Charity's Burden

by Edith Maxwell

  As I continued, images flooded my mind. Charity’s pale face, the life force slipping out of her. Little Priscilla’s anguish at losing her mother, expressed as anger. Virtue’s barely contained grief. I prayed Kevin and his team would find the killer with all due speed. Could I abandon Charity and her family to the official investigation?

  By the time I arrived home, my way was clear. I’d discerned, with God’s help, that I must continue my efforts, although I would exercise extreme caution wherever I went.

  My face lit up and my heart filled to find Peaches and the buggy waiting patiently in front of our small stable. As I walked, I’d feared perhaps the black wagon had absconded with him, but here he was. Despite my condition, I took the time to free him from the traces and remove his harness. I fed him and put the buggy away.

  “Good boy, Peaches.” I stroked his neck. “You kept your feet and your calm under threat. More than I can say for myself.”

  He whuffed his response, and I left him to his rest.

  twenty-seven

  Dawn had not yet brought light to the sky the next morning when a loud knocking on the door awoke me. I groaned, having slept only fitfully, with dreams of sharp objects, stacks of money, and attack wagons floating through my slumber. I lit a lamp and threw on a wrapper. Stiff and with aching bruises from the night before, I hurried to see who was there. I had resolved to be more careful. But killers did not come knocking, and this might be the call to Lucy Majowski’s labor I’d been expecting. I didn’t think I had any other mothers expecting so soon. Sure enough, Henryk Majowski stood in front of the house with a frantic look on his face, a horse and wagon behind him.

  “Miss Carroll, you’ve got to come.”

  “All right. When did Lucy’s pains start?” I spoke in a low tone so as not to wake the family.

  “No, not Lucy.”

  “What?” I peered at him. “What does thee mean, not Lucy?”

  “It’s my mare. She’s foaling, but I think she’s stuck. And the vet had to travel to Vermont.” His thin face looked like a scared boy’s. “I don’t know what to do!”

  I thought Henryk was not over twenty, so a boy he still was, despite being married and owner of several large animals. “I will help thee. Step into the hall and keep warm. I’ll need a minute to get ready.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll stay with the horse.”

  “Very well.” I shut the door and hurried to do what was necessary. I dressed, put my hair up, scribbled a note to the family, and slid into my warm things. At the last minute I grabbed my birthing satchel. I hadn’t helped a mare give birth in a decade, but in my younger years I had certainly witnessed and assisted my father with more than one foal having trouble entering the world and a few calves, too. It was just part of life on a farm.

  I didn’t attempt to speak as we bumped over the paving stones in the dark, my warm breath making little clouds in the frigid air. At least we had moonlight to guide our way, but the wagon was a simple one. Unlike some of the fine carriages made in Amesbury, this transport didn’t provide cushioning against an uneven road. I gripped the side so I wouldn’t bounce out, and winced when my bruised hip was the target of several uneven spots in the road. Still, this traveling in the dark was a familiar journey for me, and I took comfort in the quiet early hours as I went to help yet another laboring mother.

  Just before we turned into the farm, I spied the Davies home a little farther down the road. No lights shone in its windows, a dark house keeping its secrets. Henryk opened the barn door and drove right in. He jumped down again, closed the wide door, and secured the horse, leaving it harnessed to the wagon. He lit a lantern and I climbed down, following him to a stall, where he lit another lantern and hung them both on hooks.

  “There’s our Lady.” He pointed, quite unnecessarily.

  The mare was a chestnut brown with one white foot and a white blaze between her eyes. She hadn’t given birth in the time Henryk had gone to fetch me, but the sac was bulging out of her birth canal. She was still on foot.

  “How long has she been laboring?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. I checked on her before I went to bed last night and she was fine, then I got up around three and she was groaning.”

  “Has thee observed a foal birth before?”

  “Only when I was a lad of five. After that we didn’t have a horse.”

