Judge Thee Not

by Edith Maxwell

  I snapped my fingers. Kevin’s wife, Emmaline, and I had become friendly. I’d been her midwife for their second child, a girl born only a month ago. Of course I had conducted my postpartum visit to check on both mother and daughter in the days after the delivery. It wouldn’t hurt to see how little Rosalie—whom they had also named for me, much to my embarrassment—was faring a month later, and I always welcomed a chat with Emmaline.

  It didn’t take me long to ride to their home on Boardman Street. Their extremely bright son, Sean, whom Emmaline was schooling at home, sat cross-legged under a tree in front of the house, his nose in a thick book.

  “Hello, there, Sean.” I smiled when he looked up.

  “No horse for me to watch today, Miss Rose?” He jumped up.

  “No. Only this metal one, and she doesn’t need much watching.” I had left Peaches and the buggy in his care earlier in the year when I’d visited Sean’s mother.

  “I’ll be sure no hooligans run off with her.”

  I smiled. “I thank thee. What is thee reading?”

  He picked up the book from where he’d dropped it. “It’s a medical textbook on children’s ailments.”

  I nodded once. I had no doubt his genius brain could make out the words, despite him being barely seven, but I wasn’t sure why he was reading it. Unless . . . “And why does thee read a thick tome like that on such a pretty day?”

  “My friend is still at regular school until four o’clock. And my little sister is poorly, so I thought I’d see if I could figure out what’s wrong with her.”

  “My goodness. What are her symptoms?”

  He raised his chin. “She’s hot and sweaty.”

  “Has thee come up with what it might be, Dr. Sean?” I kept my tone serious.

  He regarded me for a moment to make sure I wasn’t joshing. “Those are symptoms of fever. The etiology could be any number of diseases.”

  Etiology. But he was correct. Fevers could have many causes. “I’d better get in there and see her.”

  “Oh, and she hasn’t been wetting her diaper.”

  I stared at him. This could be more serious than a low-grade fever. “Does she have spots, or a rash?”

  He shook his head. “You’re doing differential diagnosis, aren’t you? I read about that.”

  I smiled. “After a fashion, yes. I’ll go in and check her right away. Thank thee, young man.”

  By the time I knocked on the door he was seated and perusing the textbook again.

  “Oh, Rose, I’m so glad you’re here,” Emmaline said when she opened the door. Little Rosalie was dressed only in a cotton diaper and the lightest of lawn gowns. The petite mother’s face was flushed, too, and her curly dark hair hung in a messy braid down her back. “Please come in.” She stood back, then stuck her head out and checked on her son before closing the door.

  “Thy physician child told me Rosalie is feverish and not passing water. How long has she been so?” I took the baby from Emmaline when she handed her to me. The infant’s torso and head were far too warm.

  She didn’t even smile at my remark about Sean. “Since yesterday, but she’s much worse now.” Her eyes were wide and welling with tears. “I can’t find Kevin anywhere today. They said he’s out on an important case. The doctor we normally see is away and didn’t leave anyone in his place. And my own mother left on a long trip last week. What shall I do?”

  I sat on the sofa and removed Rosalie’s nightgown and diaper. She cried, but no tears trickled down her cheek, and the sound was weak. Her diaper was indeed dry. She hadn’t been a big baby at birth, and if anything she seemed to have lost weight in the few weeks since. I glanced up at a hovering Emmaline wringing her hands.

  “When is the last time she nursed?” I asked.

  “I’ve been giving her the breast constantly but she’s getting too weak to suckle.” Emmaline’s pale green day dress bore the telltale patches of leaky breasts. “Sean was never sick when he was little. I don’t know what to do!”

  I took a deep breath. I would give this a try, but if the solutions I could think of didn’t work, I would get on the telephone and not give up until David was on his way here.

  “It’s a good sign she doesn’t have spots.” I gazed into Emmaline’s face. “Listen to me. We need to do several things and they’re all important. First, I need for thee to take a deep breath. If thee isn’t in a condition to care for thy daughter, there’s no hope. Does thee understand?”

