Delivering the Truth

by Edith Maxwell

  I held up my hand, relieved he stopped three feet distant and surprised he was speaking. “Our God is a loving one and is in each person. Now, would thee carry this weighty jug for me?” I held out the container.

  He blinked several times. The scowl disappeared, replaced by raised eyebrows and a small smile. “You want my help?”

  I nodded. “If thee pleases.”

  He nodded, then handed me the book and pulled the glove off his right hand. He hefted the jug with a hand marred by small red scars on the back. I tried to see what had caused the scarring but couldn’t see clearly. It was likely smallpox, although these marks appeared more raised than indented. I followed him to the front where he set down the container and took back his book.

  “May I help you with anything else, Miss?”

  He seemed a different person from the wild ranter of a few moments earlier. Perhaps, as the man in town had suggested, Stephen did need a job, or at least an avenue to help others.

  “Does thee know aught about who set the fire?” I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

  He shook his head and strolled away, swinging the Bible.

  seven

  The women and I were nearly done clearing up the food after the memorial meeting’s social time. Many of the visitors had left and it was mostly Friends who remained in conversation with the Weed family. I looked up to see William Parry shaking Isaiah’s father’s hand. William shook his head sorrowfully and walked toward the street.

  “William Parry?” I called. I hurried toward him.

  He stopped and turned. He was an imposing man, tall, with a well-fed midsection and rich-looking clothing. His waistcoat fit snugly and his white collar stood up perfectly starched. A chinstrap beard framed his face under his high rounded hat.

  “Rose Carroll.” I extended my hand.

  He raised his eyebrows, but took my hand and shook it briefly.

  “I thank thee for coming,” I said. “What a terrible accident, thy factory burning down.”

  He frowned. “It’s terrible, that is certain, but the police are telling me they think it might have been set. Not an accident at all. I can’t think what dastardly soul would have lit a place afire that had men working within.”

  “It’s a sad time for all the families.”

  “Mr. Clarke has decided to rebuild his factory. I shall rebuild, as well. I have resolved to do so.” He clasped his hands in front of him and raised his chin.

  “That’s wonderful news. What a benefit for the town, for all of us.” Indeed it was. So many relied on the business the carriage industry fostered. From the workers themselves, to the mercantile selling goods to the workers, to the seamstresses who finished off the insides of the finer vehicles, to the railroad that carried the white-cloaked new carriages away on the Ghost Trains—the entire populace was the beneficiary of a thriving industry.

  He put his hand to his hat as if to doff it before leaving.

  “But I have another matter to bring up with thee,” I said, looking him directly in the eye, even though he was a good half foot taller than my five feet eight.

  He blinked as if annoyed, but stayed put.

  “I attend thy wife. In her pregnancy,” I added when confusion crossed his face. Surely he should know this, but apparently he didn’t. I went on. “It’s important for her health and that of the baby that she feel happy and at ease in the last weeks before the birth. She mentioned how occupied thee has been of late with thy business.” Or with Minnie O’Toole. Much as I’d like to ask him about that, now wasn’t the time. I wanted to keep the conversation about Lillian.

  “I have. And now with the fire—” He pursed his lips and tapped his leg with one hand.

  “I hope, though, thee can find time to dine with her regularly.” I knew I was overstepping my bounds but I wasn’t afraid of this wealthy, powerful man. He had no hold on me.

  He looked at me as if he hadn’t quite seen me before now. “I will conduct my family business as I see fit, Miss … Miss …”

  “Rose Carroll. Of course. I’m only thinking of thy wife’s health. That and thy baby’s.”

  “Good day.” This time he did tip his hat, ever so slightly, before striding away to his carriage and the driver who stood waiting.

  I watched the carriage roll down Greenleaf Street. Perhaps he was on his way to visit Minnie and her baby again.

  Faith and I were washing the dishes in the wide black soapstone sink after supper that evening. It was such a blessing in this house less than a decade old to have a pump right at the sink instead of needing to carry water in from the pump outside every time we needed some. What modern time-saving device would they invent next? Betsy came running into the kitchen.