  We stood in silence, watching, waiting. Lady groaned as her swollen belly contracted, her coat damp and steaming in the cold air from the exertion of her labor. Henryk started to take a step forward but I grabbed his sleeve.

  “Let’s leave her be unless we have to interfere,” I said. “It’s better that way.” So far I didn’t see any reason why I needed to be here. The mare had been having a long labor, but she wasn’t thrashing about or rolling over repeatedly, and stood quietly between contractions. As with humans, sometimes horse babies take a while to come out. Henryk was inexperienced, though, and didn’t want to lose his cherished and necessary horse, or the baby, either.

  “Is it her first birth?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He twisted his cap in his hands.

  “So her body hasn’t done this work before. Women’s first labors can be long, too.” I hoped Lucy’s wasn’t overly long. Both mother and baby can suffer when the birth takes days.

  Henryk glanced at me. “I heard about that lady who died this week. She was one of yours, wasn’t she?”

  “Charity? Yes, she was my client. It was a very sad morning.”

  “They said one of those babykillers did it.” His nostrils flared. “Babykillers. They should be killed themselves. And ladies who go to them? They deserve what they get.” He turned and spat in a corner of the stall.

  I stared at him. Clearly we held different views on this matter. Henryk, like Kevin, was opposed to the very idea of terminating a pregnancy, although the detective didn’t express his opinion with such venom. I opened my mouth to argue with Henryk, then shut it again. Not here, not now, not with a man whose wife I was about to attend in her own birth.

  “My crazy neighbor is one,” he went on. “I don’t know why the police let her keep operating.”

  “What neighbor is that?”

  “Mrs. Davies. She goes by some ridiculous Frenchie name. And then there’s the so-called doctor.” He rolled his eyes while saying the last word. “Doctor Wallace Buckham. That’s a ridiculous name, too. My wife thought he was a real doctor and went to him for some lady problems last year. She saw through him right away. She would never go to an abortionist, not if she had fifteen babies, she wouldn’t.”

  Oh, she might, I thought. She certainly might. “Where is Doctor Buckham’s office?”

  “In one of those fancy houses up near Highland Street. Calls himself an herbalist. He ought to be arrested. It’s plum wrong to mess with nature like that.”

  I made a note of the name and location. I might just pay this Buckham a visit later in the day.

  A hoof appeared in the silvery translucent sac. I was relieved to see the sole pointing down. Hooves pointing up can indicate that the foal is in the wrong position for an optimum delivery. Lady bent her front legs and lowered herself to the straw-covered floor. Another hoof followed the first into the sac in short order, breaking the membrane. As we watched, the nose appeared between the legs. It retracted, but came out again with the next contraction.

  “She’s doing a splendid job,” I murmured.

  “Should I pet Lady?” Henryk asked.

  “No, leave her be. Her body knows what it’s doing. We don’t want to distress her in the slightest.”

  One more contraction and the entire head followed the nose. But when it came to the shoulders, progress stalled. Lady panted after each contraction. A minute passed, then another. Usually the front legs coming out staggered like that helped cock the shoulders for easy birthing, but these seemed hung up. Lady
was tiring. I’d had to free up a human baby’s shoulders once. In that case it presented a much more urgent situation, because the baby could suffer a starvation of blood to the brain if the head was born but the rest of the body remained inside for too long.

  “I’m going to help her.” I folded back the sac and grasped the foal’s legs at the fetlocks. When Lady’s uterus contracted again, I pulled. To my relief, the neck and shoulders slid out. The torso appeared a little at a time with each contraction until the hips. Progress stalled again.

  Henryk started toward Lady. “I’ll pull this time.”

  “Leave it, Henryk. The hips often take a couple of minutes.” Lady seemed less tired now, just waiting it out.

  Sure enough, the hips emerged before long and the foal began to stir. The baby turned its head and gazed at its mother. Once the rear legs emerged, the foal lay still on the hay. Lady reached over. She bit at and licked the membrane until it fell away from the newborn’s body, revealing a curly coat moist and glistening.

