The Midwife's Revolt (37 page)

47

I AWOKE IN a dry shift and
a cool bed. It took me a few moments to realize that I was not at home but in the house of Colonel Quincy, in Dr. Franklin’s room. I knew not how long I’d been asleep.

“Ginny!” I called at once, rising. “Ginny!” Ginny soon came running, alarmed.

“I wish to dress at once.”

She nodded and soon returned with fresh stays and a fine gown of European origin. I thanked her and bade her leave. My head cleared slowly.

Thomas Miller, in the employ of Colonel Quincy these three years past. An intimate of His Excellency. My beloved Star dead, most likely poisoned by Mr. Cleverly, either out of pure spite, or as punishment for my attempts to glean information.

Unbidden, a key turned in my brain. I must have been working at the lock in my long sleep. Suddenly, I knew who had killed those men.

“God forgive her!” I moaned, sinking back onto the bed. Hearing me, Ginny and Ann came running to see what was the matter.

Mrs. Quincy sat beside me. “It is a grievous loss you suffer, Elizabeth. What a horrible, unconscionable act.”

But I was not then weeping for Star. My grief was for someone else entirely.

She had changed out of her wet clothes and was working calmly among the rows of flax. From a distance, and through her weak eyes, I might have looked quite like Mrs. Josiah Quincy. Recognizing me at last, Martha stood as if she would run toward me. But I was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. When she saw my countenance, she stopped, turned back, knelt to the ground, and resumed her work. I knelt beside her in the field and began to pull the flax with her, without a word, tying them into bundles and placing them aside to dry.

“I thought you were Mrs. Quincy,” she said at last.

“No,” I replied. “She lent me a change of clothing.”

“That was kind of her. It’s too good for flax-picking.”

Martha paused, then added, “I am deeply sorry for Star.” She did not look at me and continued to work.

“I know you are. You loved him near as much as I.”

“I did, Lizzie!” She grasped my arm. “You must believe that. I should die if you thought otherwise.”

“I know,” I said again. I kissed her on the side of her head, which calmed her. Though she might soon be abandoned by all who knew her, I would not abandon her now, or ever.

“Where are the others?” I asked.

“Eliza is within, exhausted. I changed her out of her wet frock and put her to bed. Our brothers have gone to town.”

“To town?” I asked. She stopped pulling flax for a moment and turned to me.

“Harry has gone for his ship. John Adams arrives tomorrow or the next day, and they shall be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Did the colonel not say?” A thin, wry smile began to play about her lips, as if she had expected me now to know everything.

“No, indeed. They allowed me to read a letter from His Excellency, which confirmed the plot we had all suspected. Can you believe that Mr. Cleverly is not John Cleverly at all, but that famous scientist Benjamin Thompson? Or that Mr. Thayer was the counterfeiter, Mr. Stephen Holland?”

“Of course I can believe it.” She took my hand. “I could not have done what I did had I not been convinced of these things. I’ll admit, I did not know about Cleverly until this very moment. But Thomas and I deeply suspected it.”

“And your Thomas is not what he appeared, either.”

“Nor am I.” She smiled, but it was no happy smile.

“Oh, Martha. I have many dozens of questions, but I lack the heart for conversation just now. Answer me just one thing: What are the enemy’s intentions regarding John Adams?”

Martha looked at me gently. Or rather, this stranger I called Martha Miller, spy for General Washington, killer of two men. Men who were no patriots, but dangerous enemies to the Cause and to our most beloved friends.

“The intentions of these men from the beginning, Lizzie, have been to force Adams home and to assassinate him upon his arrival. An earlier plan had been to kidnap Abigail to force John home. I put a stop to that one. The attack scheduled for tomorrow is to be but one among numerous assassinations.”

“God,” I muttered.

Martha continued. “They have known about me for some months and have sought to silence me without revealing themselves. It had little to do with you or your activities. Although,” she added, looking away momentarily, “your meeting Cleverly this last time, and recognizing him as you did, alarmed them enough to act swiftly against us.”

“Am I responsible for Star?” I said after listening to Martha’s horrifying explanation. “If so, tell me at once. I would rather at least have that upon my head than upon yours.”

“I know not,” she said, and I believed her. “It is possible that they were plotting retaliation for many months and your actions had nothing to do with it. However, consequence is the price of involvement. The only certainty in choosing to act is that there
will
be consequences.”

Martha was right. The notion that I could do good and suffer no consequences, create no victims, was a naive and dangerous one. I felt deeply ashamed, though I knew not what I might have done differently.

“In any case,” she continued, “regarding
La Sensible
, rest assured: Our men are forewarned. They shall be here tomorrow. Scores of them, along with several trusted officers of the Continental Army. We shall finally apprehend the villains.”

The Martha who spoke this most privileged information was someone far tougher, far more worldly, and far more competent, than even I had known her to be.

My heart grieved for Martha and for what she had done. But part of me could not help admiring her as well. All this time, I thought she had been my apprentice; but, in some ways, I had been hers as well.

“And Abigail? Does she know John returns tomorrow? And the grave circumstances under which he does so?”

Martha reached out and grasped my arm with preternatural force. Her eyes were hard and dark. In them I now recognized the cold, knowing look that had so wounded me when she warned me away from her brother.

