Cradle to Grave (4 page)

“But a child that young must still be nursing,” Lydia objected. “How did you feed him?”

“Yes, Joseph is still nursing. Next morning I made more mush for the children. I thinned it with milk for Joseph and fed it to him with a pap spoon. His breathing was better so I put him in the cradle and he went to sleep. Then that woman finally left her bed.” Her voice went shrill with fury.

“Then what happened?” Lydia asked, her voice low and calm. “Did the Deaconess return for you?”

Mouse nodded, angry tears exploding from her eyes. “Yes. And that woman, Maggie Whitney”—she spit out the name—“said she didn't need me anymore, unless I wanted to bring some more food.”

“So you came home?” Rees asked.

“No, not directly. I went to the Ram's Head to look for the constable. I found him, too. He said he would speak to the town fathers. But a week later I heard they'd decided to do nothing. Mrs. Whitney was not a charge upon the town's Poor Relief, you see. Her aunt left her the little farm and Simon brought in some money and she seemed to be able to support the children on her earnings as a wet nurse, so they left her alone.”

“So you took matters into your own hands,” Lydia said.

Mouse nodded, sniffling. “I had to. I took one of the buggies and I drove to the Whitney farm. She was nowhere to be found, of course. So I packed up the four children at home—Simon was at the dairy, I believe—and drove them here.”

Rees and Lydia exchanged a horrified glance. Rees could just imagine the mother's reaction to finding an empty house. “She must have been terrified,” Lydia murmured.

“She went to the constable, I'll wager,” Rees said. Mouse nodded. “And a few hours later the constable arrived here to recover the children?”

“Yes,” Mouse said. “But why?” Raising her head, she stared at Lydia and Rees defiantly. “She can't possibly love them. Why would she want them returned to her?”

“And the children?” Lydia asked. “How did they feel about their visit here?”

Scarlet surged into Mouse's pallid cheeks and she looked away from Lydia.

“They were frightened,” Elder Herman said, breaking into the conversation. “They ate a hearty meal, at least that was something they enjoyed. But the three youngest cried to go home and the oldest girl asked when they would be sent home to their mother. And when Mrs. Whitney and the constable arrived, they ran down to greet her.”

“They didn't understand,” Mouse cried. “Once they were used to us they would have loved it here.”

“They would always miss their mother,” Lydia said, her tone gentle. “I know. You love them and wanted to save them.”

Mouse nodded. “The worst of it is, I've been forbidden to visit them again. I haven't seen them since. I don't even know if Joseph is still alive.” Mouse broke down into sobs, terrible sobs that sounded as though they were being torn from her.

Lydia pushed her untouched mug of cider into Mouse's hands. “Drink some of this,” she said. “You'll feel better.”

Elder Herman rose to his feet and gestured to Rees. He stepped away from the two women and approached the older man. “Mrs. Whitney, of course,” Herman said in a low voice, “did not want to chance losing her children again and the constable concurred. We, the other Elders, agreed it would be best not to refer to the children again in Mouse's presence.” Rees glanced at Eldress Agatha, who nodded.

“We hoped she would put her memories of them aside.”

“But her love and concern for them is tearing her to pieces,” Rees said. He didn't care that he sounded accusing. “She knows she'll never have babies of her own. She cares for those children. Especially for the foundling.”

Elder Herman turned to look at Eldress Agatha and they shared an unspoken thought. “Perhaps we were mistaken,” he said, his tone stiff. “Perhaps we should have kept an eye on the Whitney family and shared our knowledge with Sister Hannah. Perhaps that would have been enough to ease her.”

“We feared it would do more harm than good,” Eldress Agatha said. “Like taking a knife to her heart and inflicting a dozen little cuts. She would never have a chance to heal.”

“Well, the method you chose certainly hasn't worked,” Rees said, turning to look at the girl sobbing in Lydia's arms. He moved to stand behind his wife. “Mouse,” he said sternly. “Stop crying. Tell us what you want us to do.”

Mouse nodded. Rees and Lydia waited in silence as she fought to compose herself. “I want you … to look in on them. Is the baby all right? Talk to the constable and those town fathers.” She looked directly at Rees. “You're a man. Maybe they'll listen to you.”

