bed, dearest. You will weep yourself into a terrible cold, and then you will give it to the rest of us.”

I smiled, though my face must have been frightful.

“Dr. Franklin believes we must sleep with an open window.” I sniffed.

“Then we must do as Dr. Franklin says.”

She nodded toward the window, bidding me open it slightly. Then she patted the edge of her bed to let me know that I might stay the night if I chose.

And, with this brief exchange, our trust was reestablished. I forsook Martha that night, and Abigail and I slept soundly, snuggled against each other, until late the next morning.

I wish I could say that the painful argument with Abigail spelled the end of my suspicions about Martha, but it did not. However, I am of such a nature that, once an idea enters my head, it is like a tapeworm—no amount of pinkroot will rid me of it.

Martha stayed on several days with her brother, and when she finally returned to snowy Braintree, she looked refreshed in spirit. My jealous love of Abigail had, if anything, grown since I’d quit Boston. I asked, “How was your visit?”

“Oh, wonderful. Lizzie, if only
. . .
” Here, she gave an enthusiastic rendering of that happy reunion, about which I asked not a single question, and she soon fell silent. While at first Martha might have ascribed my coolness to indifference toward her brother, she quickly sensed my coolness toward her person, as well. The house felt cold and lonely, though we both were at home.

We had been back in Braintree but a few days when Abigail called upon us to say that she had, that same morning, received a letter from her husband with both the most excellent and the most bitter news.

“Well, don’t stand there—tell us,” I said, ushering her in from the freezing cold. It had begun to snow, and I had tarried nearly all night delivering a woman of her first child.

Martha, who had tarried all night with me, stood by the fire. She was making bread, and it was nearly done. But she had hardly slept, and twice already that morning she had burned herself in the task of retrieving the loaves from the back of the oven. It was one of those blasted old fireplaces that often consumed its poor housewife in flames. Martha seemed to have grown particularly careless with herself; her right forearm oozed two nasty open blisters.

When she saw Abigail, though, her wan face lit with joy.

She wiped her hands on her apron and went to greet her.

Having set her cloak and hat over the back of my tall chair, Abigail began, “Well, the good news is that John shall be home early this year. In a fortnight!”

“That’s wonderful,” I agreed, smiling. “And what is the bad news?”

I set before us three bowls of a hearty ham-and-bean soup with Martha’s warm rye bread, upon which we greedily lathered sweet butter.

“The bad news is that he has just received word that he’s to leave again in February. For France.”

“France!” I stared at her. “You’ve agreed to this?”

“Do I have a choice?” She smiled. “It’s a mission of the utmost significance.”

“What is in France that could be of such importance?” I asked in ignorance. Abigail looked at me, aghast.

“What is in France? Why, France is in France, Lizzie,” she said. “John will be instrumental in—”

“Abigail!” I stood, rudely interrupting her and making Martha jump. Martha spilled her spoonful of soup and burned herself for the third time that day.

“Abigail,” I said again, more softly this time, “I have full forgotten the cider. How stupid of me. Martha, would you kindly fetch some cider from the cellar?” I handed her a pitcher for the task.

Though exhausted to the point of faintness, Martha complied without complaint. “Of course,” she said. “I’m thirsty as well.”

Once she was gone, Abigail hissed, “Lizzie, what is the matter with you? Have you gone mad?”

“Indeed, I’m not mad. But don’t you think it unwise—terribly unwise—to reveal something of such patriotic import, some fact upon which our very success or failure depends, to the beloved sister of a man in General Howe’s employ?”

She moved close to me. “Lizzie, you’re incorrigible. Surely we have enough problems without suspecting each other at every turn. This has got to stop before—”

Suddenly we both perceived Martha standing before us, holding a pitcher in her hand. The cellar door was open; apparently she had never descended. She set the pitcher on the table. Her hand hovered there for a moment, shaking, as if unsure of its purpose. A bread knife sat upon the table. She took it up and held it in one fist. Her face was white when she turned to us, taking us both in. Slowly, her eyes focused on me. Neither Abigail nor I uttered one syllable.

“You think I’m a traitor, don’t you?” she asked me.

“I—”

“Say it. You think my brother a spy and I his willing accomplice. Since you hardly know your own brother, you cannot conceive that I might love mine without the least regard to his politics. Perhaps you cannot imagine it. Imagine laughing with one’s brother about silly things, old memories, distant hopes. Such lack of understanding I can bear, as it stems from ignorance. But what I cannot bear is the thought that you”—she stared at me—“and even you”—she turned to Abigail—“believe me capable of being disingenuous with my friends. My
sisters
. Did I not weep for you, Lizzie, when first you told me about Jeb? Did we not cry together upon hearing of the terrible retreat at New York? Did we not laugh together with joy at the news from Saratoga? You think me capable of such crocodile tears of joy and grief? What a monster I must seem to you.”

“We think no such thing,” Abigail said gently.

