“Yes, I’m afraid she doesn’t,” Catherine agreed. “And you’re right about Sheba.”
Bettina arrived with two girls pulling a little wagon. Didn’t take five minutes for them to fix up the table in the tack room. Jeddie stepped back. Never interfere with Bettina at the helm.
The middle-aged, well-padded good woman did thank him. “And you can eat some of this, too.”
Catherine walked into the tack room. “Bettina, you outdid yourself. Of course, you must sit down and join us. And the girls, too.”
“Those worthless girls have work to do at the big house.” Bettina smiled at Catherine, then turned to glare at the girls, who curtsied and left.
Catherine smiled. Bettina’s desire to shine was quite obvious, and she did shine. As they all sat at the makeshift table, Catherine couldn’t have given a fig that this truly wasn’t protocol for the lady of a great estate. Catherine did what she wanted, one of the reasons she occasionally frightened her father and delighted her husband.
As they ate, Catherine, after asking permission from Moses, drew Bettina into the problem. There were two reasons for this. DoRe loved his son, and if Bettina could help, well, that might help Bettina, clearly taken with the man. The other reason was Bettina had a good head on her shoulders. She knew a whole lot about a whole lot of people.
Bettina listened gravely, looked at her mistress, then at DoRe. “You need to keep Moses far away from the master. I know you can’t always do that. Keep your boy level.”
Moses cried out, “How can I be level when he’s hurting my woman? He beats her, Bettina. If she doesn’t do his bidding, he knocks her around.”
Bettina reached over, put her hand on his forearm. “Moses, trust in the Lord. You’ve trusted Miss Catherine and now you’ve trusted me. If this can be solved, it’s women who will do it.” She took a deep breath. “Masters sleeping with pretty slaves is as old as your name, Moses.”
“Beating them isn’t,” Jeddie couldn’t help saying.
Catherine loved Jeddie, not only because they’d played together and worked with horses since they were children, but because of moments like these. He was like a brother. She truly loved him, and it never occurred to her that he would want to be free.
As for Jeddie, he could imagine freedom, but not life without Catherine.
“True, so true, but the Lord has set this burden upon these fine people.” Bettina looked at DoRe with sensitivity. “Even Mr. Jefferson takes up with his beautiful Sally.” She inhaled again deeply. “Whether a woman wants the master or not, there are gains to be had. Gains, indeed. With those gains like a serpent’s tongue flickering comes the jealousy of other women, our women, their women and a few men.”
Catherine quietly affirmed Bettina’s thoughts. “Maureen Selisse more than fulfills your prophecy.”
“She would,” Bettina said with disgust. “Moses, hear me. You have been given a terrible trial, and so has Ailee. You must bear it as long as you can. I will set my lights to this—”
“And I,” Catherine pledged.
“But it will take time,” said Bettina.
As the two men prepared to leave, Catherine took Jeddie by the arm, walking out the other side of the barn so Bettina might have a few moments with DoRe.
“I hope the mare catches.” Catherine used the term for a mare becoming pregnant.
“I hope Ailee doesn’t,” Jeddie answered.
She squeezed his arm, then released him. “Jeddie, pray that she doesn’t, because Maureen will kill her. Remember, Mrs. Selisse is barren.”
Bettina now walked back to the house. Catherine hurried to walk with her while Jeddie returned to the stable.
“The sorrows of this life,” Bettina murmured, voice low.
“Come with me, Bettina. Let us speak with Father.”
—
Entering the house, they found Ewing Garth in his study, shirtsleeves rolled up. A sheaf of papers commanded his attention. He was a neat man; tidy piles rested on his desk. A graceful bureau, of bird’s-eye maple and crafted to his specifications, held his current papers, maps, and blueprints. He had it specially built five years back by a master cabinetmaker, Howard Holloway.
He removed his spectacles, turning to them, smiling. “Aha, I am about to be dragooned into something.”
“Yes, you are.” Catherine stood before him, as did Bettina.
She then concisely outlined the problem.
Face darkening, Ewing clasped his hands together. “What can one do?”
