Cradle to Grave (6 page)

“They'll go through these in less than a week,” she said. “With both Joseph and Judah…” He nodded and reached into the copper for the heavy cloth. He snatched his hand back with a gasp. The water in the copper was still plenty hot.

The front door opened suddenly, releasing a flood of cold air into the room. As Lydia and Rees looked up, a high treble voice piped, “What are you doing in my house?”

Chapter Five

Rees recovered from the surprise first. “You must be Simon,” he said, inspecting the little boy on the stoop. He could not be more than seven. He wore shoes; a coat, too large and a little tattered around the sleeves, but still thick and warm; and a heavy cap. He carried a basket on one arm and a milk bucket stood on the step beside him.

“Come in before you let out the heat,” Lydia said.

Simon obeyed, stepping through the door and depositing his burden on the floor with a huff of relief. He shut the door. “What are you doing here?” he asked as he shucked his coat and hat. Simon did not resemble his three siblings at all. A shock of black hair hung over his forehead and his eyes were an odd silvery gray, completely unlike either the lighter cerulean blue of his sisters or the hazel of his brother. Rees looked at the children, the differences in their coloring arguing for different fathers, and wondered what exactly Mrs. Whitney had been engaged in.

Simon removed his coat, revealing a very dirty one-piece suit of linsey-woolsey with ankle-length pantaloons and a row of buttons across the chest.

“They're friends with Mouse,” came Jerusha's sleepy voice. The burgundy mound shuddered and after a moment she wriggled herself free. “They brought some food. What do you have?”

“Mr. Baker sent over milk,” Simon replied. He looked around him, realizing with a start that the bucket was still outside. Rees opened the door and carried it in. “Not too much; the cows are going dry.” Simon pointed to the basket and added, “And Mrs. Baker sent over a couple a pounds of cornmeal, some corn bread, and some apples.”

Uttering a squeak of pleasure, Jerusha hauled the basket to the table and grabbed an apple. Lydia stared into the milk bucket. She took a spoon and stirred the frozen cream on top.

“It must have been a cold walk home,” she said.

“Are you apprenticed to Mr. Baker?” Rees asked, examining the child dubiously. Seven was a little young for an apprenticeship; usually the children were sent out at twelve or thirteen.

The boy shook his head. “No. But I work for him. He has a dairy farm over the ridge there.” He flapped his hand at the front door to indicate a general direction.

“Does he pay you?” Lydia asked, trying not to sound horrified and failing.

“Not in cash,” Simon said. “In food. Like the milk and such.” He sounded proud. “And he gave me these shoes and this coat.”

“I'll have to meet Mr. Baker and express my gratitude,” Rees said. Thank God some adult had been keeping an eye on these children.

With a wail, Joseph awoke and began thrashing around. Jerusha hurried to him, her clogs clattering. As she bent to pick him up, the door to the bedroom opened and Margaret Whitney appeared in the opening. She was fair and the hair hanging in uncombed tangles down her back was just a shade darker than Jerusha's. Her eyes were a clear blue, like her daughters'. She must have been very pretty once. But dressed in a stained and torn calico dress, her face bloated and reddened by drink, she looked far older than her years.

“Jerry, please keep the babies quiet. Mama has the most awful headache.”

Then she saw Rees and Lydia. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“Taking care of your children,” Lydia said, her anger boiling over. “Feeding them.”

“And who asked you to?” Mrs. Whitney retorted, coming farther into the room. “I don't even know you. We're managing.”

“By sending your little boy out to work? What's wrong with you? Don't you care about your children?” Lydia shouted. Rees turned to stare at her in shock. He had never seen her so furious. She was usually the most charitable of women. And even when angry she rarely raised her voice.

“Of course I do,” Mrs. Whitney screamed in return. “Who are you to come in here and judge? You, a fine lady. Oh,” Mrs. Whitney paused, staring at Lydia. “Now I understand. Where are your children? You don't have any, do you? So now you'll tell me how to raise mine. Well, you can just…”

Lydia slapped Maggie with all of her strength and burst into tears.

Mrs. Whitney staggered. “Get out. Get out of my house,” she screeched. Nancy began wailing, quickly followed by Judah and Joseph.