“You may not,” she conceded, tears of misery flowing now, “but what of
her
? And to think of the bed I’ve shared with you, and the night upon night I’ve tarried by your side. Not for gain—God knows, there’s been none of that—but because I so admired you
. . .
”

“Martha,” I began, but she interrupted me.

“What will it take to convince you? Must I suffer a deep wound for the Cause, as you both have? Will you believe me true then? So be it.”

Before we could move to stop her, Martha thrust her left hand out and sliced across her palm as a butcher cleaves a fillet. And though the pain must have been extreme, she neither flinched nor cried out, but merely took a single sharp inhale of breath before dropping the knife and collapsing to the floor.

I ran to her, Abigail close behind. There was no time for reproach. Blood flowed everywhere. I grabbed my sack and pulled out a dry cloth to press to the wound. Blood seeped through it at once, and I knew she had cut very deep.

Martha nearly fainted as I removed the bloody cloth and pressed another to the wound. After this had been accomplished, we led her toward the bed in the parlor, though she muttered it was a scratch of no consequence. Abigail eased Martha’s stays and bodice as I transferred some hot coals from one fire to another, soon warming up the room.

Martha’s eyes were open and blank as I applied a cool cloth to her face. Looking at her full on in this objective manner, like a patient, I recalled how young she was—not seventeen—and how I, although quite young myself, was the world to her: mother, sister, and friend. In my suspicion, I had robbed her of all three at once.

“Rest awhile,” said Abigail. “I’ll watch her.”

“I cannot rest,” I replied quickly. Having ascertained that the bleeding had fully stopped and that there was as yet no redness or swelling at the site of the gash, I put on my cloak and took up my bonnet and mitts. Turning to Abigail, I smiled weakly and said, “I must walk. I won’t be long.”

As I left the house, the cold wind off the sea assaulted me. I wished to see no one and headed down the dunes, making my way toward the open, iron-gray winter sky above the water. The snow was thick in places, covered by a dense, slippery crust made by a brief rain the day before. I slipped; the jagged ice scratched my calves. But my legs were numb, and I felt not the tearing of flesh. I walked across the snow toward the sea, letting the wind and the salt air slash my face. Ice froze between my wet eyelashes and nostrils and lodged in my throat and lungs with every breath; still, I did not stop.

I reflected upon my ignoble suspicions of Martha. I knew them to be ignoble, and yet I was still not convinced that she had told me all there was to tell. Some important detail was missing. Perhaps I would never know it. Was it my right to know her secrets? Martha owed me nothing. She did not owe me—nor did I merit—her most profound confidences.

I reached the town landing. It was desolate save for two old men hoisting a coffin-size crate from a dory. They grunted with the effort and soon succeeded in tying a rope twice around the heavy load and dragging it toward a waiting cart and horse. The horse’s breath made clouds in the frigid air; it stomped its foot impatiently and shivered, gazing myopically at me with big brown eyes.

I wondered what was in the crate, hoping it was sacks of flour, but doubting of it. Finally curiosity got the better of me. I inquired what lay within.

“Oh, a body, miss. That of a boy died at Freeman’s Farm, what’s family wanted him buried here.”

Freeman’s Farm had been one of the battle sites in New York a few weeks earlier. I apologized and thanked them for telling me, then turned away. It seemed an ill omen.

I held my cloak around myself as I gazed out at the black sea and black sky. The sun retreated. Men, women, animals—even the sun seemed to shrink from my company. I thought perhaps I was unfit to live. Over there, across the water, lay England, where my father had died. In that water, in its cold deep, my brother floated, whether beneath the waves or upon a ship’s deck I did not dare to guess.

As I stood at the water’s edge, a thought occurred to me: Could I envy Martha? Like myself, she was an orphan with neither money nor connections. Yet there was a difference. She had a living brother.

There is no more despicable emotion on earth than envy, yet none so common to the human heart. Could it be? Could envy have poisoned my heart so? This thought had the ring of truth in my ears.

I needed to repent my sin and beg forgiveness at once, and I returned to my cottage. I banged through the door, threw down my cloak and bonnet, placed my boots by the fire, and announced, “Martha, I’m heartily ashamed of myself. I’ve searched my soul and do believe I’ve found the source of the poison in my breast: envy! You have a brother to love, and I know not what has become of mine.”

Martha closed her eyes and nodded.

Abigail merely observed, “Your leg is bleeding.”

I looked down and, sure enough, bright-red blood spread along the edge of my petticoat.

“Come, let me stanch that before you track blood all over the house.”

After Abigail had bandaged my ankle, neither of us spoke much. And while Martha stared at the ceiling in a rigid state of hurt, I divulged that secret I had dared not say before: “Well, I suppose if John is to risk his life to make a treaty with the French, the least we ladies can do is make some good blankets for him for the crossing.”

I saw Martha blink, but she said nothing. Abigail, however, had a slight, satisfied smile at the corner of her lips.