  Emmaline nodded, still frantic. The act of breathing deeply in and out helped, as did seeing I was serious. She smoothed down her dress, tucked her wayward hair behind her ears, and straightened her shoulders.

  Good. I continued. “We need to cool Rosalie down and get fluids into her. Please bring a basin of cold water, some cloths, a towel, a clean soup bowl, and the smallest spoon thee has.”

  The water, towel, and cloths arrived first. I laid the towel on my lap and began to press the cool soaked cloths against the baby’s hot body. When one warmed I dropped it on the floor and started again, leaving moisture all over her skin. I blew on her until the moisture dried, repeating and repeating. Windows stood open at each side of the room and a blessed cross breeze helped. As I worked I held her in God’s Light, that such a new and welcomed life should not be snuffed out so soon.

  Emmaline returned with the bowl and a silver baby spoon.

  “We’ll dispense with modesty for the moment,” I said. “Thee needs to express milk into this bowl and we’ll see if we can get some into her mouth with the spoon.”

  Emmaline wasted no time unbuttoning the bodice of her dress and pulling it and her shift down off her shoulders, sliding her arms out. She set the bowl on a cushion in her lap and soon the bluish-white milk dripped into the bowl. “I feel so much better. I thought I would explode.”

  “It’s fine to express it anytime thee needs to until she improves enough to nurse on her own. Here, give me the bowl. Keep thy top down and hold her. The smell of thee will help, and the feel of thy skin against hers.”

  Once we were situated, with Rosalie in Emmaline’s bare arms, nestled against her breasts, I laid one wet cloth on the baby’s chest and another on her forehead to continue the cooling. I touched her cheek with my finger, glad to see she still had enough strength to root toward it, opening the tiny rosebud of her lips. I spooned in a few drops of milk. She swallowed and I did it again.

  I glanced at Emmaline. “She’s taking it. Sing to her, or tell her a story. Anything so she hears thy voice and feels it through her body, too.” I kept feeding Rosalie until a little milk dribbled out the side of her mouth and her eyes closed.

  I closed my own for another moment of prayer. May God keep this baby safe and bring her back to health.

  “Rose, how can I thank you?” Silent tears crept down Emmaline’s cheeks.

  “We’re not out of the woods yet. But now thee knows what to do. Keep her cool. Make sure she gets milk into her every time she’s awake until she’s strong enough to suckle. Wake her if she sleeps more than an hour. And next time? Call me earlier, please. If I can’t help, my betrothed might be able to. David Dodge is a doctor in Newburyport.” Although what more he could have done I hadn’t a clue.

  She wiped her cheeks and sniffed. Her expression grew puzzled. “You didn’t know our baby was sick, and the timing of your visit makes me think it wasn’t a purely social call.” She raised a single eyebrow. “Are you working on this new case, too?”

  “No . . .” I drew out the word. “But I might have a few ideas for Kevin if he’s interested.”

  “I thought so!” The old Emmaline was back, grinning. She’d helped get messages back and forth between Kevin and me in the winter. “I’ll tell him.”

  I stood. “Is thee all right for me to leave now?”

  “Yes, as long as you don’t mind if I don’t get up.” She gazed down at her only daughter, then slipped her arms back into her shift. “But call Dr. Sean in, if you would. He’ll be as happy as an Ipswich
clam to help with baby cooling and feeding.”

  Before I reached the door, though, the telephone rang on the small table next to the door.

  “Could you please answer the telephone, Rose? If it’s Kevin, the device has a long cord.”

  I lifted the receiver. “Good afternoon. Donovan household.”

  “Do I hear your voice, Miss Rose?” Kevin’s voice blared through the line.

  “Yes.” I nodded at Emmaline and lifted the telephone to carry it over. “I’ve been helping thy wife with a feverish baby. I think we have her cooled at last and with a bit of milk in her, as well.”

  “Thank my sainted stars, Miss Rose. Our little girl was right poorly this morning. I felt like a wretch leaving them behind, I can tell you. I had no choice but to come to work on an urgent matter, not if I wanted to stay employed.”

  “Mayme Settle’s murder?”

