Delivering the Truth

by Edith Maxwell

  “It’s difficult for me to imagine who would want to wreak such destruction on our town.” Frederick folded the paper and set it on the table next to him. He clasped his hands behind his large head and stretched his feet out toward the fire. “How will the police find the culprit?”

  “It’s truly a puzzle,” I said. “I suppose another factory owner might have wanted to get rid of the competition that was Parry’s and didn’t intend that the fire spread to nearly all the other factories.”

  “We should at least be glad we have an honest police department in Amesbury,” Frederick said. “I’ve read of great corruption in the larger metropolises, especially New York City.”

  “I hope it’s honest. The detective, Kevin Donovan, holds some views about husbands and wives I don’t agree with.”

  “Oh? What are those views?” Frederick asked.

  “I observed bruises on one of my clients. She confessed to me her husband was striking her, even as she was heavy with child. I took the case to Kevin and he said the law had no jurisdiction in the affairs of a married couple.”

  “He’s likely correct,” Frederick said. “And he is obliged to hold up the law of the land.”

  “But that doesn’t make a man beating his wife right!” Faith looked up from her book.

  “Of course not, my dear,” Frederick said and then sighed. “But thee knows many in this land don’t follow equality between men and women and nonviolence in the home. I don’t suppose this client was a Friend? The husband could be eldered in the matter and let to know his behavior is not sanctioned by Friends.”

  “No, I believe they attend the Episcopalian church downtown, more’s the pity.” I took off my spectacles and rubbed my eyes with one hand. “I’d venture a guess my dear mother is already working on this issue of men acting unkindly toward their wives.”

  “My mother-in-law, always lobbying for women’s rights.” Frederick frowned at Faith. “Watch that thee doesn’t take a lesson from thy grandmother.”

  “Father, I admire what she does,” Faith protested. “I do plan to join her. Well, when I find the time.”

  Her young face already showed lines of overwork and fatigue. Assuming both her mother’s job and much of her housework was taking its toll. I helped as much as I was able, although it usually wasn’t enough. I knew Harriet would have insisted that Faith stay in school. She would be sorrowed that Faith had felt pressure to leave and take the job. Pressure mostly coming from her father. I’d quarreled with Frederick before about the need to hire household help, but he always refused. And now was not the time to continue that discussion.

  “I’m ready for my bed.” I stuck my knitting into my midwifery satchel where it rested on the floor. I rose and headed for the parlor, which was my bedroom as well as my office. “Sleep well, Baileys.”

  I prayed my own dreams would be free of shadowy figures, smoke, and the image of a woman’s bruised body.

  I scrubbed up in the basin the next morning, smiling at the squeaky coo of the newborn girl behind me. Her father had fetched me in the wee hours of the morning to attend his wife’s birth. I turned, drying my hands on my apron. Genevieve LaChance had birthed her fourth child slightly early but easily, with a minimum of blood, and her first daughter had cried at first breath. Now the baby suckled at the breast as her tired mother stroked a strand of black hair off her own brow, and then did the same to the child.

  “Thee has done well,” I said. “Remember to drink plentifully and offer her the breast often so thee makes enough milk. The more she sucks, the more thee will produce.”

  Genevieve looked up and nodded. Then she frowned. “She came so early, I haven’t quite saved up enough from my piece work for your fee. And Jean, well, he barely makes enough at the factory to pay our rent and feed our sons and ourselves.” Her French-Canadian accent was still strong. “He’s not happy about another one coming along so soon.” She pursed her lips.

  “Thee isn’t to worry with that. Thee will pay me when thee is able. Or perhaps I’ll bring thee piece work of my own and we will settle that way.”

  “You Friends are a generous sort,” Genevieve said. “Or should I call you a Quaker?”

  “As thee wishes. It’s the same.” I smiled at her, patted the baby’s head, and took my leave. Many babies decided to make their appearance near daybreak. I didn’t know why. Perhaps they craved those first moments of quiet alone with the exclusive attention of their mothers, moments unlikely to be repeated very often for the rest of their lives, especially in a poor immigrant family like Genevieve’s. Baby number four was surely not the last for these Catholics, despite the husband’s displeasure. I hoped he would refrain from raising a hand to this gentle, hardworking woman.

