A Death in Utopia (7 page)

Mr. Platt didn't have any answer for that flow of eloquence. Daniel smiled to think how this little woman had silenced him, but he knew the farmer wasn't convinced. He still thought Rory O'Connor or someone like him had killed the Reverend.

For a while the ladies in the parlor listened to Miss Fuller and asked a few questions about Irish servants and the best way to educate them and help them learn to read and write and to act like Americans. Daniel became restless waiting for a chance to talk with Mr. Ripley, but there was no opening.

When Mr. Ripley declared the meeting over, he walked out of the room with his wife and Margaret Fuller and Daniel had no chance to talk to him. Gradually the group broke up into small clumps of women talking with one another. Charlotte and Abigail walked toward Daniel.

"Are you going to write the story up for the newspaper?" asked Charlotte.

"Not too many people in Boston want to read about how to be good to your servants," he answered. "Not much excitement in that."

"Mr. Platt's interruption disturbed me," Abigail Pretlove added. "That man is full of anger."

"What's he worried about? No one is trying to take away his farm."

"But he's afraid nonetheless," insisted Abigail. "I met him on the road yesterday and he was talking about how the country is falling apart. His brother has lost a lot of money because Pennsylvania repudiated their bond debt. Maybe Mr. Platt thinks it will happen to him."

"He'd fight back if anybody tried to take anything away from him." Daniel responded, thinking about how fierce he had looked on the road shaking his hoe and talking about the Brook Farmers. "I'd hate to meet him on a dark road some night."

Thinking about darkness made Daniel realize he wouldn't have a chance to talk to Mr. Ripley today. He had a good two-hour walk ahead of him and if he didn't watch out, his boarding house would be locked for the night. There was a lot to think about on the way to Boston.

CHAPTER NINE

Abigail Tells a Story

October 16, 1842

Sundays at Brook Farm were busy and noisy. Sometimes a visiting preacher gave a sermon to a small group in the parlor; other days John Dwight would gather some of the students together to sing hymns. Always there was talking and music and singing. It was all very pleasant, but at times Abigail missed the quiet of the Sunday mornings when she was a child in Philadelphia.

She used to walk with mother and father to the Quaker Meeting House for First Day worship. How proud she was when her father decided she was old enough to sit and be quiet with the grown-ups for the service. The silence might be broken when one of the adults stood up and said something odd, "I saw a red-winged blackbird spring from her nest by Foxglove creek this morning and my heart was filled with the wonder of God's grace." Abigail would look at the sun streaming into the small worship room and wonder whether that was God's grace, or whether she would ever really know if it was. The silence was mysterious, but comforting and when the service was over she felt strangely contented.

On the Sunday after Winslow died Abigail decided to walk to Boston with Timothy. The news about Maura O'Malley had unsettled her. It was years since she had seen Mrs. O'Malley. What a godsend she had been when Timothy was born. What would have happened if Aunt Phoebe hadn't been able to call on Maura O'Malley at that terrible time? As Abigail walked along the quiet Sunday road she remembered driving out into the country with Maura and her nephew—Patrick, his name was. It was June and she was hot and sick and scared as the wagon jolted over the rutted road. Maura put her arm around her and rocked her as though she was a baby while her nephew kept singing to the horse.

Patrick and his wife Clare were cheerful and the three little children running around kept Abigail occupied. Maura got her through the birth. She didn't remember much about that except the moment when she first held Timothy and realized he was going to be with her for the rest of her life. She watched him now, running a stick through the grass at the side of the road, looking serious as he searched for jump-toads and bugs. Tears stung her eyes—he looked just the way Winslow had looked when he talked about all those books he read. She didn't want to think about that. She had to keep going.

When they reached Boston, she searched for the house where Maura used to live. What if she had moved? The house was so weather-beaten it was impossible to tell what color it had been originally and the front steps listed to one side like a derelict rowboat on the river. But the knocker was brightly polished and made a satisfying klunk when Abigail used it.