  I mused on how different this birth was than the ones I usually attended. We humans paid a price for our big brains. Women experienced labors that weren’t always easy and birthed babies who were helpless for their first year and in need of care and protection until they were at least ten or even fifteen. We had sensitive skin that needed covering and we were prone to infections. We humans carefully tied off the umbilical cord and cut it with a clean blade, and we washed the baby with water. This mother horse didn’t need a speck of help. She didn’t mind that her baby was born on straw. The extent of the newborn bath was Lady licking him—and it was a male, as I’d just seen. The babe would be able to walk and stand up to nurse before an hour had passed.

  “Is it all right, Miss Carroll?” Henryk’s fingers fluttered at his sides, a gesture of a man not used to being idle. “The foal isn’t moving.”

  “He’s fine, Henryk. And it’s a colt. See his chest moving, his eyes focusing? He is breathing and healthy. Thee only needs to wait.”

  After a few more minutes, Lady pushed herself up to standing, groaning with another contraction, needing to expel the placenta. The foal tried to stand but collapsed in a legs-akimbo heap. The attempt to stand severed the umbilical cord, which was not a problem for equines. The placenta plopped onto the hay with a small amount of blood. I was glad to see that Lady didn’t continue to bleed.

  The tiny colt tried to stand again, but was still too wobbly. Lady nickered at him, a sweet sound encouraging his efforts, and I smiled. I knew before long the infant horse would be stable.

  I turned to Henryk. “Lady wants to be alone now. She might become aggressive if thee goes near. The colt looks well, and the afterbirth came out without a problem. We are done here.”

  He pressed a hand to his chest. “Thank you for coming, Miss Carroll.” The worry lines between his eyebrows slid away as he swiped a hand across his forehead. “I wasn’t sure if I needed you, and it’s good you were here to help.”

  “I was happy to assist, and I’m glad to see that all is well with Lady and her baby boy. What will thee name him?”

  He held up his thick farmer’s hands. “I’ll let Lucy handle that. I wouldn’t have the first idea on what to call him. Do you want to go home now? And what do I owe you for your services?”

  Morning light now streamed in the high window facing east. “Thee doesn’t owe me anything. I was glad to help. And yes, I would like to return home, if thee pleases.” I had a few calls to make this morning, but they would be better done with Peaches and my buggy. Wallace Buckham had been on my list before, but now I had an extra reason to visit him.

  twenty-eight

  By eight thirty I’d had coffee and eggs on toast at home, and was in my own transport, heading down Main Street toward the Merrimack River. I wanted to talk with Ransom’s supervisor at Lowell’s Boat Shop while Ransom was still out, and maybe have a little chat with Delia Davies, too. I drove slowly and carefully, and had brought a cushion to sit on. At least this buggy was built in a way that absorbed the bumps and bounces that came with any of Amesbury’s roads.

  A lad outside the boat shop took Peaches across the road to a stable while I picked my way along an icy path. The north-facing sides of buildings often received no direct sunlight on these short winter days, so packed-down snow turned to treacherous ice after enough feet had trod it. The last thing I needed was to fall and acquire yet more bruises. When I entered the office, Delia Davies again sat at the front desk.

  “Good morning, Delia,” I said.

  She blinked, her eyes as dark as Savoire’s. “Yes?” Delia was as tall as her mother and bore her wide shoulders. Unlike Madame Restante, she carried no excess weight at all.

  “I was in several days ago, to speak with Ransom Skells.” I watched her.

  She didn’t react in her expression, but her throat moved as she swallowed. Nerves? She kept her back straight and shoulders back.

  “The poor man, now a widower and father to motherless children.” She shook her head in apparent sadness.

  “I was with Charity Skells when she passed.”

  “I liked Charity, God rest her soul. We had become friendly recently.” Delia blinked again. “Why were you with her? Were you also a friend of hers?”