“You can buy Ailee,” Catherine firmly said.
Ewing leaned back in his chair. “My dear. I can’t buy every woman so used by her master.”
“Using is one thing, Father. Violating and beating is another, and don’t forget Maureen.”
“Feral, aren’t they?” Ewing blurted out.
“Mr. Ewing, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me,” Bettina intoned, her voice melodious.
Ewing’s hand flew to his eyes, tears rolled down. “Ah, my beloved angel.”
His late wife would quote this from Matthew 25:40.
Catherine leaned down to kiss her father. “She’s always with us, Father.”
“Yes. I lose my way. She brings me back. I will send Jeddie over tomorrow with an offer.”
—
Later, twilight filling their senses, a few bats zigzagging overhead, Catherine and John walked together across the lawn. She’d told him what had transpired.
In the distance they saw Ewing standing in the family graveyard before his wife’s handsome statue, lamb recumbent, holding a cross.
John Schuyler put his arms around Catherine. “Promise you won’t die first. I couldn’t go on.”
Surprised by this outburst, she said, “We do not get to pick our hour, but if God is kind, He’ll take us both at the same time.”
“No, me first. What about the children?”
She laughed. “Ever my practical John. Well, we’d better apply ourselves to the task.”
Monday, July 18, 2016
“You could have told me,” Harry complained to Cooper. They were in Harry’s kitchen, and had just split a piece of delicious carrot cake.
“Busy weekend and I worked all weekend. Little stuff, but endless. One fellow forgot his emergency brake and his truck rolled backward into the pond. Unfortunately, he was in it. Stuff like that.”
“Get him out?”
Cooper nodded. “Oh, yeah. Took the fire department, me, and his golden retriever. One of those weekends.”
“Well, so then how did Barbara Leader die?”
“Thallium chloride. The family had requested an autopsy so the body had been sent to Richmond to the state medical examiner’s. They found it in her system.”
“What’s thallium chloride?”
“Kind of like potassium chloride. Mimics a heart attack. Just stops the heart. Usually it’s injected, but she had no injection marks. You die pretty quickly if it’s injected, like a suffering dog the vet puts down. It’s quick. We’re hoping the final report from the examiner’s office can determine how this lethal drug got into her system.”
“Coop, could it be a mistake? An accident?”
Cooper shook her head, then added, “We’ve checked the usual. Financial problems. Marriage difficulties. Depression. Alcohol. Theft. Remember, anyone in the medical profession with a bit of brains can figure out how to steal drugs and then sell them. But Barbara’s life was in good shape, so that also rules out suicide. At least I think it does.”
“Do people use thallium chloride to kill themselves?”
“There are other ways to do that with substances more easily acquired, but I’m sure it’s been done somewhere by someone.” Cooper shrugged.
“I liked her. We all liked her. We weren’t close, but when we were kids it was a small community.” Harry crossed her arms over her chest for a moment.
“Turn on the TV, will you?” Cooper said.
“Sure
.” Harry picked up the remote from the kitchen counter, turning on the large-screen TV affixed to a wall.
The cats and dog, asleep in their fleece-lined beds, paid it no mind. They were accustomed to Harry checking The Weather Channel frequently.
Harry flipped through until she came to the local news, which is what Cooper wanted to see. A remarkably clear picture of Edward Cunningham with local reporter Bill Coates appeared. Former governor Sam Holloway’s grandson was being interviewed regarding his Senate campaign.
“You don’t think there’s a war on women?” the reporter asked.
“That’s a Republican problem, not mine,” said Eddie.
“Mr. Cunningham, you are perceived as an old-time Democrat by many, which is really a new-time Republican. Two bills are before the state Senate, one on removing special requirements from clinics that perform abortions, costly requirements put in place by our previous Republican-controlled legislature, and another bill purported to close the pay gap between men and women for equal work. What is your position on both?”
