by Adele Fasick
The next morning he was up early and set out for the Whitelaw mansion. It wasn't hard to find the stable behind the house, a smallish brick building with a turret. In the stable yard a gray-haired man in work clothes was saddling up a glossy chestnut horse. Daniel slouched over toward him trying to look like a down-and-out stable hand looking for an odd job.
"Have you any need of help?" he called out to the man.
"Not from the likes of you."
"I've experience working with horses," Daniel lied. "Lost my last place when the owner went bankrupt, but I'm a hard worker. This is Mr. Whitelaw's stable, is it?"
"Yes, it is and he's very particular who works for him. We don't need any help now."
"I've heard he's a good man to work for and not likely to go bankrupt anytime soon. How many horses does he have here? You must be worked off your feet in a big place like this." Daniel tried to sound sympathetic. The man's face was weather beaten and he had a scar across his cheek. He looked as though he'd been working hard for a long time.
"It's not too bad. Mr. Whitelaw's a fair enough man. And his wife has a ready smile and doesn't complain the way some Boston ladies do. But I've told you already, we don't need more help." His voice got louder as he said those last words.
"What's the trouble, Harry?" said a voice behind him. It was Mr. Whitelaw, one person Daniel didn't want to see. He pulled his cap down over his forehead and turned his head away as he moved toward the driveway.
"Just looking for a job. Guess I picked the wrong place," Daniel mumbled as he moved as fast as he could. He almost got past Whitelaw too, but then he felt a hand seize his shoulder.
"Say, aren't you the young fella who works for the Transcript?" Mr. Whitelaw bellowed. "What are you doing hanging around my home? You'll pay for this. I'm taking you to the sheriff."
"I've done nothing wrong," Daniel protested. "What complaint would you make to the sheriff?"
"Trespassing, you fool!"
"I've a right to look for a job and I'm leaving your property right now." Daniel moved as quickly as he could.
Mr. Whitelaw was flushed with anger, but he must have realized the sheriff wouldn't arrest a man for asking about a job. He contented himself with shaking his riding crop after Daniel and spluttering, "I'll see you never work for John Cabot again."
Daniel realized he'd made a hash of that. What was the point of trying to solve the mystery if Mr. Cabot refused to print it? Maybe if he rushed over to Mr. Cabot's office and explained that he'd been working to solve the mystery, he could get away with it. But he couldn't go face him in his work clothes, he'd have to change at the boarding house and hope Whitelaw would have some urgent business to attend to before he talked to Cabot.
When Daniel got to the Transcript office, Mr. Cabot had not even arrived. He waited impatiently while the clerks kept scratching away with their pens. The room was very quiet. Finally there was a noise on the stairs and Mr. Cabot came in.
"Good morning, young man. Have you solved the great crime of the century out at Brook Farm yet?" He seemed in a friendly mood so Daniel breathed a sigh of relief.
"I've been continuing my investigations, sir," he began and at that moment heard a sharp rap at the door. Mr. Whitelaw walked in accompanied by the man with the gold watch chain Daniel had seen before in the office. Whitelaw burst out talking, not caring who he interrupted.
"This young man has been pursuing me. I've half a mind to charge him with trespass for coming to my stable this morning and bothering my stable man. It's a disgrace that he's working for a paper like the Transcript. He's no credit to you and I hope you will dismiss him at once."
"Sir, I was following an important lead in the story. I brought no harm to Mr. Whitelaw and caused no trouble. When I get the full story and the details are clear, you will see that I've damaged no one who is an upstanding member of the community."
Mr. Cabot's thin lips twisted with distaste as he listened to the two of them, but his scowl was directed at Daniel. "These two men are leading citizens of Boston and stockholders in the newspaper too. Mr. Whitelaw and Mr. Jarrod Smith are not to be bothered with your wild schemes."
At this point Mr. Smith spoke up. He had an oddly high, squeaky voice for such a substantial man. "Not that we don't want to read good stories in the Transcript," he said. "The people of our city like to read the latest news. And we mustn't let it all go to other newspapers."