  Was she feigning a lack of memory? “No, I was her midwife, as I mentioned the first time I came in. I recently had occasion to speak with thy mother, as well.”

  “My mother?” she asked after a pause. “Why in the world would you see her?”

  “Just some business I was conducting. She goes by Savoire Restante, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Delia straightened the already impeccable stack of papers in the center of her desk and lined up three pencils by size like a mini regiment. She finally raised her gaze to my face. “Was there something you needed here this morning, Miss Carroll?” She smiled with her mouth only.

  Neither deny nor confirm. An interesting tactic. “I was hoping to speak with thy supervisor. It’s about Ransom.”

  “Mr. Sherwood is occupied just now.” She set her mouth as if daring me to challenge her, the gatekeeper.

  “I can wait.” I moved toward the chair facing her desk.

  “No, he’s out.” The words came out in a rush. “Won’t be back until this afternoon sometime.”

  “I see. I’ll come back, then.” I had turned to go when the outer door flew open with a rush of cold air. “Ah.” I smiled at the newcomer. “The very man I wanted to see.”

  “Oh? And you might be?” the supervisor asked. He removed his now fogged-up eyeglasses.

  “I’m Rose Carroll. I was Charity Skells’s midwife, and I met thee briefly when I came to give Ransom the news of his wife’s tragic demise.” I shot a sideways glance at Delia, who busied herself with the items on her desk again, lips pressed tightly together.

  “Yes,” he said. “Forgive me for not remembering you, Miss Carroll.”

  “I wondered if thee might have a moment to speak with me about Ransom.”

  “Certainly. Poor man. Come through to my office, will you?” He gestured toward an inner door. “Miss Davies, please don’t let anyone disturb us.”

  “Yes, Mr. Sherwood.” She folded her hands primly in front of her.

  I followed the supervisor into a bigger office, but all the extra space was taken up with model boats, schematic drawings posted on the walls, and piles of magazines and books wherever the eye looked. He closed the door after us and asked me to sit as he shed his hat and coat. The desk also bore a carved name plate, his reading Jonathan Sherwood.

  “I thank thee for seeing me, Jonathan.” I eased myself into a chair, protecting my sore hip.

  His head pulled back in surprise at my use of his first name.

  “I am a member of the Religious Society of Friends. As we are all equal in God’s eyes, we don’t believe in the use of titles.” I smiled to soften my
words. “And please address me as Rose in return.”

  “I see. Very well, Rose.” His surprise turned to amusement with a small smile creeping into the corner of his mouth. “That’s fine, then. How is Mr. Skells faring?” he asked, taking a seat behind the desk.

  “I saw him again yesterday afternoon. He is stricken with grief and overwhelmed with his situation, I believe.”

  “I myself am the father of five. I cannot begin to imagine losing my children’s mother and what that would have done to the poor tykes when they were younger.”

  “The baby doesn’t really know, but the rest of them are having a very hard time of it, especially the eldest, who is acting out her sorrow with anger.”

  He nodded. “She’ll have to grow up before her time now that her mother is gone.”

  “I expect so. Was Ransom regular in his appearance here? Did he ever have any unexplained absences?”

  “I’m not sure why you are asking.” He waited for my answer.

  “Jonathan,” I began in a low tone, “thee must have heard by now that Charity’s death came at the hands of another.” When he nodded, I continued. “I am assisting the police detective in gathering facts about the case.”

  “Very well. Yes, Mr. Skells did have a number of absences and tardy arrivals. Several times he appeared late and made up an explanation that sounded rather implausible to me. But he’s a good worker and I wanted to give him a chance.”

  “I thank thee. I also wanted to be sure thee knew of the memorial service tomorrow afternoon,” I went on. “It will be held at the Friends Meetinghouse at two o’clock in the afternoon. I’m sure the family will welcome thy presence.” What I really wanted to do was steer the conversation in the direction of any dalliance between Ransom and Delia, but I wasn’t quite sure how to accomplish that.