“Well, Bill, I learned from my grandfather. He was criticized by the head of the Democratic Party in Virginia in the late sixties before being elected governor. My grandmother, a nurse, continued working throughout Granddad’s career. The party fellow said, ‘Sam, can’t you keep that woman in line?’ And Granddad quipped, ‘No. That’s why I married her.’ That ought to tell you how I feel about women.”
“Slick.” Harry’s eyebrows rose.
“Didn’t answer the question,” Cooper replied.
“Do they ever?”
The two watched the rest of the news. No mention of Barbara Leader.
“You don’t have to report that the accident is now regarded as a suspected murder?” Harry questioned the deputy.
“Do. But Rick and I will wait until we have the final medical examiner’s report. Gives us a little more time.”
Clicking off the TV, Harry sat at the kitchen table. “Are you sick of this women stuff? I don’t want to hear Eddie Cunningham’s opinion on women.”
“Bored and insulted.” Cooper sat across from Harry. “If anything is brought up as a woman’s issue, it means whoever is bringing it up sees women as second-class citizens. Plus, they’re assuming we all think alike. That’s the ultimate insult.”
“Well, we’re unequal on the money front, but I take your point. The media and politicians think we care only about so-called ‘women’s issues,’ and in Eddie’s case, vote for or against.”
“What it really means, Harry, is there’s money and political gain to be had focusing on women as separate from men. There’s Eddie, pulling an old-boy routine, using his grandfather and grandmother, and I pretty well think he has no concern about equal pay for equal work or any of it.”
“Mmm, seems to be the case. I mean, other than trotting out Chris and the two kids, he steers clear of anything that could be construed as human rights. Ranting against welfare, immigration, on and on. Makes me suspicious, but I’d be even more suspicious if he wasn’t working to promote business, create jobs. At least that’s in his campaign. Anyway, it is boring, but Barbara Leader’s mysterious death is not.”
“No.”
“So back to that. If someone killed her, they would have had to have some medical knowledge. Had to know where to get the stuff.”
“We’ve been checking hospital records, doctors with whom she had a working relationship. I’ve been on it. So far nothing.”
“It’s like finding a needle in a haystack, isn’t it?” Harry commiserated.
“It is, and I always hope I don’t sit on the needle,” Cooper said.
Monday, September 13, 1784
Peter Studebaker, a wagonmaker from Huntington Township, York County, Pennsylvania, sat in an empty classroom with Captain Bartholomew Graves, lately of the Royal Irish Artillery. He had come to deliver a letter given to him from Charles West, as well as to talk a little business.
Schoolteacher Bartholomew smiled at Peter, a man of middling years like himself. “Your business flourishes,” he complimented his visitor.
“Which is why I’ve come to you. As an artillery officer, you must be good at math.” He chuckled. “Your students I’m sure profit from this.”
“Ah, Mr. Studebaker, if only I could get them to sit still.”
Both men laughed at this, and Peter glanced at the floor, then up at the rugged veteran of the British Army. “You had to carry cannon over rough ground and at times at high speed. What I am interested in, sir, is the manner of axle. My son and I mean to make the strongest wagons in Pennsylvania. Axles.”
“Always the weak spot and the rougher the ground, the more damage,” said Bartholomew. “A wheel can fly off. That can be replaced or mended, but when an axle breaks, without proper tools and a forge, that’s the end of it.”
“I have heard of your success on the battlefield.”
“You flatter me. If I’d been successful, I’d not have been captured at Saratoga.”
Peter slapped his thigh. “Ha. Ah, but then war must be such confusion, smoke, noise, if a man can’t hear the trumpeter or see. To simply live is a victory. But I know you were not here at Camp Security.”
“No. I was down at The Barracks outside of Charlottesville. Hearing piecemeal reports of the southern campaign, I felt the Crown would lose this war, and I tell you, sir, even if it sounds treasonous, I began to see that you should win.”
“Indeed.” Peter nodded.
Bartholomew held out his hands expansively. “I determined to live in a new land, a free land and one where my lowly birth would not impede my progress.”
“But you, sir, attained the rank of captain.” Peter knew some of Bartholomew’s past. The Irishman was well liked; his friends often told some of his tales.