Soon the door opened and there was Maura, a little plumper and a little grayer than she had been eight years ago, but her smile was as
friendly as ever. "Abigail, child, it's a treat to see you. Sure you're as beautiful as you always were and don't look a day older than when all the young men were buzzing around you in your aunt's parlor. And this can't be Timothy, can it? Such a handsome boy!" She hugged Abigail close and reached down to hug Timothy, although he squirmed away shyly.

She urged them into the house and led them down a dark hallway to the kitchen. "Sit down at the table and I'll make you some tea. I'm just back from mass and some tea and cakes will taste very good."

In the kitchen a boy about Timothy's age was playing at marbles on the floor. "This is young Pat, one of my nephew's boys." And turning to him she added "Pat, why don't you and Timothy go out into the back alley and play with those marbles so you're not underfoot?"

The boys darted out quick as a flash. Abigail sank into a chair gratefully, suddenly feeling how tired she was from the long walk. She could tell Maura was looking at her black dress and wondering about it.

"Still wearing black, are you?" Maura asked. "You were a widow when Timothy was born. That's a long time for a young woman to be in mourning."

Her comforting voice melted something in Abigail and she felt tears threatening again. She wanted to tell her everything that had happened, to talk to her the way she used to talk to her aunt. Her voice quavered as she started, "I wasn't really a widow then. That was a story Aunt Phoebe and I made up for the world to know."

"Well, don't worry about it. Many's the girl has to make up a story and there's none should ask too many questions. The great thing is that you have Timothy now and he's a fine boy you can be proud
of." She poured out a cup of tea and put it on the table. "I never really thought you were a widow—and you so young. It's hard sometimes to wait for a wedding ring with a girl so beautiful that all the men are hanging around her."

That really started Abigail's tears going. She was glad Timothy couldn't see her as she gulped them down. "I was married. I really was. But Winslow changed. He didn't believe in it at all. How could he say a marriage wasn't a real marriage?"

Maura handed her a slice of bread slathered with jam. "A marriage is a marriage I would have thought. What in heaven's name was wrong with it?"

"You know we're Quakers, my family. We don't have marriages in churches. If a man and woman declare before God that they are man and wife, then they are married. Of course, you're supposed to tell your Meeting about your plans and have the elders approve. We didn't do that. Winslow's father would have disowned him for marrying a Quaker. So we walked over to the river very early one morning when the sun was coming up. Winslow picked some violets and gave them to me. I remember a robin was bursting with song in the tree over our head. We held each other by the hand and affirmed that we were man and wife. That was marriage enough for us."

"And did you not tell your aunt?" asked Maura as she poured more tea.

"No, Winslow wanted it to be our secret and we were so happy for a while. Then his father started talking to him about taking a pulpit and being a preacher like all the men in the family. How could a Boston minister have a Quaker for a wife? I knew he was thinking that." She had to stop and blow her nose.

"But with a baby coming. He didn't leave you, did he?" Maura leaned over the table.

"We didn't know about the baby. I told him to go do what his father told him if that's what he wanted. I was so angry I don't know what I said, but I know I said some horrible things about him being a little boy always doing what his father told him." The words hurt her throat as she said them. "And he went. He just went away!" She had to stop talking because the tears were coming so fast. And that was just the time Timothy and his friend came in from the alley.

Timothy looked scared when he saw his mother crying. He came over and stood next to her and wrapped his arm around her neck. "It's all right, it's all right," she reassured him. "Mother's just telling a sad story. Don't pay any attention. See, I'm smiling now." She tried to force her face to smile. Maura bustled around getting tea for the boys and spreading a piece of bread and jam for each of them. Soon young Pat took Timothy off in one corner to show him some special yellow marbles.

Abigail felt better despite the storm of tears. She had held the story inside herself ever since her aunt died. She had pretended to be a widow for so long that she almost believed it herself and her fantasy husband, poor George Pretlove who had died at sea, seemed almost real. During the years when she and her aunt lived in Groton no one had questioned her story.

