Taken Too Soon

by Edith Maxwell

  Sighing, I untied my shoes and slipped them off, and removed my bonnet, too. I had stopped by Sadie’s on my way to say I wouldn’t be spending the evening with them. I felt a need for quiet and contemplation tonight, and I knew Sadie would take good care of Tilly and Dru. She’d insisted on sending me home with a meat pie and an apple tart, so my supper awaited on the table at my elbow. I was hungry enough to gobble it down right now, but I needed to wash up first. All I wanted to do was put up my feet and think. Instead I dragged myself to the necessary, then loosened my collar and scrubbed my face and hands. I grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen pump. Now I could relax.

  Feet on an ottoman, I removed the pins from my hair and let it fall loose on my shoulders. After I spread a cloth in my lap, I nibbled away at the pie. I was still struck by what Tilly had said to Abial. What was it? That Sadie had known and loved Frannie, unlike him. My aunt had been vehement in her insistence that Abial not speak in Frannie’s honor. Had she known of his possible abuse of girls? And if so, other Friends would have, too. I could ask Sadie if Abial had been eldered. And if a Meeting elder had chastised him with no effect, why hadn’t he been expelled from the congregation?

  Zerviah certainly seemed to be aware of it, judging from her remarks to me after everyone but her family had left. Had anyone spoken of Abial’s behavior to the authorities, to Edwin? I added doing so to my mental list for tomorrow.

  Poor Reuben. To have come to the burial in such grief and be greeted instead by Tilly’s harsh accusation. Clearly Edwin wasn’t as convinced as my aunt of Reuben’s guilt, or the boy would be in jail. I felt for my aunt, too, to have the object of her suspicions interrupt her sorrow.

  Brigid had certainly been mourning. I wondered at her leaving her cross in Frannie’s grave. Often the symbol of Christ that Catholics wore had been a present from a family member, as my apprentice back home had told me. Brigid’s must not have held such a connection. If it had, it was an even more meaningful last gift to her friend.

  What else had I learned today—or been confounded by? Hazel had also spoken of Abial Latting’s misdeeds. Yes, that was certainly something to bring to Edwin’s attention.

  How I wished David were still here to explore these facts with, and to be my comfort. I missed him already and we hadn’t been apart even a full twenty-four hours. I hoped Clarinda was improving and had not expired before he arrived or even while he was at her side. I would hate for him to be mourning.

  Maybe I would journey home on Seventh Day, whether the murder was solved or not. I was doing my best to assist Edwin in uncovering information, but after a certain point such cases had to be left entirely to the professionals.

  I glanced at my lap to discover I’d demolished the entire pie. I laughed. I might as well do the same to the hand-sized tart. When I finished, I sipped the cold well water, still thinking. I stood abruptly. Here I was alone in the house, and I’d never even looked into Frannie’s bedroom. Maybe the key to the case was getting to know her better. Her room was a good place to start.

  The last door on the left upstairs was the one I’d peeked into earlier. It was a small room, perhaps divided out of a larger one when the aunts had brought the girl to live with them. A neatly made narrow bed lined one wall, with a patchwork quilt splashed with spots of color. A desk, which for a girl studying at the academy would be piled with books and papers, instead was scattered with small tools, a couple of metal contraptions made of wire and tin, and a notebook. A diary, perhaps? I would come back to the book.

  A shallow closet was tucked under the eaves. Inside I found several green and blue dresses in plain style, one nicer than the rest but still without flounces or frippery. A worn pair of black shoes was lined up tidily underneath, and a bonnet in a muted green hung from a hook next to a long flannel nightdress.

  Back in the room, in a low bureau I found a drawer full of folded undergarments, both lightweight and woolen, and another holding darned stockings, lawn handkerchiefs, and two pairs of gloves. I was about to close it when I spied a bright color beneath. Digging, I pulled out a pink ribbon and one of Currie’s recruitment posters. So that part of the story was correct. She’d at least known about the theater and the chance to audition for a part in the show. How much further had her relationship with Currie gone, though, if in fact she’d met him?

  I fingered the ribbon, an adornment very much out of keeping with the Quaker value of simplicity. I didn’t fault Frannie for it. My niece Faith had also admired her Catholic friend’s colorful ribbons a few years ago when she was Frannie’s age. What girl or boy in their teen years didn’t rebel against the ways of their parents?

  I returned the ribbon and poster to their hiding place and slid the drawer shut. So far, unless Dru or Tilly had come in here tidying up, it was apparent Frannie liked her possessions to be orderly, neatly arranged. She’d probably been good at the tag-tying work, which would require meticulous care in the knots and stacking.

  The desk, where she obviously did her tinkering, was the only messy spot in the room. I sat and picked up one of the contraptions. The body, made of flattened pieces from a tin of tomatoes, was affixed with wire legs and three tiny wheels. An angular head was stuck on top and painted with big black eyes. Underneath the body was a tiny mechanism, maybe purloined from a discarded music box, which had a wind-up key. I wound it up and set the object on the desk. I clapped my hands as it started wheeling across the surface. It hit a pair of narrowly pointed pliers and veered off the edge of the desk into my lap. What a clever girl Frannie had been to invent a mechanical toy like this.