Now Mr. Cabot was torn between pleasing Mr. Whitelaw by telling Daniel to get out and never show his face again and pleasing Mr. Smith by going for a big story that would increase newspaper sales. In the end he tried to have it both ways.
"You must leave Mr. Whitelaw alone and stay away from his house, Daniel. I've half a mind to order you out of this office but I'll give you one more chance. It you come up with the real story about how Reverend Hopewell died and who was responsible, you can bring it to me and I'll publish it."
"Yes sir, Mr. Cabot. I'm sure I can come up with the story soon," Daniel said and skedaddled out of there as fast as he could, leaving the three men to work out their own differences. The only problem was that he was no closer to knowing where Mr. Whitelaw had been on the day Hopewell died than he had been when he started out.
He walked slowly up the street trying to figure out how he could find out about Whitelaw's actions. He couldn't ask Mrs. Whitelaw. Her husband would find out for sure and they'd all come down on him like a cannonball. That would be the end of his newspaper career. Who else would know Whitelaw's habits? His clerks? They looked like timid white-faced mice who wouldn't open their mouths for fear of their boss. Then Daniel had an idea. What about the woman he had gone to see when he left the office the night Daniel followed him? Who was she? And how much would she know about what he was up to?
The sun was high in the sky now, so walking was comfortable. Daniel followed the route he had taken that night and was soon at the corner where Mr. Whitelaw had turned. Walking down on the opposite side of the street keeping his eyes open he found the right house easily enough. He remembered the neat white trim around the windows. No one was in sight and no sign of life came from the house. It might be hours before anyone went in or out.
Thinking hard he walked back to Beacon Street and found a small tavern where he could just see a corner of the house if he looked sharp. The place was not one he would have chosen to linger in, but there was not much choice. He ordered a plate of fishcakes and a pint of ale and sat close to the small, grimy window facing the street. After half an hour of idling, he saw a woman come out the door with a shopping basket over her arm. She looked like the maid he had seen the other night, so he left some coins for the tavern keeper and followed her.
The woman kept a brisk pace down the street until she came to the bakeshop and went inside. She was talking to the woman who kept the shop, standing at the counter where Daniel could see loaves of various sizes. He stepped up alongside her and studied the breads closely.
"Those loaves are a penny each," said the bakeshop keeper looking sharply at Daniel. "If you have the money, you can take one."
"I have money enough. I've trying to choose one that will tempt my mother. She's feeling poorly and not eating as well as we'd like. I've never had to shop for her before."
That softened both women and they began giving advice about tempting his mother's appetite with a spoonful of wine or honey. The maid spoke up, "My mistress, Miss Tabitha, always says a dose of honey in hot tea will restore anyone's appetite."
"Is that Miss Tabitha Whitelaw?" Daniel asked.
"Indeed it is. Do you know Miss Whitelaw?"
"Only by hearing that she and her brother are leading citizens of the city. If she recommends honey and tea I will certainly try that." He made his way out of the shop without having to buy any bread.
So, Benjamin Whitelaw was visiting his sister that night. That seemed harmless enough, but if he was close to his sister perhaps she would be the key to finding out more about him. After all, Daniel hadn't been war
ned to keep away from her.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Charlotte Asks for Help
November 13, 1842.
All day Monday Charlotte wondered whether Daniel was having any luck finding out more about Mr. Whitelaw. As she listened to the children's lessons, she wandered often to the window to see whether he was coming down the road. When lessons were over she went to the kitchen. The only way to stop worrying about what was happening in Boston was to keep her hands busy. She volunteered to help the pie group make pumpkin pie. Smashing pumpkins worked off some of her restless energy.
The next day was almost as bad but when the mail came just before dinner Charlotte was pleased to see a letter from Daniel. Fanny, who was handing out the mail, looked at her curiously and said. "You are privileged to receive so many missives from that young newspaperman. Just remember we have serious work to do here and little time for flirtations and idleness."