  He fell silent for a flabbergasted moment. “I won’t even ask how you know about it. But yes. And I’m afraid your friend Miss Winslow is in a spot of trouble.”

  It was my turn to be shocked. “Bertie? What in heavens does thee mean by a spot of trouble?”

  He lowered his voice as if he didn’t want to let others nearby know what he was saying. “We have several witnesses saying Mrs. Settle was continually insulting Miss Winslow about her, ah, personal life. Another citizen—one of high repute, mind you—attested to seeing Miss Winslow in the vicinity of the Settle home last evening.”

  “This is pickled hogwash, Kevin, and thee knows it. I was at the Settle home last night and I saw no trace of Bertie.”

  “That’s strong language for you, Rose. But don’t tell me you were with the Settles at ten o’clock last night?”

  “No, earlier. Tell me, has Bertie been arrested?”

  “She might be soon, she’s putting up that much fuss.”

  “Thee knows a witness account isn’t enough for an arrest. I’m coming straight over there and don’t thee dare try to stop me.”

  “Yes, Miss Rose.” His tone was infuriatingly placating. “Now, might I speak with the long-suffering Mrs. Donovan?”

  Ten

  I rushed up the stairs to the police station and hauled open the heavy door. If they didn’t let me see Bertie, I wasn’t sure what I would do. Like Emmaline with her feverish baby, I had temporarily lost my own calm and reason, and I knew it. Somebody had to be an advocate for Bertie. She needed a lawyer, not a midwife, but a friend would have to do for the moment.

  I halted as soon as I entered. And smiled. Sophie Ribeiro stood at her full height, as tall as Jeanette, at the front desk. I pushed my spectacles back up the bridge of my nose and listened.

  “I am Roberta Winslow’s legal counsel and you may not prevent me from speaking with my client,” she told the befuddled desk officer. “It is her right under the law. I have requested a meeting with her. You and your superiors have not been forthcoming. If you don’t allow me access to Miss Winslow within five minutes’ time I shall consult with your chief’s superior and as far up as I need to go. You are a disgrace to your profession, young man.”

  The fellow turned and nearly ran into the back of the building.

  “Nice work, Sophie,” I said. I blotted perspiration from my brow with a folded handkerchief. I’d ridden like a madwoman to get here.

  She whirled. “Ah, Rose.” She smiled at me. Her garments today were cut in the loose, flowing style she always sported but were sewn out of fabrics much more muted and professional-looking than I’d seen her in when she relaxed at home. Today she wore a deep blue outer garment with a pale blue beneath, and a snowy white jabot at her neck. Her dark hair, which bore a silver stripe at her left temple, was twisted into a knot on top of her head, as always. “These fellows have no idea who they are up against.”

  “I only now heard the news. What a travesty, to haul Bertie in here. Is there anything thee can tell—”

  At a sound from within, she laid a finger across her lips. A moment later Kevin pushed through the door, the nearly cowering desk officer close behind.

  Kevin smiled. “Ah, Miss Ribeiro. We were awaiting your arrival.” He glanced past her at me. “Good afternoon, Miss Rose.”

  I held up a hand in recognition, not trusting myself to speak to him.

  “Detective Donovan, I assume you are here to bring me to my client without another wasted moment?” Sophie said.

  “Indeed I am. Please follow me, Counsel.”

  Sophie glanced back at me. “Go on home. I’ll telephone as soon as I can.” She and Kevin disappeared through the door.

  At least Kevin cooperated with Sophie and was respectful to her, not that I’d ever seen him disrespect women. What a relief Bertie was in her able hands.

  The officer looked at me with a nervous smile. “Is there anything else you need, miss?”

  In fact, I needed quite a lot. Since I believed Bertie wasn’t at the Settle home last night, I needed to know who lied and said she was. I needed to know who actually killed Mayme. Most urgently—and most important, really—I also needed to buy fish and make my way home to prepare supper.

  “No, but I thank thee.” I turned toward the door. Sophie might be able to extract Bertie for now, but clearing her name might be quite the task.

  The outer door swung open. Chief Norman Talbot strode in. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly when he saw me. “Miss Carroll, what brings you to the station today? I hope it isn’t to report a crime in our fair town.” He smiled with his mouth alone.