  My smile of delight sagged into sadness at the loss of Frannie, to her family and to the world. I shook it off and opened the book. I’d hoped for confidences, secrets jotted down, a window into why she was killed. All I got were sketches for inventions. In a neat small hand she’d included measurements. Arrows and question marks annotated the drawings, which proceeded in increasing detail as I flipped through to the middle of the book. My heart pattered faster when I saw a page of words.

  I shut off the gas lamp and headed downstairs, book in hand.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  At the top of the page was written 19 Ninth Month. Two days before Frannie had been found dead. Under it she’d drawn a heart, with FI + RB written inside it. Frannie Isley and Reuben Baxter. I read on.

  I do love Reuben. But is that it for my life? What about dancing, singing? I want to experience things. I want to be a famous inventor. I want to see the world (AL promised me that).

  Abial Latting? AL could be no one else, which chilled me.

  I want to find my grandparents, my mama’s parents. If I stay with Reuben, can I do any of those things? And I grow worried about missing my monthly.

  The ink on the next word was smudged. From a tear falling on the page? My heart broke for Frannie.

  ask Brigid. She’ll know what I should do.

  I turned the page but there were no more confessions, no more soul searching. The following pages were blank. I shut the book and set it aside. Frannie had grown up without a father. Was she somehow looking for that in Abial? And she clearly knew something was amiss with her body. The poor dear girl.

  I yawned and removed my spectacles. Tomorrow, I mused, as the clock on the mantel chimed eight times. I’d pay the detective another call tomorrow and bring him the book.

  A foot-tall mouse scratched at the baseboard, searching up and down the room for its hole. It’s futile, mouse, I told it. The hole is too hard to find. It’s hidden. It’s—

  My eyes flew open. A giant mouse? I’d fallen asleep. There was no giant mouse. In my dream it had been searching in vain for something. What had been hidden? The clock read nine twenty-nine. It clicked over to nine thirty and chimed once. But . . . I froze. I was wide awake and still heard the scratching noises.

  No! Was a murderer trying to get in? Had Frannie’s killer come to get me, knowing I was in the house alone, without a telephone or means of escape? Because I’d been
asking questions, talking to anyone who would share information with me?

  I listened closely, my fingers icy. Now the house grew quiet. Too quiet. Only the gentle ticking of the clock sounded. What if I had to get away? The building certainly had a back door as well as a front, but did I know the path well enough not to give myself away? The moon should have risen an hour ago. I peered out the eastern-facing window above the half curtain but saw no silvery orb. It would be my luck that clouds had covered it while I dozed. Still, maybe all I’d heard had been wind brushing a branch against the house.

  A barely discernible tapping started up, alternating with the scratching sound. Someone could be trying to pick the lock or find a way in. My throat thickened. Why hadn’t I taken Sadie up on her offer for me to stay at her home with my aunts? I quickly donned my glasses. I should put my shoes on and be ready for—

  The tapping turned into a knocking on the front door. It was followed by, “Mrs. Dodge?”

  My eyes flew wide. Who was it? This could be a ruse.

  “Rose? It’s Zerviah. My lady is in labor. Are you there?”

  I took in a deep breath of relief and, standing, blew it out. If this was a ruse to convince me to open the door, someone was using Zerviah. I’d most certainly heard her voice. I hurried to the door but paused with my hand on the lock.

  “Zerviah, is thee alone?” I asked. Which was silly to ask, because if she was at gunpoint or someone was holding a knife to her throat, she would be forced to say she was by herself. I swallowed and turned the key.

  “Good. I didn’t want to knock too loudly for fear of awakening you if you’d already retired.” Zerviah stood unaccompanied. “Can you accompany me?”

  “Yes. Please come in. It will take me only a minute to be ready and find my birthing satchel.”

  She passed through but I glanced around the yard before shutting the door. One couldn’t be too careful.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Dawn glimmered above the ridge in the east as Zerviah and I let ourselves out of her client’s cottage tucked halfway up the hill behind town. I smothered a yawn from my sleepless night.

  “Thank you for coming with me, Rose. It was a difficult breech, but we can thank the Great Mother for helping us guide the little boy out safely.”

  The last few hours of labor had indeed been difficult, with the baby’s posterior positioned to be born before its head. It was the young Wampanoag Indian mother’s first child, and she’d clearly been frightened. Her nervous mother and older sister didn’t help, flapping about like helpless hens. Zerviah had finally shooed them out of the room and shut the door.

  “I admired thy calm in the face of those womenfolk, Zerviah.”

  “There’s no other way to be, truly. You, yourself, are a calm presence. It’s the best approach to birth.”

  After she’d banned the nervous ones from the room, the Indian midwife had perched on a low stool at the end of the bed and waited as the girl labored, assisted only by my offering a cool cloth for her forehead and gentle encouragements. Zerviah had also murmured the occasional suggestions, some of which wouldn’t have occurred to me.

  “Thy birthing stool is a clever innovation, too,” I added.

