Judge Thee Not

by Edith Maxwell

  “Not really.” I lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “But it’s for a good cause.” I sipped from the bottle of lemonade I’d brought for myself, being a non-imbibing Friend, as nearly all of us were.

  “Mm,” Bertie murmured around a mouthful. “Delicious pie.”

  “It’s Winnie’s doing.”

  “Think she and Frederick are going to tie the knot before you do?” Bertie wasn’t one to soften a blunt inquiry.

  Were they? It was possible, given how long it was taking David and me to fix a date for our union. “Oh, Bertie. I don’t know what to think. David told me back in Second Month his mother had given her blessing. But now she’s fussing about all kinds of details.” I grimaced. “Makes a body want to run away and find a justice of the peace somewhere.”

  “Elope?” She whistled. “Now wouldn’t that make a headline? ‘Unitarian doctor and Quaker midwife tie knot in secret!’”

  “Stop, now. It’s not funny.”

  She tilted her head and gazed at me. “Come on. Sure it is. And anyway, what’s to stop two adults from getting married if it’s what they want? You’ve been wearing his ring almost a year now. What more are you waiting for?”

  “Thee knows very well. Family and faith are important to both of us. I think, and I say ‘think’ for a reason, the elders of the Women’s Business Meeting might be leaning toward not exacting quite the penalty they had threatened for my marrying a Unitarian. And Mother has assured me my home Meeting in Lawrence would welcome our celebration of marriage. But . . .”

  “But Clarinda Dodge?”

  “Yes. David’s mother wants all kinds of parties and dinners, and I don’t even know what else.”

  “Poor Rosetta.” She patted my hand.

  “Thee witnessed Faith and Zebulon’s marriage, Bertie. They each had a new piece of clothing made, which will be serviceable for years to come. In the presence of family, friends, and members of our Meeting, the couple vowed to love and honor each other and signed the certificate. During worship, various people shared memories and gave blessings, and after Rise of Meeting, all present signed the certificate as witnesses to the union. Then our two families had a simple repast at home and the affair was over. Faith moved to Zeb’s family’s house that same night. I long for such a straightforward rite.” I gazed at a red-haired woman in a well-cut sprigged lawn dress strolling alone along the water’s edge with her hands clasped behind her. Her brow was knit and she chewed on the inside of her cheek as if worrying whatever problem plagued her, as if mirroring my own concerns.

  Bertie clapped. “Enough of this! I see the prospect is dragging you down something fierce, my friend.” She chucked me under the chin. “What’s good in your life? How are the happy expectant mothers coming along, bless their sainted souls?”

  I laughed. I well knew Bertie hadn’t a maternal bone in her body, or so she’d told me. She’d never felt the urge to procreate, and as her physical longings tilted sharply toward her fellow woman, she had nothing to worry about.

  “Well, I have a most interesting client at present. Does thee know Jeanette Papka?”

  Bertie took a swig of her drink and thought for a moment. “I believe I do. Tall lady, blind? And gainfully employed translating at the courthouse?”

  I nodded. “That’s her. Smart as anything, and what she does is interpret. She set me straight on the difference. Translating from one language to the next is what one does with a written text. Translators have time, dictionaries, not much pressure.”

  “And interpreting is the spoken word?” Bertie asked, clearly engaged in the idea of Jeanette’s talents.

  “Yes. Interpreting is much harder. She listens to one language and speaks the meaning of the utterance in the other at the next moment. And then goes back in the other direction. I’ve no idea why her head doesn’t explode.” I mimicked my own head shooting into the sky. “She’s much in demand interpreting for immigrants who aren’t yet fluent in English, and you know we’ve had a recent surge of workers coming into town, especially from French Canada and Poland.”

  “And this Mrs. Papka is pregnant, I gather?”

  I nodded, finishing my own pie. “She is, with her second. She is doing well, although I fear she might birth a quite large baby.” I frowned. “I have another client I’m not so happy about. She is the wife of the banker Irvin Barclay.”