  “It’s that handsome man thee is sweet on. He’s here. The doctor!” She nearly jumped up and down with excitement.

  I dried my hands. My heart suddenly thudding and with cheeks also suddenly flushed, I followed her down the hall to the front door, where Frederick stood speaking with David Dodge. David wore, as usual, a modest coat and carried a simple derby in his hands, even though I knew his family’s finances could afford him much fancier attire. His face lit up like a spring sunrise when he saw me.

  “Rose, I wondered if you’d be willing to go for a buggy ride with me on this fine evening.”

  “David, how nice to see thee. I was just—”

  Faith spoke up behind me. “I’ll finish it. Thee should go for a ride.” She poked me in the back and whispered, “Go.”

  I turned and thanked her, then fetched my bonnet and cloak. Twenty minutes later I rode with David in his single-horse buggy along the wide Merrimack River. The air continued mild and I needed no more than my cloak for warmth. The buggy was new and provided a comfortable ride, and its roof provided shelter from both sun and rain.

  “I scarcely feel the bumps in the road.” I gazed to my right at David as I stroked the fine leather of the seat we shared.

  “Bailey’s buggies are the finest to be had.” David made a clucking sound in his mouth and did something with the reins he held in both hands. His handsome roan mare began to trot. “Isn’t Ned Bailey some kind of cousin of yours?”

  “He’s a distant cousin of my brother-in-law.” I sighed. Ned had tried to court me in the past, but I wasn’t interested. “He’s of the family branch who fell away from Friends.”

  At a wide spot near Lowell’s Boat Shop, David pulled over. The full moon shone on the water like a silver pathway.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “I feel like I could walk right across.”

  “Yes.” He stared at the horse, who gave a snort and tossed its head.

  I glanced at him. “What’s the matter? Thee seems pensive.”

  He wrapped the reins around the whip holder and removed his gloves. He stretched his arm across the back of the seat and turned those deep blue eyes toward me. “Rose, I mentioned to my mother I was keeping company with you. Now she wants to meet you. And Mother is, well, she’s a force of nature.”

  I returned my eyes to the moonlight. “I see.” Meet his mother? Were we so serious? I’d known him as a colleague for a year. Our relationship had gradually become one of courting, and we had been spending quite a bit of time together in the last several months. My heart fluttered when I thought of him. But what if his mother didn’t like me?

  “What do you think? Is my Rosie feeling courageous?”

  I cringed a little. “Rosie? No one has called me that since I was a child.”

  “May I call you that?” His voice turned low and husky. “I care very much for you, Rose Carroll.”

  His arm was warm along my shoulders. In a flash my irritation with the nickname vanished. I knew it came out of his affection. Right now all I wanted to do was sink into his arm, but I was afraid if I turned toward him I’d lose myself, give myself over to these feelings I hadn’t le
t myself experience since the first time I fell in love. I had been a teenager smitten with a boy who had violated me and then abandoned me as soon as he realized the depths of my emotion for him. His actions had hurt me, and I’d kept my heart carefully guarded since. Until now. David had won me over with his smiling eyes, his gentle manner both with me and the ill patients he treated, even with the simple clothing he wore despite his family’s riches. He lived much like a Friend, I sometimes thought with an inner smile.

  “And I for thee, David Dodge.” My voice shook.

  He reached over with his right hand and turned my head toward him. The feel of his skin on mine was the spark that lit the tinder. Could I trust him with my feelings? He had always acted the gentleman. A warm wave rolled out of my control through my body. I looked into his eyes with the moonlight revealing their startling blue. And laughed when one of them winked.

  “Thee is a delight, Mr. Dodge. For that wink alone I must kiss thee.” I leaned in and carefully planted a kiss on his cheek. I savored the slight rasp of stubble and inhaled his clean scent of soap and some kind of tonic mixed with the hint of a healthy man’s sweat. I sat back.

