Delivering the Truth (7 page)

“I'll have to give them some gentle eldering about treating all equally. They addressed Kevin as Detective and Sir over and over.” I smiled. “But they're young yet.”

“Here we are,” he said as we finally turned onto Olive Street and pulled up at the first house, which sat on the corner with High. A large home with elegant proportions perched there, with lights in every downstairs window despite the early hour. Even the plantings emerging from snowbanks appeared well tended and graceful.

Acting as assistant detective was child's play compared to the ordeal I anticipated.

I perched on the needlework seat of the chair Clarinda Dodge had assigned me to. It was beautiful, with glowing cherry wood shaped into curving lines. A low table in the middle of the cluster of chairs and settees held a silver tea service as well as plates of tiny sandwiches and sweets that a uniformed colored maid had delivered. I tried to hold my cup and saucer steady in my lap. The cup, decorated with sprigs of roses, was of a china so fine I could see light through it.

“So David tells us you work as a midwife, Miss Carroll. How quaint. Women still use midwives, do they?” Clarinda smiled ever so slightly. Her silver hair was drawn into an impeccable knot on top of her head and she wore a gown in a matching color. She poised her slender figure with erect posture.

“They do, and I am one. Helping mothers to have healthy pregnancies and assisting babies to enter the world safely is my calling, and it serves a great need in the community.” I smiled back with somewhat more feeling. “And please call me Rose.”

“She's as good as a doctor with deliveries, Mother.” David sat next to his mother on a settee upholstered in a burgundy damask that nearly matched my dress. “I've seen her in action. Why, just the other day—”

“I don't think the details of giving birth is an appropriate topic of conversation, dear.” Clarinda's mouth twisted as if her tea were laced with sour lemon.

“Thee has a lovely home,” I said, hoping to lighten the conversation. It was true. While the style was more ornate than one would find in the home of any Friend, the rich reds and deep greens of the cushions and the draperies were harmonious and all the pieces of furniture were of the same gleaming cherry as my perch, except the black grand piano that sat in the far corner of the spacious room near tall windows.

“Thank you. Your speech sounds quite
old-fashioned
.” Clarinda cocked her head. “And your dress is quite plain, as well. Lovely, but unadorned.”

I winced inwardly and then sat up straight. “Yes, I am a member of the Society of Friends, and—”

“Ah, the peaceable religion,” a deep voice boomed. A man strode into the room, stopping in front of me. “Sorry I'm late. I'm Herbert Dodge, David's father. And you must be the lovely Rose.” He bowed slightly and winked at me, with identical eyes to David's and the same dark hair, except Herbert's was shot through with gray.

Winks must run in the family. “I'm pleased to meet thee, Herbert.” I held out my hand and he shook it heartily, then sat in the chair next to me.

“Don't you know, dear?” Herbert said to Clarinda. “Quakers believe all are equal under God, and long ago decided to use the familiar form of speech for family and presidents alike. But now, of course, the formal has become the familiar in our language, so we say ‘you' when we address another person and Quakers say ‘thee.' It is
old-fashioned
.” He accepted a cup of tea from Clarinda and popped two sandwiches into his mouth. “I happen to like it.”

“That's a correct description,” I said. “And our way of speech now distinguishes Friends as different. But we're accustomed to it and so it continues.”

“I find the study of language fascinating,” Herbert said. “But you use ‘you' when you address more than one person, isn't it true?”

I smiled. “Yes. It's odd, but that's how we speak.”

“And I like the fact you called me by my first name. I approve, young lady.” He set his cup and saucer down with a clatter and rubbed his hands together.

Clarinda blinked several times and pressed her lips together. I had carefully avoided addressing her by name because I had the feeling she would only want me to call her Mrs. Dodge. Now I wanted desperately to steer the conversation away from me.

“How fares the shoe business?” I asked Herbert. “David tells me thy factory is quite large.”

“Oh, it's faring splendidly. We have near one hundred employees. Everyone needs shoes and always will.”

“Mr. Dodge was disappointed David did not wish to follow him into the business.” Clarinda lifted her chin. “But I approved of his becoming a doctor.”

“Now, Mother, you don't need to start that conversation all over again. Rose doesn't want to hear about our petty family quarrels, do you?” David gave me a wry smile.

“Son,” Clarinda turned to face him, “I heard from my cousin that her niece Violet Currier is coming to visit from New York. I shall be eager for you to call on her. Or perhaps we shall have a dinner and invite her. Yes, that would be more appropriate.”