Rees hustled the sobbing Lydia into the cold afternoon sunshine outside.

They stood in the snow outside the door for several minutes while Lydia wept. Rees held her and awkwardly patted her shoulder. The cold seeped through the leather of his boots and thin stockings and numbed his toes. He began to shiver and thought longingly of his greatcoat, hanging inside. He thought Lydia must be cold, too, in her dress and thin slippers, but in the depths of her grief she seemed not to feel it. “Lydia,” he said, gently clutching her shoulder. “Lydia Jane. We can't remain out here much longer, not in the cold.”

She nodded and tried to speak, the words erupting in spurts. “It's just that … my Polly … she was almost Joseph's age … when she died.” Now Rees wrapped his arms around her. His pity was tangled up with jealousy, although he was ashamed to admit it. Before he'd met Lydia, while she was still living in a Shaker community, she had secretly married and borne a baby girl. The pregnancy meant she could no longer stay with the Shakers, and she hadn't returned even after the baby's death. Now, several years later, she still grieved. Rees always wondered if she thought of the child's father, for he'd been dead too when Rees and Lydia had met, when she remembered Polly. “That woman … doesn't deserve her babies,” she said again in a passionate guttural tone. “She has four children. And I lost my darling girl.”

“We'll speak to the constable,” Rees promised, knowing how inadequate his promise sounded.

Lydia nodded and pressed her head into his shoulder. From the spasms racking her body, he knew how hard she was struggling to control her sobs. For several minutes he patted her back. He didn't want to promise her other children; well-meaning people said that all the time and instead of offering comfort it diminished the grief the bereaved felt. He couldn't do that to Lydia.

He turned around at the thud of horse hooves coming up the drive. A man in a heavy coat and beaver hat astride a rawboned chestnut trotted toward them. Rees released Lydia and turned to meet the new arrival. The stranger dismounted and walked toward them, his sharp eyes taking in their clothing and Lydia's tear-ravaged face. “Mr. Randall, the innkeeper, told me some of Maggie's friends were in town,” he said. With his indeterminate brown hair and faded blue eyes, he was a man few would notice or remember.

Rees hesitated. Should he lie or not? Mouse must be known as a troublemaker. He opted for a partial truth. “Will Rees. My wife, Lydia. We were visiting the community at Mount Unity. And you are?”

“Constable Cooper.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I suppose the Shakers told you about the ruffians terrorizing the community. I told the Elder I was looking into it. In fact, I'll be standing watch tonight.”

Rees shook his head in surprise. “No, they didn't mention it. What exactly is happening?” He heard his voice sharpen and tried to smile when Cooper glanced at him.

“We … well, there was some trouble between Maggie and one of the Shaker girls awhile back.” Rees caught the automatic use of Mrs. Whitney's first name and examined the constable with increased interest. Was he a friend of Maggie's? “Since then,” Cooper continued, “three or four boys have been riding through Mount Unity terrorizing the members. Probably kids. I haven't caught them at it yet. But I will.”

The constable's quick defensiveness told Rees the situation was far more serious than Cooper wanted to admit. Rees determined right then he would drive to Mount Unity that night and keep watch.

“So, what did the Shakers tell you?” Cooper asked.

“Nothing about that. We are friendly with Sister Hannah, you see.” Rees watched the constable's eyebrows rise.

“The Miss Moore that made the complaint against Maggie? She sent you to check up on the family? But that conflict was months ago.”

“Yes. We received her letter recently. Our concern is not for Mrs. Whitney so much as Sister Hannah Moore.”

“She is
very
concerned about these children,” Lydia said, joining the conversation for the first time. Her voice was thick and hoarse from sobbing. Rees drew her close to his side, hoping she would draw some comfort from his presence.

“You can tell Miss Moore I was here,” Cooper said. “When Randall said Maggie had company, I thought I'd check on her while I was checking up on you. The town fathers will want to know how she's doing anyway.”

“You won't see much,” Rees said. “My wife fed the children and cleaned the cabin.”

Cooper shrugged and went into the shack. Rees turned back to Lydia. Although her eyes and nose were still a fiery red, she nodded at him. “I'm better now,” she said. She didn't look restored but Rees refrained from comment.