  “What? That’s all I get?” He laughed, too, lowering his hand to take mine.

  “For now.” I felt a somber mood take over. “I confess I’m a bit worried about meeting this mother of thine.”

  He grimaced. “Yes. She’s asked me to bring you to tea tomorrow afternoon. Can I fetch you at four o’clock?”

  “Of course. What’s her given name, by the way?”

  “Clarinda. Clarinda Chase Dodge. My father is Herbert Currier Dodge.”

  I gulped at the family names well-known for industry and wealth as well as art. “I suppose I should wear my good frock, such as it is. Does she know I’m a Quaker?”

  “Not quite yet. I thought you might be the best person to tell her.”

  I nodded. “I’m capable of that. I have been explaining the odd ways of Friends for twenty some years, ever since I became aware of our differences from the rest of the world. Will thy father be at tea, too?” David had told me his father ran a successful shoe business in Newburyport.

  “He will, and he’ll adore you, and you him, although I must tell you Mother rides roughshod over us all. But you, Rosie, give me strength to be my own person. That’s one reason I adore you so. You speak your mind. You’re independent and a successful businesswoman.”

  I tried to wave the compliments aside.

  “No, truly,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I admire your fortitude in following your calling. Many women are neither so strong nor so determined.”

  “Our society makes it difficult for my sex. We’re not allowed to own property in our own names. We can’t vote, except for school committee members. Why, even officers of the law allow a husband to abuse a wife with impunity.” I told him about my earlier disagreement with Kevin Donovan.

  “I have seen such maltreated wives in my practice. One last week came into the hospital sorely beaten, but claimed she’d merely fallen down the stairs. I think she was afraid if she told the truth, the news would get back to her husband and she’d be beaten worse when she returned home. Such treatment should be a crime.”

  “I’ve seen this, too, and I agree with thee.”

  “Any wife of mine would be treated with tenderness and respect.” His voice grew husky again, and he stroked my hand with his thumb, a simple gesture that sent a thrill through me. “Always.”

  A cloud passed over the moon, darkening the river and bringing the fingers of a cold breeze with it. I pulled my shawl more tightly about me as I mused about what my life would be like if I married outside my faith. Amesbury Friends tended to be more tolerant of individuality than other Meetings, probably influenced by John Whittier’s expansive view of life. I didn’t foresee a problem, should a union with David come to pass, from the elders in the Meeting. I imagined David’s mother could present a much larger obstacle.

  I sniffed smoke and peered past David to the left toward town.

  “I fear another fire,” I said. “They must catch the arsonist who burned down Carriage Hill.”

  “I’m certain your Detective Donovan and the others are working on it even tonight.” He put both arms around me and drew me into his embrace.

  It was a comfort, but it didn’t change the fact that an arsonist walked our streets and could strike again.

  eight

  As I prepared the porridge the next morning, my mind wandered thinking about the fire, about Minnie, about Lillian, and about the tea with David’s mother, of course. I wasn’t paying close attention as I struck a match to light the stove, and a spark flew onto my hand. I flicked it onto the stove but my hand stung from the burn.

  After the family had eaten, Matthew protesting bitterly about having to eat samp instead of the oat porridge he preferred, Faith and I left the house an hour early for Meeting but we headed in the opposite direction. She tucked her arm through mine as we walked toward Carriage Hill. I wanted to see the ruins of the fire again. Perhaps if I stood in the same place as before, I might remember more about the figure I had seen and I could report it to Kevin Donovan.

  “Faith, does thee know Stephen Hamilton?”

  She nodded, rolling her eyes. “He’s a bit crazy.”

  “It might do him good to have employment. Why doesn’t his father hire him at the mill?”

  “I don’t know. Stephen did work for some time,” Faith said, “on Zeb’s shift at Parry’s. Thomas Parry let him go, though. Hamilton spent every lunch period reading that Bible and exhorting the rest to mend their ways. Zeb was glad to see him gone.”