  Bertie’s mouth took on a shape as if she’d tasted a rotten piece of meat. “Barclay is as bad as Mrs. Settle. Ruder than a peasant to me.”

  “Well, Sissy is his child bride, very nearly. And she’s quite distressed something will go wrong with her birth. Or births, I should say.”

  “Births?” Bertie stared out over the sparkling lake. “She’s having twins, is she?” She spoke slowly and deliberately.

  I gazed at her. “Yes, it appears she is. And such births can be quite difficult even if the babies go to term, which they often don’t.”

  Bertie didn’t move except to lift her chin.

  I knew her too well. “Bertie, darling.” I stroked her arm. “This topic has disturbed thee. Has thee had a painful experience with twins thee was close to?”

  She nodded once as the sun dipped below Whittier Hill beyond the lake. “You could say so, yes.”

  I waited for more. Bertie picked up the cap to her bottle and tossed it over and over in the air, her gaze on the water, on the trees, anywhere but at me.

  She turned to me with a too-bright smile. “Listen to that bird!”

  We passed the rest of our supper talking about the song of the wood thrush. We discussed the upcoming carriage opening, when all the town’s world-famous carriage factories opened their doors to the public and the town was flooded with visitors both American and international. We talked about the recent shenanigans of President Harrison, Bertie’s stylish new hat, and Mark Twain’s latest detective story, “The Stolen White Elephant.” Anything—except twins.

  Five

  I rode in the twilight to Mayme’s home a short distance away out on Whitehall Road, thinking about Bertie as I pedaled. I was no more the wiser about her experience with twins, one which clearly had affected her deeply. I hoped she’d tell me by and by.

  A man stooped over a neat flower bed in front of the big house with a mansard roof as I approached. Water streamed out of a copper watering can onto freshly planted snapdragons and campanula. The bed was edged with the glossy pointed foliage of lily of the valley, although their tiny white bells of spring flowers were long past.

  “Good evening,” I said, putting my foot down after I’d slowed. “Given how warm it’s been, I should say those young plants are grateful for a long drink of water.”

  He straightened and faced me, but he was still bent over, as if his back hurt him to stand up straight. Ash-gray hair hung long on his collarless shirt, and brown suspenders held up loose dark pants. Nearly skeletal in appearance, he smiled at me with dark gaps where several teeth used to be.

  “Hullo, miss. ’Tis a lovely night, indeed.”

  “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Rose Carroll.” I smiled but didn’t hold out my hand. Typically a man of his age and social class wouldn’t accept a handshake with a young woman, anyway, and I didn’t want to cause him discomfort.

  “The name’s Riley, miss. Adoniram Riley.”

  I blinked. The last time I’d heard the unusual name had been four years earlier. I’d still been apprenticed to my midwifery teacher, Orpha Perkins. A young woman named Alice Riley had sadly bled out and died after delivering her baby boy. Her distraught father was this same Adoniram if I wasn’t mistaken.

  “How fares thy grandson, Adoniram?”

  He stared at me, his watering can forgotten. “How do you know about the lad?”

  “I was assisting midwife Orpha Perkins when he was born, and when thy daughter so tragically left this world, despite our best efforts. I hope the boy is well.”

  He nodded slowly. “I remember you now. Young Donny is a strapping fellow, smart and funny, t
hank you, miss. He lives with my boy and his wife, over to Carpenter Street, so I see him most regular like.”

  Now I remembered. He was a widower. Alice, the poor thing, had refused to reveal the identity of the baby’s father. Orpha had whispered to me she suspected it was Mayme Settle’s son. Alice had been working as a maid in Mayme’s household when she became pregnant. I didn’t know what had become of the son, whether he had owned up to being the father or had skipped town instead.

  “I’m glad he’s thriving,” I said.

  “By rights his mama should be looking after him.” He raised his eyes to the imposing square house with a cupola topping the third floor. “But having his mother with him wasn’t God’s plan, after all.” His expression was grim.

  “It is sometimes hard to fathom His ways.”

  He nodded without speaking.

  “Does thee live here on the property?”

