Freedom's Ring

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  I imagined returning to New York with a story of a quick marriage and a husband’s death. I placed my hand over my midsection, my womb hard beneath my fingers. More than once I had sat down to write a poem—even a thought—on my feelings toward the child within, but I could never make it past the first ink stroke. I could not bring myself to think much on it, on the seed of the man who had planted it there. And when I did dwell on the life within, I felt nothing. Indeed, I was a cursed woman.

  I knew there were ways to rid myself of the unwanted child, and though the sin was like to be the greatest of all my sins, I could nearly justify it in my head when I relived that last day at the officers’ house, the captain’s brute force against my body. Surely nothing good—even a newborn babe—could come from such an evil act.

  “It is Mr. Adams’s job to defend the soldiers, Miss Caldwell. While I believe in the Cause, I believe in the law and justice even more. We both know Preston’s soldiers were provoked relentlessly.”

  The table grew silent and I felt all eyes upon me to study my response. I opened my mouth but my bottom lip quivered.

  Mr. Dean wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Forgive me, Miss Caldwell. Captain and Mrs. Morton. I did not mean to imply that Mr. Caldwell had done any provoking.”

  I studied the goose on my plate, alongside a portion of meat jelly. “Mr. Dean, I would not be surprised in the least if James had indeed provoked the Regulars. He was looking for a fight those last days, eager to begin what we have all felt coming for some time now. Nevertheless, I believe the soldiers were in the wrong. They were the first to fire, and I trust they will be punished under the banner of justice.”

  When I told the owner of the apothecary shop I was in need of a midwife for some womanly troubles, he urged me to first seek a doctor. After I pressed him a bit further, he gave me the name of Midwife Louisa, but warned me the woman was a bit eccentric and not all considered her reputable.

  I did not need her to be reputable for my purposes.

  Now I knocked on the wooden door of the address he’d given me on Union Street. It opened and a short, frail woman with pure-white hair stood before me, her face cratered with pockmarks. I thought to make my business quickly known, to forgo the telling of my name, to see if this woman would help me or deny my request.

  “Good day, Midwife Louisa. A friend sent me. I hear you are a skilled midwife and I have a need . . .”

  The woman gestured inside. “Won’t you come in?”

  I nodded and stepped through the doorway. The scents of comfrey and yarrow and mint and sage wound around me, placing me in Grandmother’s cellar back in New York. With it came a homesick feeling—not for the place, but for the people I would never again see this side of eternity. Grandmother and James. Mother and Father. My family.

  She ushered me past a long counter where it appeared she sold tinctures, ointments, herbs, and gargles, and on into the sitting room, bright and airy. “Tell me how I can help you.”

  “I—I have worked with my grandmother in the art of healing, yet there is one thing she never taught me.” I swallowed. “I wish . . . I wish to cleanse my womb.”

  “Are you unable to conceive, child?” She tightened a knitted shawl around her shoulders.

  “I—I fear the opposite is true. I have conceived a child outside the bounds of marriage.” The words shamed me, and I scrambled to make her understand. “I was assaulted, Midwife Louisa.” She needn’t know the details.

  “My dear child . . .”

  I shook my head, throwing off her pity as one would throw out the contents of a chamber pot. I did not need her sympathy—it would only stoke the emotions I buried deep within. “I can pay you whatever you wish. Please, can you help me?”

  She breathed in, her generous chest rising with the inhalation. “I cannot help you in the way you wish.”

  I allowed defeat to have its way with me for only a moment. Resigned, I stood. “Then my business here is through. I shall search elsewhere.”

  The woman followed me to the door. “Perhaps you may come tomorrow?”

  “To what end, ma’am?”

  “For employment.”

  “Employment?”

  “I am getting on in years. I am weary making my calls. Even digging and pounding the roots and planting the herbs is tiring on this old body. I have no daughter or granddaughter to whom I may pass the knowledge and skills of midwifery. True, many now prefer doctors, especially in Boston, but there is still a need for midwives. Would you be interested in such a venture?”