  I walked near the railroad tracks that ran along the river, enjoying the fresh breeze. I gazed at several dozen white-shrouded shapes, taller than a man, strapped carefully to flatcars. The shapes were finished carriages that had already been loaded aboard the train. Each was wrapped in white canvas to keep it pristine on its journey. It was great good fortune an entire Ghost Train had been spared from the fire. I didn’t know who had imagined the name Ghost Train, but it was an apt one.

  As I traversed Chestnut Street, I passed the wreckage of the fire. A wisp of smoke curled into the air from a massive pile of timbers and dark, twisted metal. Even the stones at the back of the cemetery had been split and crushed by the burning factories. Such a grievous loss.

  I headed for Minnie O’Toole’s apartment on Fruit Street to check on the baby’s well-being and make sure Minnie herself was coping with her new motherhood. I climbed the stairs and let myself in.

  “Minnie?” I called from the dark hallway. I set my bag down. “It’s Rose.” I heard no reply and didn’t see the sister anywhere, so I opened the bedroom door and peeked in.

  Minnie lay nestled in bed with her son, both of them asleep. I walked to the side of the bed. The baby breathed comfortably. Good. I felt Minnie’s forehead. It was of a normal warmth. Also good, as it meant she harbored no fever. Her eyes fluttered open.

  She greeted me. “He’s a hungry little man, he is. He tires me out all night and then sleeps all day. So I reckon I just sleep when he does.” She smiled at the baby.

  “That’s a wise choice for now. Is thy sister still here?”

  Minnie frowned. “She went out for a bit. She don’t get along with my brother, who just stopped in.”

  A man in a tightly buttoned sack suit walked into the room. He held a bowler hat and had the same round cheeks as did Minnie.

  “I’m heading to my job, then, sis. The hopper is full of coal and I left you some bread and sausage in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you, Jotham. This here is the midwife, Rose Carroll.”

  “Nice to meet you, miss.” He touched his forehead.

  “I’m pleased to meet thee. It was good of thee to bring provisions for Minnie.”

  He folded his arms. “When’s that fool sister of ours coming back?” he asked Minnie with a scowl.

  I raised my eyebrows at his sudden change in demeanor.

  “Sometime soon, I hope,” Minnie said. “She’s helping me out and don’t you forget it. I don’t understand why you can’t get along with her.”

  “Well, and you won’t understand, neither, because I’m not explaining it again. And I suppose you still don’t want me bringing my nephew’s daddy to account? I can think of a couple of ways to do it.”

  “No.” Minnie’s tone was firm. “Brother, that is my business and not yours.”

  “Even though he’s brought shame upon our family?” His nostrils widened like he’d smelled a rotting fruit. “And humiliated you?”

  Minnie sighed. “Jotham, leave it be, will you?”

  He seemed to shake off his mood. “I’ll be off, then.” He looked at me and then at the baby. “I thank you for helping get my little nephew
out into the world,” he said in a softer voice as he moved to the bedside. He leaned over the baby and touched his cheek. “We’ll be playing ball before you know it, laddie.” He set his hat on his head and walked out.

  “The two of you share a resemblance,” I said to Minnie. “What’s his name again?”

  “Jotham.” She bit the side of her lower lip. “He means well. And I wish he and my sister were more friendly.”

  “No one chooses their blood relatives.” Every family had its intrigues, its members who feuded either silently or with great noise. And a brother and sister who didn’t get along wasn’t my business.

  “Ida accused him of stealing from her.” She wrinkled her nose. “Nobody ought to steal, related or not. I don’t know if he did, though. And he’s always been good to me.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “Now, how is thee feeling? Has thee been up? Is thee passing water?”

  She nodded. “I’m a bit sore down there. But I’m hungry, like always. And I have a wicked thirst, too.”

