Charity's Burden

by Edith Maxwell

  “I will do whatever you say, Rose.”

  I rose and fetched a package of dried tansy from the top shelf in my armoire where I kept my herbs. I never wanted the Bailey children to be able to get to them. I slid a portion into an envelope and folded it over.

  “This is tansy. Make a cup of tea with a teaspoon of it twice a day and drink it down.” I handed her the envelope. “It will be more effective if thee adds alcoholic spirits to the tea. Whiskey, brandy, whatever thee has.”

  “We always have a bit of wine in the house.” She smiled broadly. “Nous sommes Français, non?”

  “Yes, I know you French love your wine, even French Canadians.” I smiled back. “Wine will do just fine.”

  “And that is all I will need?”

  “No. Thee must also buy these pills.” I jotted down E.L. Patch Number Two on a pad of paper. “This contains several herbs in a chocolate pill. Directions will be on the box.”

  “Where do I find them?”

  “I recommend the druggist Nayson on Main Street over druggist Merrill. The latter can be a bit, shall we say, obstructive when it comes to female matters. I am not sure he even stocks these regulating medicines.”

  “Regulating?” She scrunched up her nose.

  “All of these can also bring on a woman’s monthly if she is irregular in her cycles. Most ladies who miss monthlies have difficulty conceiving. That’s why druggists can legally sell such medicines. But if one wishes to bring on the periodic bleeding for another purpose …” I spread my hands.

  “I see.” She turned the envelope of tansy over in her hands, frowning. “The pills, are they … um …?”

  I knew Genevieve and her husband were of very modest means. “They are not the least expensive medicine in the store but I think thee can afford to give them a try.”

  She nodded. “I have my small hidden can of coins from my piece work. I save out a little every time a lady pays me. I will use those monies. Much as I love my babies, my boys and our sweet Elsie, that’s enough. Jean, he agrees. He will not argue about this.”

  “I cannot guarantee that this prescription will be effective for thee. But it’s all I can offer.” Under no circumstances would I advise her to go looking for a person to terminate the pregnancy by mechanical means. It was simply too dangerous. “I am afraid I also must ask that thee not tell anyone other than thy husband about our conversation. It is a dangerous topic in these restrictive days.”

  “I understand, Rose, and I promise. Now I will pray the teas and the pills do what I need them to do.” She crossed herself. “I know the priest would put me out for such a prayer, but the Virgin Marie, she watches over us all, especially les femmes. She will help me, I know it.”

  I hugged Genevieve before she left. “Send for me if thee has any problems at all, please. And I will pray for thy success.” I watched her make her way back down the path the way she’d come. Her feet seemed lighter now. And mine? I did not feel lighter for prescribing a method to expel the tiny but growing fetus from her body. But it was her body and her choice. My mission was to help my mothers. That was all I could do.

  eighteen

  After my second and last client of the morning left, I picked up the morning post from the floor inside the door. Amid letters for Frederick, one addressed to the children from my mother, and an envelope for me including payment from a recently delivered client, I found what I was hoping for.

  “Perfect,” I said aloud. The small blue envelope bore my name and address on the front, but the back was sealed with old-fashioned wax in a shade of lavender. The initials MR had been stamped into the wax. Bertie had said the woman dressed in colors and scarves in an unconventional fashion. It looked like her stationery followed the same pattern. If this wasn’t from Madame Restante, I would be very surprised.

  I sat at my desk to open the missive.

  My very dear Miss Carroll,

  Please come to my office at your earliest convenience so that we may discuss matters of mutual interest.

  Ever your humble servant,

  Madame Savoire Restante

  At the bottom was a printed drawing of a woman sitting in a field of flowers, with the words Provider of Ladies’ Health Products and Services below. The picture certainly brought to mind ladies, health, and herbs. An address on Clark Street followed, with the notation Second Floor appended.

  Madame didn’t make claims, at least not in writing, that her products and services had anything to do with women’s reproductive health. Still, I wanted to pay her a visit. If she hadn’t helped—or rather, had fatally harmed—Charity Skells, she possibly knew of others who might have.

  I bundled up against the weather with my warmest wool scarf wrapped around my neck and head, and the hood of my woolen cloak pulled up over it. I donned my heavy gloves, passing through the kitchen on my way out. I paused. Lina didn’t come in on Fifth Day, and Frederick had said this morning he was dining out with Winnie tonight. What could I fix for five young people’s dinner that was easy and filling, too? When I had the chance, I liked to prepare the repast to relieve Faith of the burden. On Lina’s days, we often asked her to chop and prepare ingredients for our evening meal so the assembly at the end of the day wasn’t so burdensome.

  I checked the cold larder in the entryway. In winter there was no need to add ice to the thick box. Yes, enough beef stew remained to serve as filling for several big meat pies. I could add more carrots and potatoes to stretch it out. That and a loaf of bread would do, except making the lunches this morning had finished the bread. I slid out of my warm wraps.

  Five minutes later the sourdough sponge was mixed and covered with a damp cloth. I set it to rise on the shelf above the stove, which I’d damped down until I returned, and suited up for the cold once again.