Charlotte could have told her that there was a great deal of flirting and some idleness too at the Farm, but she only smiled and said, "Mr. Gallagher is a serious young man. You may be sure we are not flirting." She put the letter in her pocket and as soon as possible ran to her room to read it in peace.
Dear Miss Edgerton,
My luck has not been good today. I found my way to Mr. Whitelaw's stable but before I could get any information about his whereabouts, I was discovered as a reporter and ordered off the premises in no uncertain terms. I won't tax your patience with all my misadventures, but eventually Mr. Cabot informed me I will have only one more chance to solve the mystery of Reverend Hopewell's death or will sacrifice my chances of a permanent position on the newspaper.
Eventually I was able to return to the house that I saw Mr. Whitelaw enter last Thursday evening and finally discovered that it is the home of his sister Miss Tabitha Whitelaw. Perhaps she would be able to tell us something about her brother's whereabouts last month now that I cannot visit either Mr. Whitelaw's home or his office.
Do you suppose that through your friend Margaret Fuller you might be able to get an introduction to Miss Whitelaw and pay a call on her? I cannot think of another way we could get the information we so badly need.
Your respectful friend,
Daniel Gallagher
Charlotte carried the letter to class and through much of the afternoon her mind wandered to thoughts of how to ask Margaret Fuller for such a favor. She told herself she had no right to ask Miss Fuller to take such a great interest in her concerns, but "nothing ventured, nothing gained" as her mother used to say. If she were rebuffed, she and Daniel would just have to find some other way. Charlotte remembered the eagerness in Daniel's voice every time he talked about being a newspaperman, and she sighed when she thought of him losing that chance forever. At last she screwed up her courage and plunged into writing a letter requesting the introduction.
On Friday she received a gracious note telling her to call on Miss Fuller at her home in Boston on Sunday. There she would be able to meet Miss Whitelaw. Charlotte quickly sent a line to Daniel to let him know about her success. She would have been happy to have him accompany her, but of course could not invite him to Miss Fuller's home. Besides, Miss Whitelaw might have heard Daniel's name from her brother. She would scarcely be pleased to meet a man who had so disturbed her brother and his family. She would have to pay the visit alone. Well, she'd often done things alone before and knew she could manage it.
The easiest way to get to Boston on a Sunday was to join whatever group was going there for church services. There were many at the Farm who enjoyed hearing a good sermon and would often travel quite a distance for Sunday services with a well-known preacher. Charlotte travelled with Fanny Gray and Abigail Pretlove who was taking Timothy to a special children's service where Bronson Alcott would be speaking. Everyone was cheerful as they bounced along in the carriage, but each had her own thoughts to ponder, so there was not much chatter on the trip. They parted at the edge of the Common to go their separate ways.
When Charlotte reached the Fuller house, she walked slowly up the steps and felt a tremor of shyness, but when she entered she found a warm welcome. Margaret Fuller introduced her to her mother, a gentle-looking white-haired woman sitting in a rocking chair near the fire. The three of them settled themselves in the comfortable chairs and after some polite conversation Mrs. Fuller excused herself and left.
Margaret Fuller turned to Charlotte, "How are you and Mr. Gallagher getting along in your efforts to find out how Reverend Hopewell died?"
Charlotte sighed and launched into a recital of the efforts they had made to discover what had happened. She had to admit that they had been unable to learn anything about Mr. Whitelaw's whereabouts on the night of Reverent Hopewell's death. Miss Fuller leaned forward, listening with interest as Charlotte talked about their disappointments.
"I am glad to say that I saw Miss Tabitha Whitelaw yesterday at a lecture we both attended and I have invited her here this afternoon so you will have an opportunity to talk with her."
Soon they heard a knock. Miss Fuller went to the door and came back with a tall, thin woman wearing a gray dress and cloak. A black velvet bonnet covered her gray-streaked dark hair. Miss Fuller introduced the two women and they exchanged polite chit-chat about the weather and the likelihood of snow while Charlotte tried desperately to find a way to introduce the questions she wanted to ask. She couldn't admit that she had met Miss Whitelaw's sister-in-law because she had done that under false pretenses. Instead she floundered on talking about Brook Farm and how much she enjoyed living there.
