Read Online Our Own Country: A Novel (The Midwife Series) by Jodi Daynard - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jodi Daynard
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for Mama. But Eliza,” he said and suddenly grasped my arm. “What if he asks your hand in marriage? You’re not tempted to say yes to Mr. Inman, are you?”
“I’ve received no indication that he is thinking anything of the kind. However, do you not think that a woman be a fool to deny him?”
“A woman would be a fool to accept him! Listen, Eliza.” Here, my brother pulled me into his room. “I have since made inquiries. Mr. Inman has led a debauched and careless life. He has all the faults of his class, and then some.”
“Are we not of the same class?”
“Perhaps. But I have decamped, and I pray you will come to your senses soon. We are on a sinking vessel, Sister, one not worth saving.”
I was thoughtful, recalling Cassie’s words about Mr. Inman. “Cassie likes him not.”
At this, Jeb laughed. “So, you take your opinions from Cassie now, do you? Well, Cassie happens to be right.”
I grasped my brother’s hand and leaned in to him. “Cassie says his bot-tom is too flat, and that a woman must have something to hold on to. Is she right in this as well?”
“Sister!” Jeb shut the door, which had been slightly ajar.
“Shhh! Well, is she?”
“How would I know such a thing? Lord, Eliza, how you surprise me sometimes. But if the thought of Mr. Inman’s flat ‘bot-tom’ is enough to keep you from marrying him, then know it to be the truest thing in the world.”
7
THE MORNING OF MR. INMAN’S PARTY WAS quite hot. We had enjoyed a temperate spring, but summer had arrived with a vengeance. Mama fretted that our satin gowns were too heavy and that stains would form beneath my arms. She insisted I wear pads of wool batting there, which I refused to do. How would I dance, having to worry at every step that the soaking wool would fall to the floor?
“Oh, but what, then, shall prevent those unseemly stains? It is dreadfully hot!”
“Mr. Inman will simply have to accept the fact that in hot weather women perspire, just as men do, Mama.”
Jeb, who passed us in the hall, placed his hand on his rear end, and I warned him away by lifting my eyebrows.
When it was time, Papa called for our finest carriage—that same barouche and four for which h e’d sold Toby and Cato. It appeared before our house with a strange coachman, black as an Ethiop. He sat quite rigid and stared directly ahead, as if he wore the same blinders as did the horses. Perhaps he worried that his powdered wig would slide off his head.
“Who is that?” I asked Mama, as we stood poised on the front steps.
“He’s one of the Royalls’. Isn’t he fine looking? Your father borrowed him for the evening.” Isaac Royall Jr. and his family lived at a grand estate called Ten Hills Farm, in Medford.
Just then, Papa joined us on the stairs. “Evening, my lovely ladies. Now, isn’t that a fine sight?” He glanced at the coachman with a self-satisfied air. “There are now merely nine hills at Ten Hills Farm. For I have taken one.”
“Apparently, he was a prince of some sort,” added Mama. “Or so he avers to Mr. Royall.”
“Poor man,” I replied. “He was once a royal prince, and now he is but Prince Royall.”
Papa snorted at my joke, but Mama did not find humor in it. “Indeed not. The Royalls feed him excellent well and even give him his own room in the slave quarters.”
“Luxury, indeed,” I said.
The day’s sun descended beyond Watertown; the church bell rang six times. The streets were dusty from the extreme heat, and my mother glanced at her shoulders to see whether any dust had settled upon her. She flicked two fingers against her shoulder, did the same against mine, and finally seemed satisfied that we were both dust-free.
The coach took us through the center of town and then east, toward Charlestown. We passed the market, where vendors were packing up for the night, and the little octagonal courthouse, shining brightly yellow in the declining sun. We passed the meetinghouse and Harvard College,
“I’ve received no indication that he is thinking anything of the kind. However, do you not think that a woman be a fool to deny him?”
“A woman would be a fool to accept him! Listen, Eliza.” Here, my brother pulled me into his room. “I have since made inquiries. Mr. Inman has led a debauched and careless life. He has all the faults of his class, and then some.”
“Are we not of the same class?”
“Perhaps. But I have decamped, and I pray you will come to your senses soon. We are on a sinking vessel, Sister, one not worth saving.”
I was thoughtful, recalling Cassie’s words about Mr. Inman. “Cassie likes him not.”
At this, Jeb laughed. “So, you take your opinions from Cassie now, do you? Well, Cassie happens to be right.”
I grasped my brother’s hand and leaned in to him. “Cassie says his bot-tom is too flat, and that a woman must have something to hold on to. Is she right in this as well?”
“Sister!” Jeb shut the door, which had been slightly ajar.
“Shhh! Well, is she?”
“How would I know such a thing? Lord, Eliza, how you surprise me sometimes. But if the thought of Mr. Inman’s flat ‘bot-tom’ is enough to keep you from marrying him, then know it to be the truest thing in the world.”
7
THE MORNING OF MR. INMAN’S PARTY WAS quite hot. We had enjoyed a temperate spring, but summer had arrived with a vengeance. Mama fretted that our satin gowns were too heavy and that stains would form beneath my arms. She insisted I wear pads of wool batting there, which I refused to do. How would I dance, having to worry at every step that the soaking wool would fall to the floor?
“Oh, but what, then, shall prevent those unseemly stains? It is dreadfully hot!”
“Mr. Inman will simply have to accept the fact that in hot weather women perspire, just as men do, Mama.”
Jeb, who passed us in the hall, placed his hand on his rear end, and I warned him away by lifting my eyebrows.
When it was time, Papa called for our finest carriage—that same barouche and four for which h e’d sold Toby and Cato. It appeared before our house with a strange coachman, black as an Ethiop. He sat quite rigid and stared directly ahead, as if he wore the same blinders as did the horses. Perhaps he worried that his powdered wig would slide off his head.
“Who is that?” I asked Mama, as we stood poised on the front steps.
“He’s one of the Royalls’. Isn’t he fine looking? Your father borrowed him for the evening.” Isaac Royall Jr. and his family lived at a grand estate called Ten Hills Farm, in Medford.
Just then, Papa joined us on the stairs. “Evening, my lovely ladies. Now, isn’t that a fine sight?” He glanced at the coachman with a self-satisfied air. “There are now merely nine hills at Ten Hills Farm. For I have taken one.”
“Apparently, he was a prince of some sort,” added Mama. “Or so he avers to Mr. Royall.”
“Poor man,” I replied. “He was once a royal prince, and now he is but Prince Royall.”
Papa snorted at my joke, but Mama did not find humor in it. “Indeed not. The Royalls feed him excellent well and even give him his own room in the slave quarters.”
“Luxury, indeed,” I said.
The day’s sun descended beyond Watertown; the church bell rang six times. The streets were dusty from the extreme heat, and my mother glanced at her shoulders to see whether any dust had settled upon her. She flicked two fingers against her shoulder, did the same against mine, and finally seemed satisfied that we were both dust-free.
The coach took us through the center of town and then east, toward Charlestown. We passed the market, where vendors were packing up for the night, and the little octagonal courthouse, shining brightly yellow in the declining sun. We passed the meetinghouse and Harvard College,
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