“For her safety and that of her husband and child, she must know nothing. Do you understand? Breathe a word, and our months of hard work shall be for naught. Promise me.
Swear
it.”

I swore to it at once. “But has she really no idea he’s to arrive tomorrow?”

“None, I assure you. Though you very nearly gave us away with your apt conjectures the other night.”

I fell silent then, and we both gradually sank back down to the rows of flax. I could not yet make myself pass the barn and enter the house. As if reading my mind, Martha said, “Mr. Billings and two other fellows came round with a cart about an hour ago.”

She gave me no further details, and I sought none, but merely replied, “Oh, that is good.”

We bundled flax in silence for a while. The hot sun was finally going down beyond the hill, giving us respite. For some reason, the low sun made me think of Abigail, and I smiled.

“Why do you smile?” Martha asked.

“I was thinking how, bringing you to Abigail’s the other night, I had in mind to put ideas of marriage and children in your head.”

“You thought it an auspicious time to marry me off, then?”

“I’m ashamed to say I saw you in an entirely different light then, Martha. Someone who perhaps could do better than to be a poor midwife.”

I thought she would object, but she seemed to have her own thoughts upon the matter. “In a sense you are right, Lizzie. I’ve had no thoughts for the future until now. They seemed—yet seem—an impossible luxury. Perhaps there shall be
time
enough to be happy, but where? In what place? I cannot imagine it.”

I had not the lie in me to contradict her.

“I had a taste of happiness, once.” I smiled wistfully. “It was very good.”

We worked until we grew parched and thirsty and agreed we should go inside to check on Eliza.

As she rose, setting the last bundle wearily upon the pile, Martha said, “You must despise me now, Lizzie.” She swayed in the sun, for she had stood up too quickly. Martha passed a forearm over her eyes to shade them. The hair on her brown arm was quite golden.

“I don’t despise you,” I said warmly. “I know not what I feel. I am still in shock, I suppose.”

“One cannot love a murderess,” she said simply. “I love not myself, and therefore cannot expect you, or anyone else, to love me. You recall that we once discussed whether the ends justified the means.”

“I had no idea of its being of any import whatsoever. Two bored women involved in hypotheticals. But you’ve acted in a manner consistent with your beliefs,” I said resignedly.

“I knew not then what my task would be, but I knew all too well it would be heavy. If it helps you—the knowledge affords me little comfort—we had been given orders from the highest source”—here, Martha paused so that I might follow her—“to affect a soft, secret riddance of these men. Something that might alarm their brothers in treachery but not the general public, for that would merely steer sympathy to their side and make it easier for others in the ring to hide.

“Thomas could not easily conceal himself among our parish, but I could. It was Colonel Quincy’s idea, when once Abigail asked his advice about a servant for you. The deception was put into play then. The colonel was highly self-congratulatory about it.’’

“I knew you were hiding something from me. It drove me mad. But to think that I actually believed you a Tory spy
. . .
”

“Yes,” she said. “Can you imagine how I felt, every moment feeling your judging eyes upon me? Believing me the enemy, a traitor to the Cause?”

I stopped in the doorway, for I had no wish to continue this conversation within.

“Impossible to bear!” I cried, grasping her hand in sympathy. “But Martha, did you take the belladonna? I searched, only to find it undisturbed. Not after—”

“Mr. Holland,” she finished for me. “Yes, I took some, but such few grains you could not have noticed. The second time, I needed to avoid arousing your suspicions, for I knew you would discover the cause of death and check your stores. I thus took great pains to make some while you were in Cambridge. But I was rushed and inexperienced. It is why I was ill when you came upon me having a puke. I was not careful enough and must have swallowed a grain or two.”

“Oh, Martha, you fool! You might have died! Indeed, you could easily have died.”

“Lizzie, I believed my words when I spoke them those many months ago.”

“And I came to agree with you, dearest. For sometimes fighting is necessary. But murder? My mind grows befuddled at how one justifies this.” There. I had said it. I had said the word.

Martha nodded. “I have done it, Lizzie. I have taken life. And I am here to tell you how it feels. It is not something you can possibly know aforehand, however clever or designing you might think yourself. Having done it—twice—having taken life, I can report in no uncertain terms: it is
not
right. It can never be right. It is not what God intends, and when the war is over, I shall become a Quaker and endeavor to atone.”

“You can’t be serious.” The words left my mouth immediately, for, with our upbringing, she might as well have said, “I shall become a man on Mars.”

“Oh, I’m perfectly serious,” she said. Then she added, “If I am not hanged first.” She smiled ruefully, though this much I knew to be no joke.

Because I loved her, I endeavored then to shore up her spirits. I said, “If it is true that you have given up your self-love, then you have given up everything a woman can give—nay, more than is right, Martha.”

“Perhaps,” she considered. “Perhaps I have. What is to be done for it, I know not.”

What did I feel? It was too soon to say. I dared not speak more then, for fear of saying something I would forever regret. But deep within my soul I rejoiced at Martha’s repentance. With repentance there is hope of salvation, if not in this world, then in the next. I had only one dark, chill moment as I passed through the door: were our side to lose, Martha would be hanged. I shuddered, tightened my lips, and slipped inside, grateful for the cool darkness. None of us could eat my beautiful spice cake, and I fed it to a grateful crowd of chickens.