  “Yes, miss. I’m the jack-of-all-trades to the Settles, I am. Or to Mrs. Settle, more so. She’s the one wears the pants in the family, if you get my meaning. She lets me have a room in the carriage house for my quarters.”

  So that was why the boy wasn’t living with his grandfather. A single room wouldn’t be suitable, and if what my teacher had said was true, the Settles would be faced with their son’s illegitimate child at every turn. If they knew about his parentage, that is. But why was Adoniram still working for the Settles?

  He went on. “These be my flowers, and I grow most of the vegetables the family consumes, too.”

  “Really? I have been trying to plant more vegetables where I live. I’m afraid I’m no good at nurturing baby seeds. My starts always perish from one thing or another.”

  “You come by here when you’re ready to plant, miss. I always have seedlings aplenty. Too many for the space out back.”

  I thanked him, promising I’d be back. Maybe he stayed because he loved his work and had free lodging, to boot.

  After Adoniram turned back to his flowers, I spied Winnie coming around the side of the home from the carriage house and hailed her. I leaned my metal steed against a hitching post and waited while she came up the walk.

  “Thee has my supplies?” I’d asked her to bring my knitting project so I didn’t have to cart it along to the lake. Winnie, a widow and a nurse at the same hospital across the Merrimack in Newburyport where David had his practice, drove a drop-front phaeton. She wasn’t obliged to carry everything on her person as I was.

  She held up a large quilted bag. “Of course, and extra yarn. Shall we?”

  Six

  Oh, dear. Inside the house I wondered what I had gotten myself into. The last time I’d gone to a Ladies Circle it had been an afternoon gathering held in the hall at Saint James Church on Main Street. Here we were ushered into an ornate parlor with a circle of women in their best visiting gowns perched on stiff-backed chairs. Not a one was knitting. Instead they sipped tea and nibbled daintily on sweets.

  I almost backed out of the doorway, but Winnie was behind me and I would have knocked her down. I smoothed down the front of my bicycling garment and clasped my hands in front of me.

  Mayme spotted us and rose. “Miss Carroll and Mrs. Hanson, do come in.” She glanced down at my cycling garment and blinked with a set to her mouth that indicated disapproval, but she seemed to catch herself before saying anything about it, and introduced us to the group.

  I’d delivered the babies of two of the younger women but didn’t know most of the rest of them except Georgia Clarke, the wife of a prominent carriage factory owner. She’d nearly hemorrhaged to death last summer after her fifth baby’s birth. In her case I’d managed to arrest the flow and she’d easily regained her health.

  “I’ll come see you soon,” Georgia whispered to me when I came to her. She pointed surreptitiously to her stomach.

  I gave a single nod. I’d thought she hadn’t wanted to bear more children. She’d said five was enough. She wasn’t a young woman, either. Anyone over forty giving birth could encounter challenges to her health. Sometimes the baby was born Mongoloid, as well. Sadly, the prospects for such children were dim, at best.

  I followed Winnie to our seats and exchanged a small glance with her, trying to signal “What are we doing here?” but it was no use. If I hadn’t been raised to live according to Quaker values, one of which was integrity, I might have attempted a white lie and said I had only stopped in to pay my respects, that I was needed at a labor. Instead I sat where I was directed.

  Sissy Barclay appeared in the doorway. “Am I too late?” She smiled and handed a wrapped box looking like a candy container to her hostess. “Mr. Barclay sends his greetings and wanted you to have this, Mrs. Settle.” She smiled sweetly. “But he said it was for your personal enjoyment and not to be shared.”

  Mayme raised a single eyebrow at the gift, then thanked Sissy. “Of course you aren’t too late, Mrs. Barclay.” She set the box on the piano instead of adding the candy to the refreshments table.

  I gave Sissy a little wave and noted that her breathing seemed more normal. But from the fit of her gown I suspected she’d merely kept her loosened corset, not abandoned it, perhaps so as not to be looked down on by the other ladies. So many women lost their independence when carrying a child. Upper-class ladies were banned from social occasions, and working women were made to leave their jobs. As a result, many expectant mothers restricted the expansion of their thickening waistlines as long as they could.

