The Midwife's Revolt (21 page)

Mary, Richard, and Billy were there, as were Mr. Cleverly and Mr. Thayer, who apparently had just returned from his trip. He was as stooped and sullen as ever and offered no details about either his absence from or his return to Braintree.

The Cranches greeted us with delight. “Are you ready to discuss Hamlet’s madness?” Richard asked good-naturedly.

Overhearing Richard Cranch, Mr. Cleverly frowned. Perhaps he had not counted on having competition for my attentions that evening. He moved to a corner of the parlor and spoke quietly with Mr. Thayer. A few moments later, Cleverly greeted both me and Martha with a perfunctory nod. He proceeded to glance periodically in Richard’s direction, however, with a displeased expression.

“And do you not believe that Hamlet came to his madness honestly?” Richard was asking. “I, too, should go mad were I to see a ghost.”

“Hamlet is as sane as you or I,” I replied.

“Indeed,” Abigail agreed. “He merely dissembles in order to get close to the king. How else can one get close to those in power?”

“You may both be right,” Richard conceded amicably. “And yet I do believe it would unhinge one to get a glimpse of the afterlife. It would put all our assumptions into question, would it not?”

I glanced at Mr. Cleverly, who now conversed with Colonel Quincy. It seemed as if he would ignore us all evening. After dinner, the entire party retired to one room. At this point, I felt free to tell the colonel the excellent news about my brother. “But I cannot imagine why he never wrote to me before,” I said. “It was so cruel of him to leave me wondering whether he was dead or alive.”

“My dear girl,” replied the colonel, blowing on his cigar, “many of our ships find it disadvantageous to have their persons and whereabouts known.”

“
Our
ships?”

“I have heard tell of the
Cantabrigian
. It is an important supplier to Washington’s army. Did you not know?”

“Not at all! I thought him pirating hapless merchants in the West Indies.”

“West Indies—is that what he told you?” the colonel guffawed. “Mind you, it’s not all altruism what those fellows do. I’d say rather about half and half.”

“Half and half?” I inquired.

“Half the stuff goes in their own pockets. The other half goes to Washington. Or perhaps a little less.”

“You mustn’t be so fastidious, dear,” added Ann, who had been following our conversation in silence. “I seem to recall your ancestors pocketing all of their haul.”

He waved her way and bellowed, “A different time, that was. Entirely different!” Ann referred to the fact that the Quincy wealth stemmed in great part from the colonel’s father, John Quincy, who acquired a fortune on a privateering vessel back in the 1740s.

Suddenly, Mr. Thayer shuffled toward us.

“A bad wind blows our direction,” whispered Martha.

Thayer was upon us, bowing before the diminutive Abigail. “Excuse the interruption, ladies, but I merely wished to inquire of Mrs. Adams whether she has heard yet from her husband. Mr. Cleverly and I were just discussing the topic.”

Abigail smiled. “Do you know Mr. Adams?”

“Only by reputation, madam, of course. No, we simply wish him well and wish him a safe and productive journey.”

During this stiff speech, Mr. Thayer did not smile. His face had an altogether alarming look—so much so that I could see he made Abigail anxious. I decided then that people who are unable to smile really should not place themselves in society. At least, not in the company of women. Let their own sex be importuned by them!

“I have not heard from him directly, but I have heard from someone who chanced to meet with John and John Quincy and pronounced them well. Why, do you know anything to contradict this report?”

I knew her well enough to hear her heart race with anxiety, and I secretly cursed Mr. Thayer.

“No, indeed. Certainly not. We are glad to hear of it. Very glad. Who was it you said saw him?”

One more question and I would punch him with my own fist.

“I didn’t say, sir.” She smiled.

“Oh, leave the poor woman be,” interjected Mr. Cleverly, who until this point had said not a word to any of us. He then returned to the other end of the parlor, casting me a backward glance. Abigail and I merely shrugged at each other, and a certain look in her eye made it difficult for me to keep from giggling.