“Very well,” Rees said. He would do it even though he knew neither the constable nor the town selectmen would pay him any heed. Rees, too, was an outsider, not even connected to the Mount Unity Shakers. But at least he and Lydia could visit the family, check on the baby's health, and communicate their findings to Mouse. It would do no good to argue with her now. “Lydia and I'll drive out to the Whitney farm immediately,” he promised. “And we'll return to report to you.”

Mouse jumped to her feet and looked ready to throw herself into Rees's arms. “Thank you!” she exclaimed. “Thank you! I knew I could rely on you.”

“It's time to return to your duties,” Eldress Agatha said, eyeing Mouse with censure. “And I hope you perform them in the proper spirit, with a light heart as you honor God. Now, come with me. You must wash your face and order your clothing before returning to the other Sisters.”

Mouse bowed her head obediently, but she shot a quick glance at Rees from blue eyes sparkling with hope.

As her footsteps receded down the stairs, Herman said, “Thank you both for coming. You have eased her heart.”

“I don't know how much we will be able to achieve,” Rees said, turning to look at the Elder. He nodded.

“We do not expect you to succeed in removing the children from their mother. That is a problem for the World outside. We invited you here to ease Sister Hannah, whose adjustment to Mount Unity has not been an easy one. And Elder Hitchens from Zion assured me you knew and understood some of our ways”—his gaze involuntarily touched Lydia—“and have acted on behalf of our community in the past.”

“I didn't lie to Mouse,” Rees said, annoyance sharpening his tone. “I will speak to the constable and to the selectmen for her, whether they listen or no.”

“Of course,” Herman said. “A promise is a bond.” He gestured to the stairs, too polite to tell his guests to leave, but suggesting it just the same.

Rees helped Lydia into her cloak. They did not speak as they descended the stairs and went out into the cold air. “I had hoped they would invite us to stay,” Rees said as they crossed the snowy road to the buggy.

“I'm glad they didn't,” Lydia said. She took Rees's arm and turned her anxious face up to his. “Oh Will, I don't think Mouse is happy here.”

Rees looked into Lydia's upturned face. He wished he could offer her comfort, but he couldn't. He thought the same.

*   *   *

They returned to the tavern for an early dinner. It was not quite noon but it had been a difficult morning. The bowl of hot stew and slice of fresh-baked bread put the color back into Lydia's cheeks. “Surely the town fathers would have taken those children away if Mrs. Whitney were truly unfit,” she said for perhaps the third time.

Rees nodded and glanced pointedly at the crowded tables around them. The innkeeper sat at his checkerboard, well within earshot. Rees knew the old man was listening: there was something about his tense shoulders, despite his apparent focus on his game.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Are you ready to leave?”

Lydia daintily ate her last bit of buttered bread and assented.

Rees put the rest of the loaf in his pocket with the last bit of cheese and a bottle of small beer, in case he felt hungry later. Then he approached Mr. Randall to ask for directions to the Whitney farm. The innkeeper straightened up and regarded Rees and Lydia.

“Are you kin to Maggie Whitney?” he asked.

“No,” Rees said vaguely. “A friend of a friend. We just thought we'd look in on her.” He didn't know how the town might feel about Mouse and her attempt to remove the Whitney children but found Mr. Randall's interest unsettling.

Mr. Randall nodded, looking around at the customers filing in, and said, “Come to the lobby.” Rees grasped Lydia's arm and they followed the man out of the commons room.

The lobby was a small cramped box with a desk and stairs at the back leading to the upper floors. Mr. Randall could still see into the commons room but now had created some privacy. “Maggie could use a friend or two,” he said, looking at Rees and Lydia with more warmth. “Go north on the road just outside. Follow it maybe ten miles out, turn right on the first road you come to. First drive on your right is the Tucker drive.”

“Tucker?”

“Sorry. It's Maggie's. Old habits: the farm belonged to her aunt, Olive Tucker. If you reach a large farm, you've gone too far. And if you miss that first right, and reach a log church, you're on the wrong road.”