  I bit my lip, reeling from the turn in conversation. “I—I’m afraid you caught me unawares.”

  “Will you consider?”

  “You don’t know me. I—”

  “Won’t you think on the proposition and return to me?”

  I could not ignore the sudden excitement growing in my chest. I had walked right into an opportunity to help and heal people—an opportunity I was skilled for. If only such a thing had happened last autumn.

  If only, if only, if only!

  I must stop such aimless thinking. What was done was done. I could only move forward, making one choice at a time. Perhaps this endeavor would give me a new future—not one I had planned but one in which I could learn to survive. Though I had seven pounds and five shillings for the time being, even this would someday soon run out. I needed a life. I needed purpose.

  “I think I do not need to consider your offer another moment, Midwife Louisa. It would be my pleasure to work with you.”

  Midwife Louisa nodded, as if she were not the least bit surprised at my decision. “I have a separate bedroom upstairs. Plenty of room for you and the child.”

  I shook my head. “I think we misunderstand one another, ma’am. This does not change my plans to—to . . .” The knot in my throat felt as big as a block of ice. I could not make myself say the words.

  “But was not part of your reason for disposing of the child your need to find a husband to support you? If you stay here, you can support yourself.”

  “No, you don’t understand.”

  “Tell me, child. ’Twould not hurt to talk this through. ’Tis a big decision that rests on your shoulders. Once the act is done, it cannot be taken back. You forfeit not only your child, but mayhap hope for future children.”

  I had not realized that. And yet what future lay before me? I would be labeled a whore, my child a bastard. “The child’s father was a Regular. I—I cannot imagine loving it as a mother should.”

  She slipped her thin hand into mine, the loose skin warm. “All mothers love their children. I am willing to help you make the right decision in this matter, child. Have the babe. I will help you hide yourself, help you bear the child. If you do not love it as you fear, I will find a couple willing to take the babe. I know of many in Boston who are unable to conceive. I would present them the child—no one would have to know of your identity. It is not so uncommon a practice.”

  My mind swam. A way to carry the child to term and not live with its redcoat blood the rest of my days. It would be given a good home—one better than I could provide. A home with a mother and a father. It would live in ignorance of its sire’s character, and I would be spared the stain of blood upon my hands.

  The bell above the door rang out and a sturdy gentleman entered. Midwife Louisa walked around the counter to greet him. “Ah, Mr. Gregory! And how is your sister’s fever this day?”

  I recognized the man who had helped me the night of my brother’s passing. He glanced quick in my direction, his cloak swinging at the second glance.

  He nodded. “Miss—Miss—”

  “Caldwell.” I stepped forward. “Mr. Gregory. I fear I am long overdue in thanking you.”

  “It was my pleasure, miss, though I must express my sincere condolences for the loss of your brother.”

  Midwife Louisa slid a packet of mixed herbs across the counter. Mr. Gregory handed her a few coins. I decided to take my opportunity.

  “I will call on you
tomorrow, Midwife Louisa. Does that suit you?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, child. I look forward to it.” Her words spoke so much more than an outsider’s ear would hear. Her tone, the inflection of syllables—it all spoke of anticipation . . . and understanding. She knew she’d given me much to think on. She also knew I was anxious to get away with my thoughts.

  “Allow me to escort you home, Miss Caldwell.” Mr. Gregory opened the door. The bright spring sunshine warmed the dung on the street, its odor rising to meet my nostrils.

  “Certainly, thank you.” He led the way toward the center of town, the sea breeze caressing the stray hairs on my neck. “I do not know many men who seek a midwife for medical advice, what with so many doctors in town.”

  He tucked the herbs in the pocket of his cloak, his thick fingers taking care with the delicate package. “My sister suffers a fever often. She claims Midwife Louisa’s tea is the only thing that soothes it.”

