Free The Midwife's Revolt by Jodi Daynard Page B

impatiently before my door. None of us had such carriages then in Braintree, except for Colonel Quincy, and even his was not so fine.
    Fearful, and with the basket of herbs over my arm, I made my way outside. Just as I stepped forth, a gust of autumn wind rose off the sea and blew a huge pile of leaves in my direction. The wind tugged my hair violently out of its pins. When the leaves settled and I had plucked my hair off my face, I saw Eliza Boylston step down from the carriage, helped by her coachman. I gripped my basket to me and braced myself to run.
    “I am not going anywhere,” I said to Eliza.
    But Eliza merely smiled indulgently, as if speaking to a child. “I agree—you’re not. But might we come in? We are tired after our journey, and my driver needs refreshment as well.”
    Suddenly a skinny girl, her face obscured by a large black bonnet, descended from the carriage, and I felt a swift shame that my bad manners had been perceived by a stranger. “Excuse me. I have only recently recovered from a dire illness.”
    “I’m sorry to hear it,” said Eliza, backing away as if perhaps she would reconsider entering my cottage.
    I led them inside, took their cloaks and bonnets and mitts, and bade them warm themselves by the fire. The driver, an old Negro by the name of Jupiter, unhitched the horses and led them to my barn. He then disappeared, presumably to find the necessary, and did not reappear. The girl had not yet looked up, and Eliza had not yet introduced her. I put the kettle on to boil, then inquired, “And this is Miss—”
    “Oh, forgive me. Miss Martha Miller, Mrs. Jebediah Boylston.”
    “How do you do, Martha,” I said.
    “Well, thank you, Mrs. Boylston.” She looked up just long enough to catch my eyes, then looked away. I guessed her to be about fifteen years of age.
    “Poor Martha has had a terrible time of it,” Eliza began. “She has lost her mother and father both. She has but one brother in all the world, but he has lodgings at Rowe’s Wharf. Not at all suitable for a young girl.”
    This was indeed a sad story, but as yet I had no thought of its having anything to do with me. I gave them both good hot dishes of tea with milk and biscuits. While I was unable to add sugar to the meal, I had some honey stored for special occasions. I went and fetched it in the cellar. I took a small dollop from the jar, placed it in a china cup, and served it. Going even that far exhausted me, however, and I sat myself down.
    “It’s nice honey. From the bees I—we kept.”
    “Martha”—Eliza turned to the girl as if she hadn’t heard my comment—“if you’ve finished your tea, fetch Jupiter and have him ready the carriage. I plan to depart in fifteen minutes. Tell him he may ready Star as well.”
    “Ready Star?” I stood, knocking my dish off its saucer and spilling tea onto the table. “What for?”
    “Papa wishes to have him back. Surely, having no carriage you can have no need of a horse.”
    “But I do need him—I am very often abroad helping the women of this parish. And other parishes as well.”
    “Oh, that,” she said distastefully. “I had forgotten.”
    “He was Jeb’s. I won’t give him up. You may tell your father that.”
    “If you recall, Star was a particular gift to Jeb upon his marriage.”
    “Yes, and now that he’s gone, his few things are mine,” I said, turning so that she could not see my involuntary tears. I then took a deep breath and exclaimed, “Why is it you have shown me no love or kindness since the day you met me, when every day I was prepared to love you? Why is your heart so cold?”
    “My heart is my affair,” she said stiffly, reaching for her cloak and bonnet.
    “And no doubt it shall remain so!”
    Eliza merely threw her cloak about her and said, “You don’t know me. Or my heart. Martha”—Eliza turned, her long neck stretched to its full swan-like length, her color high with pique—“tell Jupiter we’re going.”
    “Yes,