David rolled his eyes but kept his silence. I'd have to ask him on our way home what Clarinda implied about this Violet, and about his reaction.

“Have the authorities apprehended the arsonist in your town, Rose?” Herbert leaned toward me, his large hands splayed on his knees.

“No, not that I know of.” How much should I say?

“Rosie herself caught one trying to burn down her church just this morning, Father,” David said, eyes twinkling even as Clarinda gasped.

“You don't say!” Herbert fixed his full attention on me.

“It's true,” I said. “But unfortunately the police have learned he wasn't the man who set the Parry Carriage Factory aflame.”

“So you wrestled this fellow down yourself? I admire such spunk,” Herbert said.

“Surely you didn't engage in physicality with the arsonist,” Clarinda said, the edges of her mouth drawing down.

I laughed. “Oh, no, I didn't fling myself upon him. Several Friends managed to wrestle the man to the ground and others worked to extinguish the fire. I was grateful more damage wasn't done.”

“I believe the poet Whittier is one of you?” Clarinda rose and fetched a slim book from a table near the door. “I am quite fond of his work.”

“He's an elder of our Meeting, yes,” I said. “And threw his own coat upon the fire today.”

She brought the book back to the settee and leafed through it. “Here we are. I particularly enjoy his work titled ‘Democracy.'” She began to read.

O fairest born of love and light,

Yet bending brow and eye severe

On all that harms the holy sight,

Or wounds the pure and perfect ear!

She closed the book. “Does he ever recite poetry in your services?”

“Not usually, but he does once in a while. We normally sit in silence, waiting upon God's Light.”

Clarinda blinked several times again. “In silence? No sermon, no hymns?”

“No. We all minister to each other, and our only lesson, our only hymn, is that which we hear directly from God. But I could arrange for thee to meet John Whittier if thee wishes.”

Clarinda's eyes widened as her mouth dropped open. David smiled at me with a little nod.

“You've no idea what your offer means to her, Rose.” Herbert nodded in approval. “She does go on about Mr. John Greenleaf Whittier.”

I set my cup and saucer on the table. At least I'd done something right.

ten

“Violet Currier. Thy mother
seemed quite enthusiastic about your seeing her,” I said as we clattered back across the Chain Bridge an hour later. The setting sun had dyed the Merrimack a pink that matched the clouds above. I glanced over at David.

“She thinks I should marry Violet—that it would be a suitable match.” He pursed his lips. “I haven't even seen the girl since she was a child.”

I kept my silence. Perhaps Clarinda Dodge would find a way to get what she wanted.

He glanced toward me, frowning. “Violet was a twit then and no doubt is a twit now. I have no more interest in her than in dining with a stone. She'd be about that interesting, too.”

“Perhaps you should see her. I'm sure she's more fitting for your class than I.” I stared straight ahead.

“Nonsense. That's only Mother's fanciful thinking. I doubt Violet would like me in the slightest.” He patted my hand. “Anyway, I don't care to and that's that. Now you, my dear, certainly scored a point by offering to introduce Mother to Mr. Whittier. Do you think you can actually pull that off?”

“Of course.” I inhaled deeply, glad of the change in topic. “He's a kindly gentleman, although quite busy with his writing and all the callers who want a piece of his time. I'll visit him tomorrow and raise the subject.” I wanted to get John Whittier's opinion on the Amesbury arsonist, too.

“I know Mother and you will get along famously before too long.” David smiled as he shook the reins and encouraged the horse to trot. “And I'm going to do my level best to make sure that happens.”

My heart relaxed a little. He was confident I could win his mother's favor and wanted to help it happen. I wasn't sure it would be so easy, but I hoped so. Any woman who raised such a tender, intelligent man for a son had to have a place in her where the two of us could meet in harmony.

I sniffed the air and smelled smoke. My heart pounded. “Does thee think another fire has been set, David?” I scanned the hills above the center of town to my left as we emerged at the top of Portsmouth Road.

He laughed and pointed at each house we passed. “Rosie, it's suppertime and a chilly day. Do you see smoke coming out of every chimney or am I imagining it?”

“I suppose thee is right. But I have fear now of the arsonist striking again. I don't wish for any more families to have to grieve for a lost son, brother, or father. Or even worse, children and mothers. Who knows where the criminal will strike next?”

“You're correct, of course.” David steered the mare up Elm Street, his expression now somber.

When we crested Carriage Hill, the devastation from the fire was everywhere. At least tendrils of smoke no longer twisted up from the piles of wreckage as they had yesterday. I saw Robert Clarke in front of his property conferring with two men, likely planning their rebuilding even on First Day. He was a man to be admired, to not be defeated by this calamity, and to stand as an example to the other factory owners.

We pulled up at last in front of the Bailey house, the middle one of the three Hamilton had built within a year of each other. I thought of them as the triplets, since the plans must have been identical. In each, three small windows ran across the top. At the left of each house a window was set diagonal to the front wall. At the right the front stairs led to a covered porch open on two sides. On which porch at my home a man now paced, turning his hat in his hands.

“Oh, dear. It looks as if I'll be off to a birth.” I only vaguely recognized the man, but that didn't signify anything. By now everyone in town knew they could call on me to assist a laboring woman.

“It certainly appears that way.” David halted the buggy and hurried around to my side to help me down. “Thank you for indulging me, Rose, in meeting my parents. It meant a great deal to me.” His eyes were full of feeling and he kept my hand in his even as I stood on the ground.

“I was truly glad to meet thy family, David.”

“It wasn't as bad as you feared, I hope?”

“Not at all.” Although I'd certainly enjoyed the company of Herbert more than Clarinda. “Now I must go, though. I'll speak with thee soon.” I squeezed his hand and then extricated mine.

“Not as soon as I'd like. I'll wait and convey both of you to the home if you'd like.”

“Oh, would thee? That would be a great assistance.” I turned to the house. The man ran down the stairs toward me.

“It's me wife.” His face was full of anguish. “She's screaming something terrible.”

eleven

I yawned as I
turned onto Friend Street at nine the next morning. Last evening's birth had been well along by the time I arrived with the worried husband via David's buggy, the three of us squashed together on the one seat.

The mother, Patience Henderson, had delivered a small but healthy son, despite her screams. Before I left, the father, Hiram, who had a steady job with the railroad, had paid me the full two dollars with a huge smile. They named the child Timothy. I'd seen pneumonia take their firstborn infant son a year earlier, whom they'd also called Timothy; that was why I recognized the father. I saw this in my practice frequently, a family calling a succession of babies by the same name until one lived to wear it.

I hadn't achieved quite a full night's sleep, however, not arriving back home until midnight. The household had been up at the usual early hour to get the children off to school and Faith and Frederick off to work. I helped out with breakfast and with lunch pails, but I did hope to rest for a bit when I returned from my planned visit to see John Whittier.

I rapped the knocker on the front door of the simple clapboard frame home. While I had shared worship with John more times than I could remember, I had never visited him at home. His housekeeper opened the door and was apparently accustomed to acting as his gatekeeper. She questioned me about my reasons for seeing him. But when I started to explain, John himself peered over her shoulder and beckoned me in.

“Mrs. Cate, this is Friend Rose Carroll. I have time for her, of course I do.”

I found it curious this famous lifelong Friend used a title to address his own housekeeper. Perhaps he felt she would have accepted it no other way. But I didn't ask him about it. As I moved through the hall, I passed a longcase clock and was delighted by the sight of a peaceful meadow, like the one on my own clock, painted across the top where the days of the month were marked, held up by maps of the halves of the world. A quizzical
rosy-cheeked
man-in
-
the-moon
peeked out behind the flat globe on the left. He must move across the heavens during the month, one day at a time.

I followed John into his study, which was warm from the heat of a small stove. The pipe connecting it to the wall glowed nearly red. He sank into his rocker, looking every one of his
eighty-one
years. On one wall of the study was a chaise much like the one in my own office. A small desk against the wall bore an inkwell, a pen, a rocking blotter, and a folio of blank paper. A black top hat rested next to the paper. The great poet's writing space was simple and humble, as was its owner.

“Thank thee for seeing me, John.” I perched on a small chair. “And for understanding why I needed to leave Meeting for Worship yesterday.”

“I am glad thee uncovered the arsonist in our midst,” he said.

“There lies a problem. Thee told me of thy friendship with Kevin Donovan.”

“Yes, the able detective.” He tented his fingers.

“He paid me a visit yesterday and said our Stephen Hamilton isn't the Carriage Hill arsonist because he has a secure alibi for the hours preceding the fire.”

John raised his eyebrows. “This is indeed news. I had not heard of it.”

“Kevin told me Stephen was at the pub with plenty of men to vouch for him.”

“I wager the detective then begged for thy help in the matter.” He smiled.

“How did thee know?” I cocked my head. “Did he tell thee?”

“No, Rose.” He laughed. “But thee is a courageous and intelligent woman. And thee has the gift of seeing.”

“That is correct—about his asking for my help, I mean.” I didn't know what the “gift of seeing” meant, but I was more concerned to get on with my investigation of the arson than to ask John at this time. “I agreed, of course. And now I ask for thine.”

“I shall be happy to assist. I must advise thee of something, however. I am afraid I have grown overly popular with both ladies and gentlemen who appreciate my work. At times I receive callers with whom I am not disposed to speak.” He gestured toward the hat on his table. “I keep my eye out through the glass in this door that faces the street, and if way opens, I make my exit unseen.” I followed his gaze to a door off the hall that led to the back of the house.

I laughed. “If this comes to pass, I'll walk out with thee.”

“And thee will be most welcome. Now, how may I help?” he asked.

“If I might use thee as a sounding board of sorts, I'd be grateful. I don't wish to bother the Bailey family with ideas they could find frightful, especially the children. Thee knows this town and her inhabitants better than I. Perhaps together we can arrive at some hypothesis for the able detective to work on.”

“Please.” He spread his hands. “Present what information thee has so we might think of some solutions.”

“I will. But first I need to ask thee a favor of a different sort. I had occasion to meet a Clarinda Dodge of Newburyport yesterday. She's quite an admirer of thy writings. Her son, David, a physician at the hospital, and I are becoming, well, sweet on each other. And I too boldly offered to introduce Clarinda to thee. Would that be possible?” I raised my eyebrows and straightened my spine, hoping I hadn't transgressed.

John threw back his head and laughed, his beard quivering with his enjoyment. “Thee is a bit nervous about this request, I see. If it will further thy sweetness, as thee puts it, with the physician, I am happy to oblige. Bring this Clarinda Dodge to call whenever thee wishes.”

“I'm grateful, Friend.” That should help put me in Clarinda's good graces. And anything that helped me become closer to David was what I wanted.

“But thee need not be worried about speaking to me, no matter how
well-known
I am. We are equals in God's eyes.”

I smiled, but I couldn't help feeling I wanted to honor both his fame and the wisdom that came with his advanced age. “Now, about the setter of fires,” I said. “I believe we must mainly consider who would profit from destroying the Parry factory. Perhaps William Parry's competitors?”

“But Parry is neither the most successful nor produces the best workmanship.” John stroked his beard, which was the same snowy white as what remained of his hair. “I would say Clarke, or perhaps your distant kin Bailey, would be the ones to envy. Mind you, Parry does make some vehicles pleasing to the eye. But I have heard the quality does not merit the price.”

“That's interesting. Here is another piece of the puzzle. I assisted a young single lady named Minnie O'Toole with the birth of a son the day before the carriage fire. Despite having no visible means of support, she paid my fee in full and said …”

I paused. I might be about to reveal too much of a confidence. The clock in the hall dinged the half hour.

“Go on,” John urged.

“Well, she said she does not need to hold the father accountable.”

“I see.”

“Later that same day I examined William Parry's wife, who is heavy with their first child. This is in confidence, but I feel I must tell thee. She complained her husband has been spending all his free time either at work or with a strumpet, as she put it. And then two days ago I observed William Parry entering Minnie's home, and I surmised he might be her baby's father.”

John nodded, rocking with a somber expression.

“After Isaiah's service, I had occasion to speak with William. I told him his wife misses his company, especially at meals. I tried to phrase the concern in terms of her health during her last months of pregnancy, but he pushed my thought away and said he could run his family without my help.”

“Not all in our town behave by the morals we would wish them to adhere to, Rose. They are also children of God, though, and hold God's light within them.”

I felt myself growing impatient. “Yes, of course. But what I wondered was if somehow this affair of William's could be responsible for the fire. By some connection I've not yet made in my mind.”

“That is possible.”

“Or maybe his wife arranged for the factory to be torched so he might spend more time with her instead of with the business,” I said. “She would certainly have the funds to pay a criminal to do her bidding, although I am not sure whether she would act so desperately or with such vindictiveness.”

“Aye, but then she would have destroyed the source of those same funds. We might need to let these thoughts season a while.”