  Clark Street was less than a ten-minute walk for me. It led down a steep hill from Market Street just north of the square and ended at the bridge over the Back River. The river itself drained Clark’s Pond, then emptied into the Powow, the Merrimack, and the Atlantic Ocean in turn. As I walked, I slowed my pace and held my search in the Light, that the information I needed would flow like the river, and that I would stay safe while searching for it.

  When I reached Clark, the biting air shot straight up the roadway, which was lined with buildings on either side so that it formed a kind of wind tunnel. I shivered even in my woolens as I searched for my destination.

  I located the address in a building featuring a row of small shops on the street level and flats above. Was this also Madame’s home? I’d find out soon enough. A door next to the end shop opened to a staircase. On the wall at the bottom of the stairwell was another version of the ideograph that was Madame’s business mark plus her name, although not the description of what she offered. Next to it had been painted a hand with its index finger pointing upward on a slant matching the angle of the stairs. A stab of trepidation hit me halfway up. Could I couch my questions in a way that wouldn’t make her suspect I was looking for a criminal abortionist who had ended my client’s life? If Savoire was the one, was it even safe for me to be alone with her? No one knew where I’d gone.

  My palms grew sweaty and I wiped them on my cloak. I scolded myself. How could I be in danger? It was broad daylight. I smelled onions frying from somewhere in the building. Shopkeepers were downstairs and surely people were at home in the other flats. I was a tall, strong, healthy young woman, and I’d gotten myself out of dangerous situations before by means of my wits. Madame’s letter, including her address, was sitting in plain view on my desk at home. If something untoward should befall me, sooner or later I would be found.

  And really, although I was indirectly looking for information about Charity, I would appear as simply a midwife looking for recommendations for my clients. Madame didn’t know that I myself sometimes prescribed abortifacients to my clients when asked, and had done so this very morning.
Such prescriptions were rare, but I didn’t turn down a needy mother. I couldn’t.

  I squared my shoulders and knocked on the door bearing her name and yet another copy of her mark. She seemed to have a degree of business acumen, using a consistent visual representation for her enterprise. If she distributed printed materials, I was sure the same illustration would head the paper. It made me wonder whether I should advertise to solicit clients instead of relying on women telling other women about my practice. So far I’d had no lack of business.

  A bolt snicked and the door opened to a woman both taller and broader than I. She was backlit by tall windows on the street side of the office and the hall was so dimly lit all I could make out was a dark rounded shape atop the head and the silhouette of scarves flowing about neck and shoulders.

  “Savoire Restante?” I asked.

  “Oui.” The timbre of her voice was lower than one usually heard in a female, but perhaps it went with her height.

  For a brief moment I wondered if this was a trap, if the advertisement had been a ruse to lure customers wanting contraceptive medicines and devices only to arrest them for buying the same. Perhaps she was a man in disguise. But I told myself not to indulge in fears and forged ahead.

  “I am Rose Carroll, midwife. Thee invited me to come and converse.”

  “Ah, Meese Carroll.” She pronounced the r sound in her throat in the French way and made an emphasized long o out of the second syllable. “Please come in.”

  She stood back, gesturing. I stepped into the room, where colors and rich fabrics predominated. I faced Madame, extending my hand. Now I could see her plainly.

  “I am pleased to meet thee, Savoire.”

  Her eyebrows, drawn in high arches with black grease pencil, went even higher. She pursed her reddened mouth, etching small lines in a heavily powdered upper lip. She shook my hand. “People address me as Madame.”

  I smiled, relinquishing her large hand, with its nails painted a shade of dark maroon. “I’m a member of the Religious Society of Friends. We don’t believe in using titles for anyone.” I kept my voice light and friendly.

  “I see. A Quaker, are you?”

  I nodded.

  “And that’s why you don’t talk the same as we do. Well, please sit and tell me your purpose in coming.” She nodded at a small sitting area and an armchair upholstered in a dark purple and forest green brocade. Her accent seemed to be fading with each utterance.

  “It seems we both trade in women’s health,” I said, sitting. “Sometimes my pregnant mothers come to me with maladies brought on by too many births in a short span of years. I was curious about the products and services thee advertises.”

  Savoire sat across from me in a large chair with ornately carved hand rests and legs. The top above the back cushion featured her same business mark carved into it. She had neither the skin of a recently shaven beard nor the protuberant Adam’s apple of many men. This was most certainly a woman, not a male outfitted as a lady. As Bertie had mentioned, Savoire sported a black turban completely covering her hair. She wore the same kind of waistless gown Sophie favored. It was cut in the new style of the Aesthetic Dress Movement, which let the wearer move about easily and didn’t require a binding undergarment of any kind. Despite the dress not revealing her figure directly, the flesh about her neck and the puffiness of her wrists suggested a woman carrying quite a bit of extra weight, possibly to an unhealthy level. Her dark eyes were lined with painted-on soot.

  “I do nothing against the law, you understand.” She waved a hand vaguely as if dismissing the idea. “But surely you know that sometimes a lady requires assistance regulating her periodic bleeds. I am an experienced herbalist and I offer solutions tailored to the customer’s needs.”