  We arrived at the gates to the Parry manufactory. The wrought iron still stood, but the property was now a wasteland of dark shapes. A tortured metal rod stuck up out of a pile of charred timber and the skeleton of a bent wheel lay in a heap of burned parts.

  “I hope Isaiah didn’t suffer.” Faith’s voice quavered.

  “We must trust he didn’t.” I squeezed her hand and thought of a way to distract her. “I heard good news yesterday, did I tell thee? Robert Clarke has decided to rebuild his carriage factory immediately, and William Parry told me he will, as well.” I stroked her arm as I glanced to the right, to where I had seen the figure. But in the cool daylight and with the building no longer standing, it didn’t even appear to be the same location.

  “Oh, good!” She clapped her hands. “So my Zeb can continue his work, along with so many other men in town.”

  “It’s indeed good news.” We headed back down the hill toward the Meetinghouse.

  A carriage carrying a family clattered by us. The women and girls sported lovely Easter bonnets in springlike colors. The Society of Friends recognized the sacredness of Easter but didn’t celebrate with a change in clothing or any special ritual.

  “I wish I could have a pretty bonnet trimmed in pink and purple,” Faith said. She drew Annie’s green ribbon from her pocket. “But I’ll have to settle for this.”

  We arrived at Meeting on time and made our way into the worship room. I spied Kofi sitting in worship across the light-filled room, a former slave John Whittier and other Friends had harbored beneath this very floor some thirty years earlier as part of the Underground Railroad. After Emancipation, John sponsored him as a handyman until the literate and intelligent Kofi found his way to employment at the town clerk’s office.

  I struggled, as often happened, to tame my thoughts as I sat. The rustling of skirts and adjusting of coats soon quieted until all I heard was the echo of a hundred Friends silently seeking God. I knew I needed to quiet my mind so I could listen for the Light instead of to my own brain. Instead the silence amplified my turmoil.

  Agitated, I stared at my hands as I examined who might have set the fire. Truly, I had seen neither trousers nor skirts on the figure in the shadows. Could a woman with a grudge against William Pa
rry have lit the match? If so, I couldn’t imagine who. Maybe it was crazy Stephen Hamilton who did the deed. Although I had not heard of him being violent before, who knew what thoughts arose in his disturbed mind? I hoped angry Ephraim Pickard wasn’t the culprit, with those spirited children and hard-working wife, yet the soot on his shirt could have come from the factory fire.

  Suddenly I knew who the firebug was. I had to tell Detective Donovan. I risked approbation by leaving Meeting early, but censure was worth it. I rose and made my way to the door. John Whittier opened his eyes and frowned at me but I continued, wincing as I broke the silence by catching my boot toe on the leg of a bench and nearly tripping.

  When I closed the outer door behind me, I took a deep breath. I sniffed. It wasn’t the smoke of coal and wood with which every resident in town cooked and heated. The smell brought to mind autumn and crisp apples, but this was springtime. Puzzled, I set off for the street. As I passed the front corner of the building, I bumped into Stephen Hamilton. I looked at him with alarm.

  “What is thee—” I began.

  He spun, running to the back of the Meetinghouse, where he must have been coming from. But why? He kept close to the building. I picked up my skirts and followed at a trot, thankful for once that I walked so much in my occupation and was fit because of it. He disappeared around the back of the building. When I turned the corner,

  I halted.

  Fire flared up from a pile of burning leaves. It licked at the back wall of the building. Stephen stood watching it with an intense stare, rubbing his hands.

  I rushed to the pile. I stamped at it, but it had already begun to eat at the wood above.

  “Fire!” I yelled. “Help me, Stephen.”

  He cackled as the flames crept higher.

  I grabbed the Bible from his hand and threw it hard at the high window above us, but it bounced off. It fell on the flames and began to burn. Stephen didn’t move.

  Desperate, I leaned down and grabbed a stone. This time I aimed at the bottom pane and used all my strength. It shattered the pane.