  We walked in silence for a few blocks, the rattle of carts and clop of horses filling in where our words lacked.

  “And how do you fare after the loss of your brother?”

  When I did not answer, he continued. “I know ’tis a personal question, and yet I have wondered about you often. I wish there were more I could have done that night.”

  His compassion stoked to life something within me, something that I knew must be stomped out before it stirred to flame. “There was nothing more to be done, Mr. Gregory. Transporting James’s body was the most decent service to me at the time.”

  “Mr. Edes told me your brother had no family save for you and a grandmother. Do you live with her?”

  I squirmed within my boots, felt for the slight bulge of the ring in my pocket. Truly, why had I not tossed it into the harbor yet? “My grandmother passed whilst I was in New York. I am staying at the Golden Ball for the time being.”

  “Alone? At a tavern?”

  I lifted my chin. “It is not unheard of, Mr. Gregory.”

  “But a young single woman in a place like—”

  I stopped, turned to the man. My gaze avoided his, met his strong chin instead. “With all due respect, sir. You don’t know me. I may be just such a woman to frequent taverns. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will take my leave. Thank you, Mr. Gregory.”

  I did not look to see if his eyes followed me, though I felt them. I wasn’t sure what had come over me, but I hardly cared. I was tired of pretending I was innocent—in front of the Morton family, in front of Mr. Adams and Mr. Dean, in front of anyone I passed.

  I should not have accepted the captain’s employ to save myself from the cold of the streets. When I first felt uncomfortable with his lecherous advances, I should have run. I should not have softened my heart to the lieutenant—to a soldier of the Crown. I should have left the officers’ house the moment I’d found my brother, perhaps even before. And now, wretch that I was, I pondered taking the life of a blameless child.

  No, perhaps I was not so very innocent. And now, at least, one other citizen of Boston knew that very fact.

  I CLIMBED THE STAIRS to exit Park Street Station, squinting against the daylight. I veered left, searching the Common for Brad. The scent of hot dogs from a nearby vendor mixed with that of cigarette smoke from a passerby. In the distance, someone jingled a jar of change, looking for handouts.

  “Annie!”

  I turned to see him walking toward me. In carpenter jeans, maroon Kilroy Construction sweatshirt, and matching hat—with pencil, of course—Brad smiled and waved. When he reached me, a split-second moment of awkwardness overtook us, as if we couldn’t decide what sort of greeting to give each other. A handshake seemed too impersonal. A swift kiss on the cheek too intimate. A hug too . . . something.

  In the end, I reached out and squeezed his forearm. “Good to see you again. I hope I didn’t make you skip out on work too early.”

  “Nah, I cut out at twelve most Saturdays.”

  We walked in the direction of the Public Garden. After my run this morning, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t seize up at the thought of going to Back Bay again. I refused to whine to Brad. Besides, I could handle it. We’d go down Commonwealth Avenue and take Clarendon to Newbury Street, where the genealogical society was located. We’d come back the same way. Boylston Street was another block farther. We wouldn’t touch it. I would not be a baby about this anymore.

  “So?”

  I cast my thoughts aside to find Brad looking at me. “Oh, right. The run. I did it.”

  He nudged me with his shoulder. “All right. Knew you had it in you.”

  “Thanks. You helped me. A lot.”

  “And how’d it feel?”

  We crossed over the bridge of the Public Garden. The naked, lazy boughs of willow trees hung over the lake.

  “Good. Really good.”

  “So did you do the Rocky victory stance at the top?”

  I laughed. “I refrained from that—but inside I definitely felt victory.”

  We waited for the traffic signal to change, and when it turned to a lit-up man, we crossed onto Commonwealth Avenue. Nearby a car backfired. Brad grabbed my arm and pushed me—kind of hard—toward the sidewalk. He recovered quickly, straightened from his bent posture, and brushed off the gesture with a casual “Sorry.”

