Cradle to Grave (13 page)

“And Joseph? He isn't Maggie's child, is he? He's a foundling that she was wet-nursing?”

Cooper nodded.

“So who will care for him?”

“I don't know. Not many women want to wet-nurse foundlings. But Maggie was always willing.”

Rees understood. With no mother or father of her own, Maggie saw an echo of her situation in these unwanted babies. A flicker of respect for this young woman stirred in Rees's breast and he crossed the cabin to the shelves. His fingers sought the leather bag and found it, undiscovered by Silas Tucker. “Maggie was saving up for the taxes, just as she said. Here.” He handed the sack to the constable. “Maybe we can keep this little farm from falling into Silas's hands, at least for a little while.”

“I'll keep watch,” Cooper promised. “Slimy little cur that Silas is.”

Rees's belly rumbled. Cooper laughed. “Am I keeping you from your dinner?” He looked around once again. “I think we're done here, at least for the time being. I'm hungry, too. Let's return to town.”

Chapter Eleven

Half an hour later Rees walked into the Ram's Head. With dinnertime long past, the common room had emptied and most of the tables were scrubbed clean. Mr. Randall limped forward, his expression sorrowful.

“No one is talking of anything but Maggie Whitney,” he said.

Rees paused. “Her death may have been an accident,” he said, choosing his words with care. He didn't want to reveal his suspicions to anyone at this point. “Last night was cold.”

“No doubt the drink got her,” Mr. Randall said with a sigh. “What will you tell
them
?” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

“I don't know,” Rees said. “Is there anything left from dinner?” He needed time to decide on what exactly he was going to say to the Whitney children.

“Oh. Of course. There's mutton stew?”

“That'll do,” Rees said, and sat down at the nearest table. Mr. Randall shouted for his daughter and turned back. He studied Rees for a moment.

“May I join you?”

“Of course.” Rees paused and then went on. “It was kind of you to speak for Maggie Whitney at the selectmen's meeting,” he said. A variety of emotions flickered across Mr. Randall's face, too rapidly for Rees to identify more than a few. Grief dominated, but Rees also thought he caught shame.

“Phinney was my greatest friend,” the old man said, lowering himself into his chair. He sighed. “He and Elias and myself … well, we got into no end of trouble as boys. As adults we helped one another, through bad times and good. Phinney asked me to watch over Olive, and I took that to mean their adopted daughter and her children as well. In fact, that's what I wished to speak to you about.”

Rees waited. The old man seemed oddly nervous and that made Rees wonder what Mr. Randall had in mind.

“Those children will need care,” Mr. Randall said. “They seem attached to you and your wife. