Judge Thee Not
Page 1
Praise for the Books of
Edith Maxwell
“The historical setting is redolent and delicious, the townspeople engaging, and the plot a proper puzzle, but it’s Rose Carroll—midwife, Quaker, sleuth—who captivates in this irresistible series . . .”
—Catriona McPherson,
Agatha-, Anthony- and Macavity-winning author of the Dandy Gilver series
“Clever and stimulating novel . . . masterfully weaves a complex mystery.”
—Open Book Society
“Riveting historical mystery . . . [a] fascinating look at nineteenth-century American faith, culture, and small-town life.”
—William Martin, New York Times
bestselling author of Cape Cod and The Lincoln Letter
“Intelligent, well-researched story with compelling characters and a fast-moving plot. Excellent!”
—Suspense Magazine
“A series heroine whose struggles with the tenets of her Quaker faith make her strong and appealing . . . . imparts authentic historical detail to depict life in a 19th-century New England factory town.”
—Library Journal
“Intriguing look at life in 19th-century New England, a heroine whose goodness guides all her decisions, and a mystery that surprises.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Books by Edith Maxwell
Quaker Midwife Mysteries
Delivering the Truth
Called to Justice
Turning the Tide
Charity’s Burden
Judge Thee Not
Local Foods Mysteries
A Tine to Live, a Tine to Die
’Til Dirt Do Us Part
Farmed and Dangerous
Murder Most Fowl
Mulch Ado About Murder
Country Store Mysteries
(written as Maddie Day)
Flipped for Murder
Grilled for Murder
When the Grits Hit the Fan
Biscuits and Slashed Browns
Death Over Easy
Strangled Eggs and Ham
Cozy Capers Book Group Mysteries
(written as Maddie Day)
Murder on Cape Cod
Title Page
Copyright
Judge Thee Not
Edith Maxwell
Copyright © 2019 by Edith Maxwell.
Cover design by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
ISBN: 978-1-950461-12-7
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Dedication
For all those who are wrongly judged
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Author’s Note
Every historical novel brings new research challenges and delights. Amesbury reference librarian Margie Walker continues to be helpful with whatever I ask her about local history, and I thank her. The Amesbury Carriage Museum provides local maps and details about daily life in a small industrial city of the time, not to mention period carriages I can touch and study. I also perused the Museum of Printing in Haverhill, Massachusetts, and consulted with Vincent Valentine at the Telephone Museum, Waltham, Massachusetts.
For this book I visited the Perkins School for the Blind, which was still in South Boston in 1889 and had not yet moved to Watertown. Research librarian Jennifer Arnott generously gave me a tour and access to the archives, including materials on the history of braille and several other articles about attitudes toward the blind in the second half of the nineteenth century. Having read the Laura Ingalls Wilder series several times as a child (and again as a parent), I discovered Mary Ingalls: The College Years by Marie Tschopp.
I referred to A Guide to Midwifery from 1870 for information about twin births of the era. Barbara Pouliot shared stories about the French-Canadian immigrant Marie Tremblay, her great-grandmother, who lived on Thompson Street in Amesbury and who gets a bit part in this book. The historical interpreter and author KB Inglee read the manuscript and alerted me to Pickering’s Women at Harvard College, who spent years cataloging the firmament.
I mention the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. In 1889 it was still in Boston and hadn’t yet moved across the river to Cambridge.
One
I could smell contempt as soon as I entered the Amesbury post office.
At the front of the line, Mayme Settle raised her patrician nose and sniffed. “I’d like to be helped by your assistant, if you don’t mind.” She didn’t meet postmistress Bertie Winslow’s gaze.
I’d come into the postal facility to speak to my friend Bertie on this fine Sixth Month morning, but I paused, watching the encounter between her and the florid matron.
“Miss Stillwell is occupied with other tasks, Mrs. Settle.” Diminutive Bertie clasped her hands in front of her crisp shirtwaist. “What can I help you with today?”
“I’ll return at another time.” The woman lowered her
voice to a threatening whisper. “I do not support the likes of you, Miss Winslow, holding the position of public servant.” She nearly spat the word “likes.”