  After the young woman tired of squatting, Zerviah had produced an ingeniously designed low folding stool with a C-shaped seat. It kept the mother-to-be in an upright position, which is often best for allowing the baby to come down, and also allowed space to avoid pressure on the opening to the birth canal.

  “Thank you,” Zerviah said. “I designed it myself and had Joseph construct it.”

  When it had come time for the mother-to-be to push, I had stepped away and watched, learning from Zerviah when she asked the woman to squat on the bed holding the headboard, saying it was the best position for bringing out a breech baby. Zerviah knelt behind the birthing woman. I observed her technique for extracting a leg that seemed to be hung up on the shoulder and for bringing the head out promptly after the torso. We all smiled when the dark-haired little fellow gave a vigorous cry. Zerviah had originally asked me to assist in case I knew methods she didn’t. As it happened, she was the teacher at this birth, and I was happily the student. After we’d gotten mother and baby cleaned up and settled, the formerly nervous new grandmother turned out to be an excellent tutor in infant suckling, instructing her daughter how best to position her newborn for feeding, and we had slipped out.

  “Zerviah, tell me where thee trained to be a midwife,” I asked while we walked.

  “From my auntie. She was a healer and a wise woman.”

  “I learned by apprenticing myself to a wise woman midwife, as well, one Orpha Perkins.”

  “We can’t really learn without being there, watching and doing. I also have a friend in Falmouth who is a nurse, and she gave me a copy of the Leishman textbook.”

  “A System of Midwifery. I have it too, and consult it often.” No wonder she knew the terminology and techniques.

  “It’s quite comprehensive.”

  “Indeed.” As we passed the market, I added, “I didn’t see the new baby’s father anywhere.”

  “No, he’s out at sea, trying to earn enough money to support his new family. He’s a responsible fellow, but working on a ship is a dangerous occupation, as I’m sure you’re aware. We lose too many of our best young men. Between that and our losses in the recent War for the Union, the males of our tribe are in short supply.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” I’d never thought about Indians fighting in the war, but of course they had, and bravely, I expected. “Thee must value Reuben and Joseph being close at hand even more.”

  “I do, very much. It was before I was married, but my husband had insisted on enlisting to fight in the conflict between the states. He very much wanted to serve his country. He’s blind in one eye, though, and they wouldn’t allow it. Being an Indian sealed the rejection.”

  “Thee and thy tribe must encounter a great deal of prejudicial treatment.”

  “As you’ve seen, almost none of us uses our traditional names or ways of dressing. Most of us make our way in the world with outsiders none the wiser about our origins. People think some of us might be Portuguese, Greek, or of other swarthy descent. When we celebrate our heritage, we do so in private in neighboring Mashpee, where we own land in common and have built traditional wetus, our round houses.”

  “Does thee long to return to the Wampanoag ways?”

  “That would be a different world, Rose.” Her smile was as wistful a wisp as the cloud overhead. “I live in this one. I do my best today, and that is all I can do.” Her expression hardened. “But we do face severe judgment, and for what? For the vicious defense certain other native groups mounted in the past against white people taking their lands, making them sick, enslaving them? For the color of our skin? It’s unconscionable. Your own aunt seems to think my son is a killer because he’s an Indian. I wish you could convince her otherwise.”

  “I wish I could, as well.”

  We walked in silence for a few moments. It was odd that Friend Tilly would turn against Reuben so vehemently. Unless she knew something she wasn’t yet saying.

  “At least the detective doesn’t think thy son is guilty,” I said, “or he would have arrested him by now.”

  “At least there’s that,” she agreed.

  “Zerviah, thee mentioned Abial Latting’s immoral behavior. Did thee ever see any other adult man paying untoward attention to Frannie or other young women of West Falmouth?”

  She paused and gazed southward along the main thoroughfare running from Falmouth to Bourne. “Yes, there has been another. A rather dandyish man who seems to have a high opinion of his own charms.”

  Currie. “Brown hair, thin face?”

  “Yes. You know of him?”

  “I do.” I let out a sigh. Here was where the lane to my aunts’ home diverged from the way to Zerviah’s. I was too tired to go into the fact that Currie was my brother-in-law. “I’m going to sleep for a bi
t. I thank thee for inviting me to the birth.”

  “And I thank you, in turn. I have a young apprentice, but she’s white. Her mother lets her train with me but doesn’t allow her to assist me in births when the birthing mother is one of my people.”

  “That seems like a peculiar form of ignorance.” I shook my head.

  “One of many we encounter along this path of life, Rose. Rest well. I shall see you about town, no doubt. Please don’t depart without bidding me farewell.”

  “I promise.” And I meant it. I held out my hand to my new friend and colleague. While the color of our skin was different, our hands did the same work, caring for mothers-to-be and bringing new life into this world. Her firm smooth grasp was like holding my own hand.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  I awoke, fully dressed, when the clock downstairs chimed ten times. I’d barely had time to unpin my hair and remove my shoes before sleep overtook me like an opiate stupor, or so I imagined. I had never experienced even a single dose of laudanum, but I’d seen the effect the potent poppy had on those who ingested it by whatever means. Yawning and stretching, I caressed the other side of the empty bed. I would be home soon enough to share marital joys with my David.