Apparently Richard then felt the need to apologize for Abigail, for he said, “I’m afraid, Thayer, that our womenfolk have grown as tough as shoe leather.”

“Richard!” cried Mary, appalled, certain her husband had offended the esteemed Mrs. Adams.

“Fear not, Mary.” Abigail smiled again, understanding, as I did, that Richard’s refusal to defer to her was, in fact, a sign of his love and respect. “Richard is right. Still, I trust no one these days, I’m afraid. Especially not where it concerns my husband.”

“You are prudent, dear,” said Colonel Quincy, and we then passed on to other topics.

26

“YOU TRUST NO one, but I am
to trust this man Cleverly, about whom I know hardly more than you know of Mr. Thayer?” I scolded Abigail the next day as we pulled my flax—what patches had not already died.

There was a breeze off the ocean, and the gulls squawked. Martha was well, and my brother was alive. I thanked my Maker for having precious little to complain of, though in the back of my mind Dr. Flynt’s death still nagged at me.

“I did not say trust him,” she mused. “I merely think you must begin at least to consider marriage. You cannot go on as you are forever. With the summer we have had, I fear for you this winter.”

“And you think Cleverly is the right sort of man for me? He is handsome, I admit.”

Abigail smiled. “He is that, but he also has a brilliant mind. You need someone who is your equal intellectually. A woman needs a true partner, not just a keeper, if she is to be truly happy.”

“It seems he has not read
Hamlet
,” I said. “He was silent and sulking while Richard and I conversed, as if I belonged to him and none other.”

“Yes, Lizzie. I noticed. But you cannot expect even the most educated of men to have your precise interests.”

“But not to know
Hamlet
?”

“Do
listen
, Lizzie. I have made inquiries into the Cleverly family of Stonington, New Hampshire, and they are of a very high and unimpeachable patriotic rank.”

“How did you make these inquiries?” I asked, grasping one of her tiny wrists.

“I have friends.” She smiled.

I would not have been surprised had Abigail sent a letter of inquiry. Abigail loved me, and she no doubt wished to see me married off before my youth and prospects faded.

Abigail said it seemed likely that Cleverly would propose to me. “If he does, what will you answer?” she asked.

“I know not. Truly I don’t. I hear and believe what you say. But Abigail, I cannot say that I love him. I feel I hardly know him.”

However, it had been a detestably hot summer, and I was ready to give myself up to the Devil himself if he offered relief from my chores. Furthermore, I now believe that loneliness of an intimate nature warps the mind and has us seeing phantom qualities in a man, not the truth about him.

Such was my state of mind the following afternoon when Cleverly came riding up on a fine horse. It was still miserably humid, but a breeze off the ocean whispered of cooling relief to come.

Cleverly dismounted, tied his horse to my post, and in no time at all stood stiffly, like a knight errant, in my parlor. Martha had just returned from some chore, and I was relieved not to be alone with him. But then she left me to go into the kitchen, where I heard her clumping noisily down the cellar stairs, presumably to fetch us all some cider. Cleverly took my hand and looked beseechingly at me.

“Elizabeth, shall we walk in your garden of Eden?”

“So long as you don’t expect me to share an apple with you.”

I glanced at him: he wore a clean linen shirt, and his fair hair seemed freshly washed. His face was clean-shaven and he held his chin high, as if someone were taking his measure.
What was Cleverly’s true measure?
I wondered. More to the point, could I see myself waking up beside this man?

“Believe me to be in earnest,” Cleverly began when we had moved far enough from the cottage, “when I say I didn’t come to Braintree to find a wife. But I did find you, Lizzie. I have never met such a one as you in my life. A woman so lively of mind, and so very able—”

He looked directly into my eyes. I said nothing, as no words came to mind. I could not put aside the question of Cleverly as bedfellow. Could I imagine it? I tried
. . .
and yet, I felt no warmth, no tenderness.