  I glanced around the room. An oriental screen hid one area from view. A long table against another wall held dozens of jars of dried herbs, all labeled with numbers instead of names. A small scale sat to one side, and a box was filled with plain brown envelopes.

  “Does thee grow these herbs?” I asked. I obtained my herbs from a local farmer, those I couldn’t grow myself.

  She lifted her chin in pride. “Yes. They are pure and dried at home.”

  “Does thee send these solutions through the mail?” I hoped she would answer truthfully.

  “Yes. I do quite a good business all across the country.”

  “Thee has never gotten hauled up on the Comstock laws?”

  Her eyes narrowed but she only shook her head.

  “I’d like to see thy catalog. May I have a copy?”

  “Certainly.” She reached for the top one on a stack nearby and handed it to me.

  I perused the brochure, also headed by her business mark. Without looking up, I said, “I had a client, Charity was her name. Did she come to you for an extreme solution recently? She wanted to terminate an early pregnancy, and I believe she sought mechanical means.” I lifted my face and watched her as she sucked in air with a rasping sound.

  “No! Of course not. I’ve never met Mrs. Skells. Who are you, anyway?” Her French accent had now melted away entirely, and she sounded as much a New Englander as the rest of us who were born and raised here. She stood, towering over me, her eyes dark.

  It was time for me to leave. I stood. “Thee is positive? She was thin, the mother of six already. At most two months along. Maybe she used a different name.”

  “No. I don’t dabble in terminations like those. Why would I lie to you?” She folded her arms. “And why do you speak of her as if she is no longer among us?”

  I shrugged. “It’s good you didn’t treat her. Because she died two days ago of perforation to the uterus.”

  She stared at me, then eased back into her chair with a heaviness to her movements. “The poor woman. May she rest in peace.” She knit her brow, in a sad look that appeared to my eyes not quite genuine.

  “I hope she does.” I gathered my cloak about me. “I’ll be going now. I thank thee for the information.”

  She didn’t budge, so I opened the door myself. After I went out, I glanced back. The sad look was gone. She glared after me with flushed face and heaving bosom, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

  nineteen

  My walk home was a slow one, and not only because of the cold and the hill I had to ascend. This Savoire was certainly not French. It seemed she certainly offered “solutions” contrary to the Comstock laws, much as I did. But wasn’t her reaction to my mentioning Charity overly extreme if she didn’t know my client? If she was telling the truth, I imagined she considered my questions insulting or as if I was besmirching her trade, so perhaps her glare was justified.

  For one thing, I hadn’t mentioned Charity’s last name. Yet Savoire—or Sally Davies, as Bertie had said she was actually named—referred to her as Mrs. Skells. Also, Savoire had stood, acting indignant that I’d asked if she offered her clients an extreme solution, even though she’d said solutions were her trade. At the end, she’d acted shocked and sad in a way that made me doubt the sincerity of her reaction.

  Was this the criminal we sought? Or was she simply frightened at being discovered for the kind of products and services she offered? And if she was innocent, I was the guilty party for badgering her. I reached home deep in thought, barely seeing where I put my feet.

  When Bertie said my name, I jumped, looking up to see her laughing at me from the back stoop of the house.

  “You’re a funny one,” she said. “Lost in thought, are you, Rose?”

  “I’m afraid I am.” Sure enough, I hadn’t even noticed Grover tied to the hitching post.

  Bertie trotted down the steps. “I was just leaving you a note. Come for dinner again tonight, will you? Sophie will actually be home at a decent hour and she promised to tell you all about that complicated estate deal. I think you’re going to be interested.”

  Tonight Friend
s gathered in midweek worship. I discerned on the spot that God would be better served by my following up every lead on the matter of Charity’s death rather than sitting in silent worship. “I would be delighted. Thanks, Bertie. What time?”

  “Six would be good.”

  “I shall be there.”

  Bertie waved, flung herself onto Grover’s back, and rode off. I unlocked the door, catching her envelope before it fell into the snow. I still meant to prepare dinner for the family, even though I wouldn’t be at home to eat with them. Before long the shape of the household would change. Very soon Faith would move out to join with Zeb. One of these days, months, or years I would do the same and create a household with David. I hoped that would happen sooner rather than later. And it was looking very much as if Frederick might invite Winnie to be his wife, which meant the Bailey home would once again have a real lady of the house.

  It was all as it should be, once one accepted that life is always in flux. If I didn’t embrace that philosophy, I wouldn’t be able to be a midwife. It had been a bitter pill to swallow, though, accepting my sister’s death just two years prior. She had been a healthy, intelligent, loving mother to her brood, and the best older sister I could imagine. She’d also been in what I regarded as a difficult marriage, but she’d never confessed any desire to end it. She’d said she loved Frederick deeply. I didn’t think he’d been as difficult at the beginning of their marriage, and his moods and tempers were simply something she put up with and learned to manage, although they had intensified since her death. I wasn’t as skilled at managing them as she had been.

  I had a pang of trepidation. My dear David had always been a kind man of level moods. What if he also changed after we were wed? What if some quality in his personality bumped up against my own once we were in constant proximity? Would my feelings for him be strong enough to help me continue loving him in the face of difficulties? I had to pray they would.