Bartholomew leaned forward, his chair creaking a bit. “I had outlived my senior officers, all of them having purchased their commissions. Not a brain in their heads. And then I secured some promotions through combat. Ah, Peter, war is a terrible thing, but we always make advances. And so the next war will be even more terrible than the one that preceded it.”
Wryly, Peter replied, “I hope, sir, some of those advances involved axles.”
Now it was Bartholomew’s turn to slap his thigh and laugh. “What would you have me do?”
“Come to my shop. Look at the axles and the wheels of each of my wagons. I will pay you.”
“We can talk about money later, Peter. I will ride over this Saturday.”
Peter changed the subject. “Do you like teaching? I wonder, it must seem dull?”
“Ah.” Bartholomew grinned. “The boys at York County Academy are not dull—wild, perhaps, not quite what the Episcopal Church had in mind—but I have an affection for them. Perhaps I recall my own misdeeds when I encounter theirs.”
Peter nodded. “Yes. It goes so fast, does it not? Time?”
The former captain shook his head. “Sometimes in my sleep I can hear my mother’s voice.” He waved his hand. “So long ago, but Peter, we are here and we must make the most of it.”
Smiling as he rose to shake hands, Peter agreed. “Indeed, good sir, indeed. Please send my greetings to your excellent wife.”
“Mary will be pleased.”
After Peter left, Bartholomew put the envelope from West in his pocket. His mind went back to the Revolutionary War for a moment.
Separated from his unit, thanks to a ferocious barrage at Saratoga and a thrashing infantry charge, Bartholomew Graves wound up being captured by a large, handsome, decent man, John Schuyler. He also marched all the way to Virginia with another prisoner of war, the young Captain Charles West. It was Bartholomew, held at the camp in Charlottesville, who counseled Charles near war’s end to escape and paid him to forge discharge papers. The future was here in America.
By war’s end, Bartholomew was working his way up the Wilderness Trail, finally reaching the Mason-Dixon Line.
He remained in Hagerstown, Maryland, until war�
�s end, where he worked for a lawyer who needed a man who was good with numbers. All artillery officers are good with numbers. But once the war was over, Bartholomew headed for York, not all that far. He’d heard this town just west of the Susquehanna River boasted good land, plenty of work, and a great deal of construction. Also, while predominantly Lutheran, they were not inhospitable to Catholics. He was not terribly religious, but he was Catholic.
Doing odd jobs to get by, he heard a vacancy had opened at the Academy affiliated with St. John’s Episcopal School. Having been buffeted by the anti-Catholic laws in England and the king’s service, he hesitated to apply. Allowing people to worship as they pleased was not the same as hiring them. But Mary, the young woman whom he was courting, told him, “Barth, just go. No one is asking you to renounce your faith.” Mary giggled. “What little there is of it.”
Baited, he did go, and the Rev. John Andrews hired him on the spot. So Bartholomew Graves became a mathematics teacher, and shortly thereafter, a husband to Mary.
—
It was a perfect early September day in York County, absolutely delightful. Walking through the streets, he passed gardens filled with chrysanthemums. There was color everywhere. His step quickened. He swung his gentleman’s walking stick with vigor to match his step.
Opening a low wooden gate, he stopped to admire the small brick dwelling. There were flowers in front, a vegetable garden in the back. The door, painted blue, sported a brass pineapple knocker, a gift to his wife.
Chickens cackled out back. Opening the door, Bartholomew was greeted by a beagle. He knelt down to pet the dog.
“Barth?”
“Yes, my dear.” He went into the kitchen, herbs hanging by the window, cabinets wiped clean, the floor clean, strewn with fresh rushes. Mary would brush them out, put them in the garden. She swore the bit of blood from her lamb chops or beef brisket that fell on the straw was the reason her garden flourished.
Wiping her hands on her apron, she walked over to him, put her hands on his cheeks, and gave him a welcoming kiss. “And did you thrash the little hellions?”
“Not today, my love, but I had a most interesting visit from Peter Studebaker.”
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