“Thank you,” Rees said, feeling faintly guilty. He was more a friend of Maggie's enemy than her friend. Lydia nodded politely at Mr. Randall before following Rees out to the stable yard. Ares resisted leaving his warm stall for the second time that day and the groom had to call for help from one of his fellows. The two men, with Rees's help, finally forced the gelding into the harness. Ares settled and the head groom handed the reins to Rees with a sigh of relief.

Rees waited until they were on the road before picking up the conversation exactly where they'd left it. “I hope the town fathers care about these children,” he said, although he doubted they would take any action that might cost them money. “I know neither they nor the constable will take me any more seriously than they did Mouse.”

“Maybe,” Lydia said, throwing him an amused glance, “but when has that ever stopped you from doing what you think is right?” Rees laughed, a touch ruefully. Never, not even when it endangered his life. “That's what makes you such a good man,” she added, and reached over to touch his arm. Rees felt a burst of happiness rise up inside of him. It was a new and unexpectedly wonderful experience to trust another person. He hadn't realized how alone he'd been. “But don't become prideful,” she added, rolling her eyes toward him, and Rees laughed aloud.

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied with mock contrition.

They soon left the main thoroughfare for a snowy secondary road. The going was slow and it took the better part of an hour to cover the ten miles outside of town. Lydia spotted the copse of trees marking the next turn and pointed it out. Rees groaned when he saw the lane. Although foot traffic had trodden down the snow somewhat, few horses and even fewer wheeled vehicles had passed this way. Ares struggled to pull the buggy but the snow caught at the wheels and held fast. Finally Rees jumped out and grasped the old horse's bridle. With his substantial weight gone, the buggy shot forward. Rees would have toppled facefirst into the snow but for his grasp upon the horse's leathers. They staggered forward the final one hundred feet to the drive.

Breathing hard, Rees stared up the slope to the weathered gray cabin at the top. Then he urged Ares forward the last twenty yards or so to the front door of the Whitney residence.

He looked around. This holding, although small, had once been cared for. The henhouse was out of the wind and well sited where it would catch the winter sun but sit in shade in summer. It was empty now. A battered scarecrow sat sentinel over an overgrown field and although a barn hinted at housing for larger livestock, Rees saw no cattle, pigs, horses, or even mules. He walked back to the buggy.

“Ready?”

Lydia nodded. Rees helped her down from the buggy and, arm in arm, they approached the cabin.

Chapter Four

Rees knocked upon the weathered door. A baby was screaming inside. After a few moments a young girl opened the door. Small and slight with tangled flaxen hair and a dirty face, she wore a tow dress inexpertly cut down to fit her and overlarge clogs. She could not have been older than nine, but her eyes were red with exhaustion and her mouth was squeezed tight. She looked at them without speaking.

“Sister Hannah sent us,” Lydia said.

“Mouse?” The child broke into a smile. “Why hasn't she come to visit us?” Rees, who'd expected her to be frightened or angry, couldn't think of an immediate reply.

“She…” Lydia cast Rees a desperate glance. “She wants to,” she said.

“She's been kept at Mount Unity,” Rees said.

“That's why she sent us,” Lydia said. “What's your name?”

“Jerusha,” she replied, throwing the door open. “Come in.”

The first thing Rees noticed was the smell, a pungent eye-stinging ammonia odor of dirty diapers and the musky animal aroma of unwashed children. Except for a table, five chairs lined up in front of the fireplace, and a battered cradle, there was no furniture. No beds, but for a small nest of blankets near the hearth. And even in his stout boots and heavy greatcoat Rees could feel the cold air seeping through the gaps between the bare wooden floorboards.

Jerusha caught his overt inspection of the cabin. “We had to put the chairs there. Joe kept crawling toward the fire. I didn't want him to get burned.”

Rees looked at the baby hauling himself to a standing position on one of the chairs. His dress was filthy and the long grubby tail of an unwinding diaper dragged behind him. He turned and offered the visitors a big grin, revealing three pearly little teeth. Unlike Jerusha and the small girl behind her, who were fair with bright blue eyes, he was dark with a fuzz of fine black hair and brown eyes.

“How old is he?” Lydia asked, her voice trembling. Rees glanced at her. Her face was so colorless it looked greenish.