Over the years she sometimes heard news about Winslow and his preaching. He never knew about Timothy until he visited Brook Farm. After that Abigail finally told him the truth. He was shattered by the news—angry at first and then terribly sad that he had missed years with his son. They were just beginning to talk about making changes. Then came that terrible morning.

When Abigail and Timothy left, Maura hugged them and made them promise to come back and visit again soon. Pat even gave Timothy a small blue and white marble to keep for his own. And when they were leaving, Maura went off and came back with a small piece of cloth wrapped around something that she pressed into Abigail's hand. "Sure God always has his eye on you, Abigail. Don't you ever worry about that. Timothy is a gift from Him and you will be happy again. I know you will."

When she unwrapped the cloth Abigail found a rosary made of worn beads with pieces of yarn tied to mark the decades. She only recognized what it was because Maura had given it to her to hold onto during the birth. She said it would calm her. And it had. She had survived that; maybe she would get through these difficult days too.

Timothy held her hand as they walked along the quiet road back to the Farm. He seemed to know she was feeling sad and lonesome. Soon Abigail began reciting to him some of the poetry her father used to read to her years before. The autumn fields were brown and dreary, but she remembered some lines from Keats:

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

[Something something she could not remember and then]

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

There were no swallows in these skies, but other birds were twittering in the trees, making soft, comforting sounds. Maybe things would be better. She was still young and she had Timothy. This year was dying, but another year would come—many other
years. Winslow was silent and gone. They would never talk again, but she and Timothy were alive.

CHAPTER TEN

Charlotte Hears a Secret

October. 17, 1842

On Monday, the rain came down in a slow, drizzle of water that soaked Charlotte's shoes as she walked across the lawn to the Hive. The few leaves remaining on the trees hung limply, waiting to be swirled away to their deaths, and the sharp wind was a reminder that winter was well on its way. Margaret Fuller had left the Farm on Sunday afternoon, busy until the last minute talking with Mr. and Mrs. Ripley. Charlotte, like many others, wished she could have stayed longer. It would be wonderful to know as much as she did and be so respected as well as loved.

The children in the primary class were restless as they always were on rainy days. Johnny Parsons twisted around in his seat to make a face at little Mary Miller, who stuck her tongue out in retaliation. It was tiresome having to remind them to act like ladies and gentlemen, as if they could at that age. If the sun had been shining Charlotte would have taken them all out to look for spider webs and shake the cobwebs out of their brains after reading the fable "The Spider and the Silkworm". Since they had to stay indoors, she decid
ed they could look for spider webs in the attic. She pretended they were starting on an exploring trip and led them up the wooden stairs to the large, dusty room under the eaves. Two small windows, one at each end of the room, gave a dim gray light through dusty windows. Along the sides of the room, under the slanting eaves, large trunks and bulky packages, some of them draped in sheeting, were stored.

The children began to search in all the corners, the boys giggling and teasing the girls about being frightened of spiders, but they had scarcely started when they heard someone climbing the stairs. Charlotte was relieved to see it was Abigail; she was unlikely to complain about the children's noise. She smiled at all of them. Timothy, of course, ran over to grab his mother's hand and show her the web he had found.

Abigail and Charlotte spread out one of the covering sheets and sat on the window ledge while they let the children scamper around the storeroom. Some of them were forgetting about the spider webs, but it was good for them to stretch their legs. Abigail looked less sad than she had seemed for the past week, ever since Reverend Hopewell died. She certainly took that death very hard and Charlotte wondered how she had felt about him.

She broached the subject carefully. "Did you go to Winslow Hopewell's funeral on Saturday?"

"No, I didn't," Abigail answered rather sharply. "I had no need of a funeral to make me remember him."

"Did you know him in Boston? I remember when he first arrived you said that you and he had met before."