I was just wondering whether my lack of feeling was due to some numbness of my soul, one that might thaw with use, when fate intervened. Galloping down the lane toward us was Richard Cranch. He looked gravely disturbed.

I removed my hands from Cleverly’s and ran to him. “Richard, what is wrong?”

“It’s Mr. Thayer. He did not come to breakfast. I told a servant to rouse him.” He came close to me and said quietly, “She found him lying in his room—stone dead.”

Martha had just come up from the cellar and was carrying two stoneware mugs of cider into the parlor. Overhearing Richard, she dropped them with a crash to the floor. Cleverly leapt to her aid.

“Dead?” she asked. “But we saw him last night. He seemed perfectly well!”

“He
was
well,” blurted Mr. Cleverly from where he crouched to pick up the broken pottery. “Deuced well enough to importune Mrs. Adams.”

I recalled how the unsmiling Mr. Thayer had inquired about John Adams’s whereabouts and whether he’d reached his destination. Had that conversation been significant?

“Please come, Lizzie. We must have answers. But
quietly
. We mustn’t alarm the parish.”

“I’ll get my sack. I’m sorry, John.” Cleverly’s Christian name was John, but as I had never once used it, it sounded quite strange now. I glanced at him with what I hoped was a regretful expression.

“Of course.” He bowed.

I quickly saddled Star and followed behind Richard toward his home.

The Cranch household was in a state of turmoil. News had already spread among the servants. Poor Mary was racing about the servants’ quarters, endeavoring to stop the panicked rumors from reaching her children or beyond the house. This time, however, unlike with Dr. Flynt, I sensed that the news could not be kept quiet.

“Show me to him, if you please,” I said to Richard at once, for I had no wish to be detained by anyone.

Richard led the way up the stairs. Mr. Thayer’s chamber was on the second floor, in the back. Mr. Thayer was right where they had left him: he lay upon the bed fully clothed, as if resting. He could not have long been dead. Feeling him, he was still warm, his muscles still supple. His eyes stared straight up at the ceiling.

“Would you give me a few moments?” I said to Richard, who leaned upon the doorframe looking very grim.

“Of course,” he said. “Should I send for Dr. Tufts? Or Constable Vesey?”

“Let me examine him first,” I replied, and, in a glance, Richard understood how loath I was to set the town in a panic.

He left me then, and I took a breath, composing myself for the examination I needed to perform.

I removed Mr. Thayer’s clothing and observed him, this time writing everything down. I began with the color of his face (bluish white), lips (blue, deepening to a plummy purple at the edges), and eyes (pupils greatly dilated). I moved down to describe his torso, assessed his body temperature (eighty-nine degrees Fahrenheit), and so on, until I reached his feet.

After finishing my exam, rather than endeavoring to turn him (for now he was becoming more difficult to move), I partially covered him with a bolster that lay folded at the foot of the bed.

I took a moment to compose myself before calling Richard. I looked one last time at Mr. Thayer before covering his face: though I had never liked the man and found him humorless and ill-mannered, I pitied him now. Mr. Thayer had died of no natural illness.

It is our limitation as a species that we are often blind to that which we do not expect to see. I knew this had been the case with me. I now saw clearly what I had not seen before. Mr. Thayer had been poisoned. Like Dr. Flynt, he had been murdered. Once the notion of poison arrived in my head, it lit easily upon a drug with which I was quite familiar. I owned a vial of it myself, and it had served me well for stubborn cervixes. Now it all seemed quite obvious: the bluish tint, the dilated eyes.

Dr. Flynt and Mr. Thayer had been poisoned with belladonna.

The question now became whom one could trust to tell. The decision could no longer rest with me alone. I decided to tell Richard my conclusion and hoped I would not find myself in trouble with the local constable. Why had I not come forth with Dr. Flynt’s death, had I suspected foul play? he might ask. I had to steel myself for that interrogation.

But the first thing I needed to do was to tell Abigail, for I now believed her to be in very grave danger.