  This time it was my turn to stare at his profile. His mouth was set in a thin line. His pencil drooped dangerously low from his hat. I resisted the urge to tuck it back up where it belonged.

  “You react quick. From your time in Iraq, right? That’s why you were able to get to me so fast that day.”

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  “You know, if you ever want to talk about anything, I wouldn’t mind listening. You’ve helped me. It’s the least I could do.”

  He flashed me a fleeting, noncommittal smile. “Thanks.”

  Okeydokey, then. Best leave that alone.

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets, put a little pep in my step. “So what’s our game plan? I mean, where do you think we should start?”

  The tension between us lifted. “I read as much as I could and watched a few webinars on genealogy. The first step is to figure out what we know so far and talk to living relatives.”

  “Right.” I’d found out the same the past couple days, though I felt helpless to do any of that. This was Brad’s family, Brad’s ring. I almost felt I didn’t have a right to want to know about it as much as I did.

  “So I know the ring comes from my dad’s side. I paid ol’ Granddad a visit last night.”

  We turned on Clarendon Street, and against my will I sought out Boylston, just a couple blocks ahead. My breathing quickened, and the world suddenly felt a thousand times smaller. The streets pressed in around me. I ordered myself not to have a panic attack right there on the crowded streets of Boston. I made a sound of acknowledgment that I had been listening to Brad.

  He slipped his hand into mine and squeezed. He began a loud hum of “Gonna Fly Now.”

  It worked. I couldn’t contain a small laugh, and with it, the world righted itself, grew back to its normal proportion. “That song never fails.” We turned left on Newbury Street. Boylston disappeared from view. Ahead, a brown-and-white American Ancestors flag hung from the society. “I’m sorry. How is your grandfather?”

  “As ornery and stubborn as ever. Doesn’t like to take his pills and still insists on splitting his own wood. But he’s good. And lucky for us—” he tapped his hat—“sharp as a tack.”

  “You found out something about the ring?”

  We stopped before the door of the society. Brad dug in his back pocket and took out a folded index card. He gave me a sheepish grin. “Sorry, this is about as organized as I get. I figured you might be willing to be our file keeper.” He handed the paper to me, and I looked at the names on it as he spoke. “He remembered the ring, for sure. Said his dad gave it to him when my dad was born. It was given to the firstborn child down the line. But again, he didn’t know any story to go with it. He mad
e me promise to let him know when we found something. He was almost . . . excited.”

  I blew the bangs from my face. “I sure hope we don’t disappoint him. I hope there’s something to find.”

  Brad pointed at the index card. “I was able to trace back five generations just by talking to Granddad. That brings us to the mid-1800s—at least that was his best guess. I’m hoping we can find out more in here.”

  “Great work, Sherlock.” I didn’t bother to rein in the urge to nudge his pencil back up into his hat this time.

  “I enjoyed it, really. Funny, but all this information would have died with Granddad if I hadn’t asked him. Strange how we don’t often look where we’ve come from.”

  I nodded. He was right. What did I know of my grandparents? Of their parents? Of the heritage my sister and I shared? Next to nothing.

  Brad held the door for me, and after checking in and paying the visitor day fee, we headed to the seventh floor, where we were told someone might be able to help us get started. We placed our jackets and my bag on one of the chairs that surrounded a large table near the window, looked at the numerous books lining the walls, and swallowed down the feeling that our task was insurmountable.

  Brad rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and approached the woman in one of two seats behind a large desk.

  She looked up from her computer screen. “Hi there. How can I help you?”

  Brad cleared his throat. “We’re kind of new at this, but I’m looking for information about my ancestors.”

  She smiled. “You’re certainly in the right place.”

  “We’re trying to find out if a family heirloom—a ring I have—belonged to a certain person. We have a name, but we’re kind of clueless where to start.”

  The woman nodded. “So you have a couple of puzzle pieces and you’re trying to fill in the rest.”

  “Basically. But we’re not even sure they’re from the same puzzle.”