Margaret Fuller saved her by plunging into the substance of the questions. "I understand your brother is considering investing in Mr. Ripley's community. Have you ever thought about doing that yourself?"
"No, no, I am quite content in my own little house here in Boston and would not want to uproot myself for an experimental life, no matter how noble. I have several charities to which I devote my time and what little support I can give them. My brother has a wider world of claims on his attention. I am quite sure he would not choose to live at Brook Farm as you do, Miss Edgerton, but he might invest money in the enterprise. His wife has a wide circle of friends here in the city and entertains often in their beautiful home. I cannot imagine her wanting to live in a quiet rural community."
Did Charlotte detect a hint of displeasure in Tabitha's voice? She wasn't quite sure, but decided to dig deeper. "I have heard that Mrs. Whitelaw is a very attractive woman and quite a leader in society."
"Mrs. Whitelaw is indeed an attractive and charming young woman. She dotes on her two young sons, but they do not take up much of her time, so she does indeed do a great deal of entertaining."
"She must make their home a cheerful and lively place for your brother to come home to after his long days of work", Charlotte ventured daringly.
"I daresay she does," Tabitha responded somewhat tartly, "but I don't want to give the impression that his wife is flighty or frivolous. She is a faithful church member and never misses a sermon or a service at their church. She was especially impressed by the young Reverend Hopewell whose tragic fate has saddened us all."
"Was her husband also impressed by Reverend Hopewell? I have heard that he sometimes seemed to have more followers among the women of his congregation than the men."
Tabitha Whitelaw looked at Charlotte a bit sternly when she said that but her response was simply, "My brother is perhaps not quite as devoted a churchgoer as many of us women are, but he certainly was shaken by Reverend Hopewell's death. He is now on the congregational committee to find a new pastor."
There was a pause when Margaret Fuller left the room for a few moments and came back with a plate of biscuits. Her mother followed carrying a tray with tea and plates. Charlotte worried about Daniel and his concern about his position with Mr. Cabot, but Tabitha Whitelaw did not seem indiscreet enough to say anything that might reflect on her brother. This visit was not helping the search at all.
Tabith
a began talking about her work with the Abolition Society and urged Margaret Fuller and Charlotte to turn their efforts to aiding the runaway slaves from the South who were increasingly coming to the city to find a route north to freedom. "We are building up an entire Underground Railroad of safe houses where farmers and others are willing to allow these people to stay during the day. They travel mostly by night making the way up to Fitchburg and then to Lake Champlain and so across the border to Canada. We would like to have the Brook Farmers participate with us in this attempt, but I am afraid the Ripleys are a bit too timid for the endeavor."
"It would be difficult to hide anyone in a community as crowded and as talkative as Brook Farm, wouldn't it?" asked Margaret Fuller. "I don't think there is any way of keeping a secret there because people are in and out of each other's business all the time."
"Surely they all support abolition, don't they?" asked Tabitha.
"The majority do," Charlotte assured her, "but there is no kind of bizarre belief that cannot be found at Brook Farm. Some of the students are from the South and I wonder whether they would feel it was their duty to return escaped slaves to their legal owners."
Tabitha looked horrified. "But all of Boston is united on the injustice of the Fugitive Slave Act. There has never yet been a slave returned to the South from Boston and there is unlikely to be one. Slavery is an evil that must be kept from spreading across the country. We have enough slave states as it is without expanding the reach of slaveholders."
"As Miss Edgerton says," Margaret Fuller joined in. "There are as many opinions at Brook Farm as there are people. I have heard from several acquaintances there that resettling the slaves in Africa or another colony is the only solution, while others call for immediate emancipation. I don't know that anyone is working on such practical details as how to help runaways."
"My friend Fanny Gray is deeply concerned about runaways, although I have not spoken to her about it in quite some time. My brother corresponded with her, I believe, and influenced her thinking on the subject."