Season
. Another Quaker habit that wasn't easy for me: waiting, letting a situation rest and evolve. John gave a sharp glance out the glass inset of the door. I heard steps on the front porch and the door knocker thudded twice. He stood and donned a cloak that hung on a peg. “Will thee walk with me a spell?” Opening the door to the back garden, he placed his hat on his head, his eyes twinkling, and picked up a
silver-tipped
cane.

“I'd be happy to, Friend.” I grabbed my own wrap and saw Mrs. Cate heading to answer the front door as I preceded John out into the garden with its perennial herbs sticking their heads through the remaining snow on our left, and along a path through garden beds on both sides.

“I could have Mrs. Cate act as stern guard, but I am more comfortable letting her tell the truth to visitors, that I am not at home,” John said. He paused in front of a tree, one of four in a row. “These pear trees make the very finest compote.” He stroked a bud not yet in flower. “The variety is called Bartlett of Boston.”

“The shape of that one looks like an apple tree,” I said, pointing at a taller tree toward the back of the garden.

“Indeed it is. A Blue Pearmain. The fruit has a bluish bloom over dark purple skin and they glow like plums against the foliage. Was thee also raised up on a farm?”

I nodded. “I was, in distant Lawrence.” We strolled through the gate, along the street in back of the house, then past St. Joseph's Catholic Church on School Street before turning onto Sparhawk.

“Like my cane?” he asked, twirling it.

When I nodded, he continued. “It is made of walnut saved from the fire that burned down Pennsylvania Hall.” He shook his head. “That beautiful edifice was only three days old when the
pro-slavery
folks burned it, simply because Garrison and I were writing our abolitionist newsletter within. And holding meetings, too, of course. They would have liked to have burned us down along with the presses for the
Pennsylvania Freeman
.” He sighed. “But that was going on fifty years ago now.”

“It's a lovely cane, John.” The dark wood gleamed with the warmth of years of use. “I'm glad thee wasn't caught in the fire.”

He laughed. “Look. Has my name engraved in the silver. I suppose they thought I might lose it.” He then asked after the Bailey children's health and mentioned a poem he was working on.

“I have been rolling this passage around in my mind,” he said, holding his index finger in the air. “What thinks thee of this? ‘A
summer-miracle
in our winter clime, God gave a perfect day.'”

“I like it. Does thee mean for it to—”

“Miss Carroll! Mr. Whittier!” A voice hailed us from the opposite side of the street. A thin man hurried across. He removed his hat and held it in his left hand while he pumped John's hand with extra vigor. The man's smile was full of nervous energy, as were his movements. His sandy hair stuck out in all directions from his head, like it was electrified.

“Ned Bailey, how is thee?” I smiled but wished my
brother-in
-law's relative hadn't appeared to pierce the friendly bubble of my visit with John Whittier. Ned was of the family branch who had laid down their membership in the Religious Society of Friends, which didn't concern me. I simply didn't care for his company.

“Most excellent.” Ned's
open-mouthed
smile revealed missing teeth, with those remaining stained by nicotine.

“Greetings, Ned.” John smiled a little, his tall calm carriage a study in contrast to our visitor's enthusiastic agitation.

“Why, I'll bet you two were working up some new poem together, am I right?”

Despite that being nearly true, I protested. “John Whittier writes beautiful meaningful verse entirely on his own, and I deliver beautiful healthy babies, not alone at all.”

“Certainly, certainly.” Ned replaced his hat. “Now Rose, you know I long to take you away from all that. I've had my cap set for you for a great while now.”

I cringed inwardly. I was aware of his feelings, which I had never reciprocated in the slightest. I tried to be kind but he was very persistent.

“And why would thee wish to take a talented midwife away from her
much-needed
services?” John's voice boomed deeper than usual. He fixed unsmiling eyes on Ned.

“Well, sir. I mean to make her my wife, you see. And after that happy event, of course, she wouldn't want to be out working in public. Wouldn't need to, what with the income from the Bailey carriages. Best in the country, they say.” He preened, oblivious to both John's somber reaction and my barely concealed grimace. “Rose here would be taking care of me and of our babies.”

An image passed through my brain of a me with no profession, forced by circumstance to marry a man I did not care for, ending up an unhappy wife and the mother of five whining children. I blessed Orpha again for taking me in at my request, teaching and training me, and sending me out to catch babies, first at her side and then alone. If I ended up wife and mother, it was to be my own choice and with a man of my choosing, as well.

John drew out his pocket watch and glanced at it rather pointedly. He glanced up again. “Ned, it was good to see thee again. If thee will excuse us, we have some business to conduct.” John extended his elbow to me.