  I mentally rolled my eyes but smiled back outwardly. “Good afternoon, Norman. The only crime would be if the postmistress of that fair town were to be falsely accused of a wrong she did not commit.”

  His lip curled. “I assume you refer to Miss Winslow? An immoral and disgusting disgrace to ladies everywhere, that’s what she is.”

  I leaned away from him, as if that would distance me from his distasteful views. “Luckily she has legal counsel with her. Good day.” I slid by him and out the door, which he still had hold of. I truly didn’t care what he thought of me, even if it would have behooved me to. What he thought of Bertie? I hoped he wouldn’t try to block justice because he disapproved of her.

  Now for the fish market.

  Eleven

  My eleven-year-old nephew Mark and I were in the middle of making biscuits for dinner at half past five. With Sophie tending to Bertie’s legal problems, I’d resolved to put them out of my mind. For now, anyway. The twin boys and nine-year-old Betsy were my only companions until David arrived. Betsy played in the sitting room while Matthew read next to her.

  When the telephone rang, Betsy answered the call. “Hello. Betsy Bailey speaking.”

  After we’d had the device installed last winter, I’d taught the children the polite way to greet a caller.

  “Yes. One moment, please. I’ll fetch her.” My younger niece appeared in the kitchen doorway cradling her doll in one arm. “Auntie Rose, it’s for you.”

  “Fold into thirds and roll gently, four more times,” I reminded Mark, whose apron and one cheek were white with flour. He’d asked me to help him learn to cook. How could I say no? His twin, Matthew, didn’t have the slightest interest in helping in the kitchen, but Mark was acquiring cooking skills right and left. It was an unusual interest for a boy. Still, I welcomed it. I wiped my hands and hurried into the other room.

  “This is Rose.”

  “I extricated Bertie,” Sophie said, “but she’s quite shook up. We have to go back for more talks with the detective tomorrow.”

  “What a relief she’s free. I thank thee for remembering to let me know. Did thee learn who falsely accused her?”

  She cleared her throat. “The thing is, Bertie did pass by the Settle home last night. She’d been at a meeting of the Woman Suffrage Association at a home out on Whitehall Road.”

  “Passing by is very different than going in and—” I glanced at Betsy, who hung on my every word. Uh-oh. “Doing something bad.”

  “Of co
urse it is. Rest easy, Rose. I won’t let them lock her up. But to answer your question, no, the detective refused to say who leveled the accusation.”

  “Will she be at the post office tomorrow?” I asked.

  “She insists she must. And you know our Bertie. There’s no changing her mind once it’s settled on a course of action.”

  I heard the smile in Sophie’s voice. “I know her well. I appreciate the call. Please give her my love.”

  We said our goodbyes and hung up.

  “Rose, what’s ‘accused’ mean?” Betsy asked.

  Matthew, who was absorbed in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer nearby, chimed in without looking up. “It means when someone says you did something bad, whether you did it or not.”

  “Thee is correct, Matthew,” I said.

  “Who accused Bertie of something bad?” Betsy pressed.

  “We don’t know, sweetie.”

  “Aunt Rose, should I start cutting out the biscuits?” Mark called from the kitchen.

  I hurried to join him. I checked the oven temperature. It was hot enough, but so was the entire kitchen. The home of the poet and abolitionist John Whittier, an Amesbury Friend and a mentor to me, had a kitchen separated from the house in which to cook in the summer, but our modest abode included no such luxury. I wished it did have a summer kitchen, as did many larger homes. My dress was damp with perspiration around the neck, and I swiped an arm across my brow to dry it.

  I pulled the dish of bluefish out of the oven. The dark flesh was cooked through but still juicy, so I withdrew the pan and placed it on the cooler area of the stovetop, setting a sheet pan on top to keep the heat in.

  “Yes, cut away.” I handed him the round biscuit cutter. “Thee can place them close together on the pan.” Between the two of us we formed all the dough into biscuits and slid the pan into the oven. I asked Mark to clean up the biscuit-making mess and called Matthew and Betsy to set the table.