Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) by Jodi Daynard Page A

well enough.
    When, two weeks after the incident I have described, my mother announced that Mrs. Gage, wife of Governor General Gage, was hosting a ball, for the Loyal and Friendly Society, I replied coldly, “I shall not go.”
    “You shall go,” she said. Mama then called to Papa. “Mr. Boylston!” She moved out of the front parlor to knock on his study door. Papa was at his desk, peering through his spectacles at the day’s broadside. He wore that look of dismay we had come to know quite well. “Eliza says she will not attend Mrs. Gage’s ball.”
    Papa removed his spectacles and gazed up at me: “I should think yo u’d be glad to stir from this house; I imagine there’ll be good food and fine wine. Good society, too. May I ask why you avoid the event?”
    “Papa,” I began, my voice quavering with emotion, “those boys who remain in our midst are criminals and cowards. The very dregs of your so-called good society. They—”
    But before I could say more, I felt a swift jab at my ankle—Mama had kicked me! I opened my eyes wide and stared at her.
    “Eliza. I begin to think there is something profoundly wrong with you.”
    I turned to face her squarely. “Being your child,” I said with slow, cold fury, “I would not be surprised.”
    As I fled up the stairs to my chamber, I heard my father ask, “Do you think that was really necessary, Margaret?”
    “Indeed it was,” she said. “Have you not noticed how intractable, how incorrigible, she has become of late?”
    “But to say that our boys are criminals and dregs—perhaps there is a reason. Perhaps she was insulted by one of them at the Rowe’s house. The child looks far too pale . . .”
    Here, I ceased to hear them, having reached my chamber door in tears, my ankle still smarting from where Mama had kicked me.

    Mrs. Gage’s event was the last such event my parents were ever to attend. Every day thereafter, we expected an attack—instigated by Mrs. Gage’s own husband—and remained as prisoners within our own home.
    Our provincial congress was ready for war. It had already authorized the purchase of guns, munitions, powder, and cannon. Then, on February 26, a confrontation occurred between General Gage’s troops and the Salem militia, under the command of Timothy Pickering. That such a confrontation might soon occur in Cambridge, we had no doubt. Once more we nailed the planks across the windows and doors.
    The following week, we received a disturbing letter from Braintree:
     
    . . . as we were able to clear two fields before winter, I find myself free to focus on the fate of our country and shall likely soon join the Cambridge militia. This shall bring me in closer contact with you. Before then, however, I hope to plant two gardens. Apples we have in abundance, and flax as well. Lizzie shall be kept busy in my absence. She already loves Star greatly and rides him near every day.
    Rest assured, Mama, Papa, that my joy in choice of partner is complete. She is my helpmeet, my dearest friend. I have little doubt that my wife could run the entire North Parish on her own, were circumstances to require it of her.
     
    Then, scrawled across the bottom of the page, the paragon herself had written,
     
    Dear Mama, Papa, and Eliza—
     
    I am flattered by my husband’s lavish compliments, but what he could mean I know not. Let it not be a mote in your mind’s eye. I shall scold him roundly for it by and by. Ever yours, Lizzie
     
    Mother found this letter vexatious in the extreme. “Run the North Parish? What can he mean? Richard,” she said, turning to my father, “know you what he could mean by this? Imagine, leaving a woman alone on a farm—I doubt very much whether they even have a servant! Oh, how he must secretly suffer!”
    “Secretly suffer?” I objected, picking up a spoon. Cassie had served us a dinner of stewed cod and vegetables. “Jeb seems perfectly contented. Nay, more than contented. But he shall fight, if there’s a