“As you wish, ma’am.” Bertie smiled. Her face was framed by wisps of blond curls that always managed to escape her Newport knot, but her eyes were steely.
Her accuser turned with a rustle of tan silk taffeta, coming face-to-face with me. “Ah. Miss Rose Carroll.” More than a few years over the age of fifty, Mayme was taller than me by several inches, putting her close to six feet tall. She must have weighed half again as much as I did, too.
“Good morning, Mayme.”
Her lip curled at my use of her Christian name. I was accustomed to such a reaction from people not of my faith.
“We met at the Ladies Circle several months ago.” I smiled at her.
She gave a single nod and a faint smile. “Yes, when you Quaker ladies came to assist in our spring clothing drive for the Little Orphans home.” Despite her imperious manner, Mayme headed up a goodly number of charitable projects here in our busy mill and factory town. “And you’re the midwife, as I recall.”
“I am.”
Mayme inclined her head toward me. “I’d watch out for that one. She’s a danger to all proper ladies.”
Beyond her right side I spied Bertie mocking horror, her twinkling eyes wide and a hand over the O of her mouth.
“It was a pleasure to see thee again,” I said. “I wish thee a lovely day.”
“To you as well.” She swept past me and out the door.
No one else was in the office, so I approached the counter. “My goodness, Bertie, why does she dislike thee so?”
She rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t approve that I live in the manner which suits me. And it suits me to reside with my beloved Sophie.”
“As well thee might, despite it being not precisely what others expect of a nice lady in her forties.” I’d known about Bertie and Sophie’s living arrangement almost as long as I’d known Bertie herself. As a member of the Religious Society of Friends, I didn’t find fault with their love. We were all equal in God’s eyes. I knew a few elderly Quakers who did not extend our principle of equality to couples like Bertie and her sweetheart, but I did. And of course Mayme Settle’s views had plenty of company here in town.
She shrugged, letting out a decidedly unladylike snort. “I think Mrs. Settle is afraid I will accost her or corrupt the children of our fine town.”
I stifled a giggle. “Watch out, here comes the bogeylady?”
“Exactly.” The smile slid off her face. “I hope she doesn’t create a ruckus with town officials.”
“Surely there has been talk before. Thee still retains thy position.”
“Yes, but you know Mrs. Settle. She’s a force of nature. I think she only recently learned of my inclinations. And if she sets her mind on something, it usually comes to pass.”
I gazed out the door Mayme had left through. “Bertie, I recall something I heard about a daughter of hers.”
My friend clapped me on the shoulder. “I know the one you mean. She attended Smith College and now teaches calisthenics and physiology there.” The college was off in the western stretch of Massachusetts, far from here. Amesbury nestled in the northeast corner of the Commonwealth on the New Hampshire border only a few miles from the great Atlantic.
“And let me guess,” I said. “She isn’t married and isn’t interested in the male of the species.”
“Indeed she is not, and one can only surmise our Mayme Settle is none too pleased about it,” Bertie said.
“Therefore she harbors a degree of anger against anyone else with similar tendencies.”
Bertie nodded. “But you didn’t pop in to talk about Mrs. Settle’s prejudicial attitudes, did you?” She leaned her forearms on the counter.
“I was hoping to convince thee to sup with me at Lake Gardener after thy workday is over. It’s quite warm today. The breeze would be refreshing, and of course the sun doesn’t set until nearly half past seven.”
“I can’t think of a single thing I’d rather do otherwise, Rosetta. Sophie went to New York City and won’t be back until late this evening.”
“And my David has a meeting with his father about the health clinic.”
“Perfect, my dear. I’ll meet you there at six o’clock sharp. As long as you promise we won’t encounter a murderer.”
Two
Back in the home I shared with my brother-in-law and my younger niece and nephews, I spread the day’s Amesbury Daily News flat on the table in the kitchen. I was due in my parlor, which served the dual purposes of midwifery office and bedroom, at one o’clock. I expected one of my pregnant ladies for an antenatal visit, but I had time to peruse the news as I ate my midday meal. A breeze blowing through the screened door ruffled the paper and brought the rich warble of an oriole.