  I told her that was normal with a suckling babe. “Thee must drink frequently. Even some ale will help the milk flow. Can I get thee something now?”

  “A drop of ale would be fine. It’s in the kitchen there.”

  I located it and brought her a tankard half full. “I’ll be going, then. Send word if thee has any problems. And Minnie?”

  She looked up. “Yes?”

  “Thee can make the father be accountable. I can help thee.”

  She shook her head, hard. “I’m fine. Thank you. But I am taken care of.”

  I let myself out, looking forward to an hour or two of rest before Isaiah’s memorial service this afternoon. As I rounded onto Market Street, a well-appointed carriage passed me. I glanced back down the street a minute later to see William Parry disappear through Minnie’s door. I didn’t know for certain why the owner of one of Amesbury’s most successful carriage factories would be paying his respects, but I could guess, especially given Lillian Parry’s suspicions. And if he was the father of Minnie’s baby, he certainly wasn’t making any secret of it.

  six

  I trudged through Market Square. Perhaps I should pick up staples for the household. I paused outside Sawyer’s Mercantile and swayed a little with fatigue. As I covered an unavoidable yawn with my hand, I caught sight of a thin woman hurrying up Friend Street away from me. It looked much like Nell Gilbert, whom I had delivered of a daughter the year before.

  “Nell,” I called out. She stopped short but didn’t turn around. I opened my mouth to hail her again, then shut it when a man stepped out of the doorway of Skeel’s Fish Market. It was none other than Jotham O’Toole. I watched them converse, tall Nell gazing down on him a little, but they were too far away for me to hear, even if I hadn’t been standing at the edge of the noisiest, busiest area of town. He laid his hand on her arm and she shook her head with great vehemence. I hadn’t realized Nell and Jotham knew each other, but Amesbury was a well-populated place with nearly ten thousand inhabitants. I was sure there was much I didn’t know.

  A large cart filled with squealing lambs clattered by in front of me. When it had passed, Jotham no longer stood with Nell. She seemed rooted in place, so I made my way toward her.

  “Oh, Nell.” I waved as I called. I stepped around two men smoking cheroots. Keeping my eyes on Nell, I nearly stepped in a pile of vegetable refuse.

  She turned toward me and waited.

  “How is thee?” I asked when I reached her. “And baby Lizzy?”

  She gazed at me with dark eyes. “She’s fine.” Her voice was flat, and her eyes, while on me, seemed to be out of focus, as if she saw something else than my face.

  “That’s good. Has thee been well, too?” I asked.

  “I’m fine.” Her arms fell straight at her sides, her left hand clutching a canvas bag hanging as limp as her arm.

  “Thee is out doing the marketing,” I said.

  She finally seemed to see me. “Yes. The marketing. I’d better be getting on with it.”

  “I think I’ll pick up some fish while I’m here.” I gestured toward the fishmonger’s door. “Say, was that Jotham O’Toole thee was speaking with? I delivered his sister of a baby this week.”

  Her eyes became unfocused again. “I don’t know him.” She turned and walked up Friend Street as if a machine governed her movements.

  I watched her go with concern. Something was ailing her, I thought as I entered the fish shop, the bell on the door jangling, the smell of brine pricking my nose. I resolved to pay Nell a visit early in the week. For now, I’d bring home a nice cod for supper and then try to rest before heading to the sad event at the Meetinghouse.

  The end of Isaiah’s Memorial Meeting drew near as the bell at Saint Joseph’s tolled three o’clock. The worship room at the Meetinghouse overflowed with Friends, townspeople, and Isaiah’s family and friends. Even William Parry, owner of the factory, was there, clearing his throat constantly and checking his pocket watch with great regularity.

  When I’d entered with Frederick and the children an hour before, I glanced at John Whittier, already seated with straight back in his customary seat on the facing bench, watching people stream in. Little Betsy’s hand was in mine and I saw him wink at her. She looked up at me, delighted, and then waved at him before he closed his eyes. To the outside world he presented a serious, almost stern demeanor. From what I had seen, he loved young people and wasn’t above a wink at them.