  After Mayme poured tea for us newcomers and offered around the three-tier dish of cookies and other sweetmeats, she surveyed the group.

  “Ladies, this new project is a very exciting one for me. We’ll be knitting baby blankets for the young mothers at Alms Farm.”

  Everyone knew Alms Farm was the town’s poor farm, where lived the destitute and desperate. I’d helped several unwed mothers give birth out there, the arrangement being for their newborns to be offered for adoption. The farm wasn’t affiliated with a particular church, but rather was paid for out of town funds.

  A buzz of soft comments filled the air. “Now, now.” Mayme clapped her hands. “I know doing so might make it appear we support the unmarried mothers residing there. But they need our assistance.” Her smile was very much one of a person who thought she occupied a superior position to many. “Their poor bastard babies didn’t ask to be brought into the world, so let’s make certain they do not suffer from lack of comfort.”

  Their poor bastard babies, indeed. Like Donny Riley, perhaps? I chafed at her condescending tone as well as the notion of “bastard” imposed by society. A baby is a baby, and if it is loved and provided for by its mother, who should care that the father isn’t a part of the baby’s life? Of course the ideal was a loving couple raising their child together, as David and I planned to do. But I’d seen enough alternatives to such an ideal to know there was more than one way to bring up a healthy and loved human being.

  “So let’s get started, shall we?” Mayme spread her hands. “You’ve all brought your needles and yarn, I assume.” She gave the dimensions of the baby blankets and sat, then leaned over to draw her own project out of a knitting bag mounted on a folding frame.

  It occurred to me how curious it was that Mayme had selected this charity as her latest. Wouldn’t it call attention to her own bastard grandson? I watched her work. Perhaps, because of her distinctly uncharitable comments about Bertie, I hadn’t allowed that she might have a bigger heart than I’d imagined. She did lead quite a few activities designed to benefit the less fortunate: filling and giving away a hundred or more Christmas boxes, an educational program for mill girls, a children’s shoe and warm coat collection in the fall, festive food baskets at Easter, and more.

  On the piano next to the candy box sat a large framed photograph of two teenage children, a boy and a girl. The angular girl, in a white dress, was around fourteen. Old enough to have put up her hair and let down her hems, but she looked awkward and stiff in the attire. The boy, a couple of years older, wore
a cap at a rakish angle and had his arm slung around his sister’s shoulders. His cocky grin matched his stance.

  “Are those thy children, Mayme?” I asked.

  She pressed her eyes closed for a moment, then twisted to regard the picture. Her face still looked wistful when she returned her gaze to me. “Yes, when they were younger.” She turned to the woman next to her and checked her handiwork, clearly dismissing any discussion of family.

  Wistful because of the daughter she couldn’t bring herself to accept? And where was the wayward son? I felt sorry for her, despite her imperious approach to the world.

  We’d been knitting and conversing in soft voices for several minutes when Mayme raised her head and regarded the gathering. “I wonder how else we might help these unfortunate mothers. If they promise to tread the straight and narrow path, would any of you have a position of service to offer one? After she gives birth, of course.”

  Georgia nodded with approval. “I think that’s an excellent idea, Mrs. Settle. I might be able to use an additional girl in my household.”

  Another woman raised a finger and said she would consider it, as well.

  “Excellent.” Mayme beamed. “Frankly, the fewer residents at Alms Farm, the better, since funds to feed them come out of your taxes and mine.”

  A thin man poked his head in. “Mrs. Settle? May I have a moment of your time?” His spectacles perched crookedly on a head of sparse—and mussed—half-silver hair. His head was disheveled but his tie was neatly in place under his waistcoat. He wore a blue silk smoking jacket embroidered with a paisley design over his clothes. I detected a hint of an accent in his speech but I couldn’t place where he might originally be from.

  This had to be Mayme’s husband. No butler would wear a smoking jacket. The contrast between the thin fellow and his matronly wife could have been an illustration for the Jack Sprat nursery rhyme. I sat nearest the door, and I could smell whiskey on his breath.