The family was all off at school for the day, even Frederick, the man of the house, who taught at the Academy. Alas, Faith, my oldest niece, no longer lived here. She’d been married to her sweet beau Zebulon Weed in the winter and now resided with him and his family several blocks away on Orchard Street. Even Lina, our kitchen girl, had finished her duties for the day and left, so the house was blessedly quiet. Faith’s yellow cat, Christabel, napped in a pool of sunlight. She was such a good mouser I’d convinced Faith to leave her with us when she’d moved. Our kitty’s mother was Zeb’s family’s cat, so they already had a mouse solution in their own kitchen.
The Amesbury Daily’s masthead read Tuesday, June 4, 1889, and below it was the horrific news of the flood that had wiped out the town of Johnstown in western Pennsylvania. I paused in my simple repast of bread and cheese to close my eyes and fold my hands. I held the deceased and their poor families in the Light of God, that their grief not be unbearable and that God might welcome all those newly released souls to his loving embrace.
The next page held a much more welcoming item, a review of a new novel set in Louisiana, The Awakening, by Kate Chopin. The article intrigued me, stating that the author portrayed an unconventional attitude toward femininity. The review was rather negative, and it recommended censoring certain sections of the story, which piqued my interest. I made a note to read the book and discuss it with Bertie.
I glanced at the clock on the wall and jumped up. No more dallying for this midwife. By five before the hour I was in my parlor and ready when the front doorbell jangled. I hurried to let Jeannette Papka in.
“Please wait for me,” Jeanette said to her driver, a deferential man in his fifties, after she’d greeted me. He had walked her up the steps to my door.
“Yes, Mrs. Papka.” He tugged at his hat and trotted back down the steps.
Jeanette turned to me. “Shall we, Rose?” She was quite tall, with thick dark hair and a delightful smile. A bulge at her waist indicated the stage of her pregnancy. But her eyes were milky and didn’t allow her even a glimpse of her world. She’d been stricken with an illness as an infant that had blinded her for life.
I extended my elbow so she could tuck her arm through it, a method she preferred to her guide taking her by the arm. She stretched her other hand to touch the wall as we made our way to my office. I led her to the chaise that doubled as examining couch. She felt behind her and sat.
“I detect thee is with child again,” I began.
She laughed. “It appears I am. Mr. Papka is most pleased, I can tell you.”
“How fares young Rebecca? She is three by now, if I’m not mistaken.”
“She’s a sturdy and strong-willed girl, in the rose of health and a challenge to her nursemaid and me.”
“Excellent. I have checked back through my notes. Thy labor and birth with Rebecca were uncomplicated despite her weighing ten pounds.”
“That’s right. What can I say, Rose? I am a tall woman with an even taller husband, and I make large babies.” She clapped one palm atop the other for emphasis.
“How is Stanley, by the way?”
; “You know, I only see him at the week’s end, because of his professorship at Harvard College. We were determined to stay here in Amesbury to raise our family, so we have my husband with us only three nights per week. But he is well, and we have sufficient finances to hire the help I need to run the household.” A small smile played around her lips. “If anything, the heart grows fonder when it is not overtaxed. The arrangement quite suits me.”
“I am happy to hear it.” I was, although mention of a husband made my own heart pine for David Dodge, my betrothed and beloved. Obstacles still remained in the way of declaring our marriage vows. The situation was growing more trying for both of us each day that passed with us living apart and unwed. I let out a sigh unbidden.
“I hope you haven’t been involved in any more murders recently,” Jeanette said, lifting one eyebrow.
Would people ever stop saying that to me? “Thank the dear Lord, no.” It was true, I’d somehow become associated with more than one case of homicide in Amesbury over the last year and had found a bit of previously undiscovered aptitude in the solving of same. “And I’d like to keep it that way. Now, how many monthlies has thee missed?”
“Three, I think. But it could be four. You know how busy I am with my work.” Jeanette, whose maiden name was Voyant, spoke several languages fluently and was much in demand as an interpreter at the Second District Court here in Amesbury.
“With all the French and Polish immigrants, there must be a great need for thy services.”
“Indeed. Even those who have acquired some facility with our language prefer to use their own in times of strife, which being accused of a crime most certainly is.”