  As Clerk of Meeting he had broken the initial silence with a welcome and introduction to worship after the manner of Friends, inviting those present to celebrate the life of Isaiah, whose spirit had been released to God. He asked attenders to leave a few moments of silence between each message. I sensed several non-Quakers’ unease with the stillness. For me it provided a lifelong calming comfort.

  Book in hand, the disturbed son of the mill owner, Stephen Hamilton, arrived late and squeezed into a back-row pew. I didn’t know he was a friend of Isaiah’s, but it was a public service, after all. He jittered in his seat and never seemed to settle into the quiet place that is Friends’ worship. John Whittier opened his eyes and trained them on Stephen in a moment of unspoken admonishment.

  During the service Annie bravely stood and shared a memory of Isaiah’s warmth and humor as they had walked along the Powow one afternoon only a week earlier. After she sat, Faith held her hand while Annie wept softly into her kerchief. Seated across the rectangle of pews with his parents and younger siblings, Zeb waited until nearly the end of Meeting to talk about his brother. When he was finished, he sank back onto the bench and bent over with face in hands, shoulders heaving.

  Afterward, mourners flowed out onto the grassy area in front of the Meetinghouse. The weather was mild for the season, with sunshine melting snow and encouraging new leaves to open. A gentle breeze ruffled the attenders’ hair. I was glad to take a deep breath of such fresh air after our long winter.

  Several older ladies and I laid out refreshments on a trestle table. The gathering continued on a somber note, with townspeople and friends of Isaiah’s offering their condolences to his parents. A knot of young men gathered around Zeb and told stories about escapades with the brothers when they were younger, bringing a much-needed smile to Zeb’s face. Stephen Hamilton stood alone on the periphery of the gathering, his eyes darting here and there.

  Kevin Donovan approached the food table and helped himself to a gingersnap. The ruddy-faced detective wore a dark suit instead of his police uniform. Perhaps he was a friend of the family. I could tell him about the person I had spied near the factory.

  “Good morning, Miss Carroll.”

  “It’s a sad day, Kevin Donovan.” I took a breath. “How is the fire investigation going? Has thee found a cause for it?”

  He looked sharply toward me. “What business is that of yours?”

  “I live in t
his town.” I folded my arms. “A young man from this Meeting died in the awful conflagration, along with other workers. And I heard talk yesterday of someone deliberately setting the fire.”

  “We still seek answers,” he said in a terse voice.

  “I have some information thee might want to hear,” I said in a low voice, gesturing to move away from others. “Before the fire began I was near Parry’s factory. And I saw a shape outside the fence creeping in stealth, possibly limping. He held an object.”

  “He?” The detective leaned toward me across the table.

  I was startled. “The person might have been wearing a cape or a cloak. In truth, as it was darkening, I didn’t see so clearly. It’s possible it was a woman.”

  “And what was the object?”

  “It was flat and thick. About the size of a book. I couldn’t see more.”

  “Thank you, Miss Carroll. I assume you would have come forth with this information even if you hadn’t seen me here?”

  “Of course.” I wondered why I hadn’t, then remembered how full the time had been since that evening, not yet two full days.

  “If you remember, think of any other detail, or see anything suspicious, please let me know.” He smiled. “Alert citizens can be a great help in these kinds of cases.”

  I nodded before he turned away, his head moving to scan the assemblage. Perhaps he was not here as a mourner, after all. And he seemed friendlier than in my past encounters with him.

  I surveyed the table and combined two half-full plates of sweets into one. The punch was running scant, so I made my way around the back of the Meetinghouse where we had left an additional jug in the shade of the roof overhang. My feet rustled dry leaves from last autumn. I had hefted the heavy container when Stephen Hamilton rushed around the far corner. When he spied me he halted.

  “Stephen,” I called. “We’re happy thee could join us.”

  He strode in my direction. “You Quakers should be quaking at the wrath of the Lord.” Scowling, he shook his Bible in the air.