“Then let's see what happens with the constable,” he said, taking her arm and drawing her through the door.

Cooper had gone only a few steps inside and was looking around in disbelief. Maggie Whitney could not have staged the scene more effectively if she'd planned it. Although the cabin still smelled of steam and wet cloth, the pungent sting of ammonia was gone. She sat by the fire, nursing Joseph under a shawl. Children were typically nursed until two or longer; Rees wondered if the town fathers would agree to pay for Joseph that long. Judah was sitting on the floor at her feet, playing with a wooden cart and crudely carved horse. And Jerusha, Simon, and Nancy were lined up beside the table eating apples.

The constable threw a look back at Lydia and Rees. “How can I take any action when I have seen this?” He pointed at the charade of cozy domesticity before him.

“I told you my wife has been busy,” Rees said, brusque with frustration.

Shrugging again, Cooper moved farther into the cabin. “Are you all right, Maggie?” he asked, his voice gentle.

“Yes,” she said in a sweet voice. The marks of Lydia's fingers reddened her cheek. “I received some poor news; they caught me at an unfortunate time.” She flashed Cooper a glance from under her lashes to see how he was responding. “We are faring just fine, although we have but little food.” She paused.

“I'll bring something next time I come. And I'll apply to the town fathers on your behalf,” Cooper said.

But Maggie shook her head. “Please don't.” The artificial sweetness disappeared into genuine fear. “Applying for relief will give them just one more reason to evict us from this farm.”

“Surely not,” Cooper said. Even Rees heard that lie.

“You were there when Mr. Demming threatened to take away my children,” she said. “He threatened to apprentice the older ones and put my babies in care all over town. I couldn't bear that.”

“Well, apprenticeships…” Cooper began.

“What would happen to Jerusha and Simon?” Maggie cried. “And Judah is barely two and Nancy only five.”

Cooper hesitated as though he wanted to argue, but he couldn't. Rees nodded reluctantly, a flicker of sympathy for Maggie Whitney springing to life in his chest. Twelve-year-olds were expected to work as hard as adults and Rees had seen more than one child worked to death. And, although twelve or thirteen was the typical age for apprenticeship, sometimes they were younger and the more vulnerable for it.

After a moment Cooper turned to Simon. “And how is Mr. Baker treating you?” Just as though the child was already a man.

“Well,” said Simon, his light soprano at odds with the small and very dirty hand he extended, “I like him. Maybe next year he will take me on as an apprentice.”

“Mr. Baker speaks well of you,” Cooper said with a smile, gravely shaking the boy's hand, one gentleman to another.

“What about school?” Lydia burst out.

“Right now he's learning everything he needs to know to support himself,” Cooper said, glancing at Lydia in annoyance. “If Mr. Baker takes him on formally, I'm certain he'll make provision for some schooling.”

Lydia's mouth opened and Rees, fearing some scathing retort, pressed her arm warningly. They would get nowhere by antagonizing the man whose goodwill they most needed. Mrs. Whitney felt no such restraint.

“I wish that were true,” she said. Rees heard an undercurrent of acid in her sweet voice. “As far as I can tell Simon spends all his time with the cattle.” She eyed Cooper in sudden surmise. “What are you doing here anyway? Did Demming and his lackeys send you?”

“Can't I visit an old friend?” Cooper said, forcing a smile. “Besides, Mr. Randall told me you had company.”

“Checking up on me?” She paused, staring at the ceiling as she thought. “I see. There's another meeting of the selectmen tomorrow. Isn't there?” Cooper's silence was answer enough. “I know my property taxes are late, but they'll get the money.” Her voice rose, shrill with fear. “They always have, haven't they?” She pushed a weary hand through her tangled hair. “I have almost all of it.” Rees's thoughts flew to the bag of coins.

“I'll tell them,” Cooper promised.

“If you really want to help me, give me a few pennies,” Mrs. Whitney told him. Her gaze moved to Lydia and then to Rees. “Do you…?”

With a barely suppressed snort, Lydia stalked across the cabin and snatched up her burgundy cloak from the nest of rags.

“The selectmen are going to discuss Mrs. Whitney at their meeting?” Rees asked the constable.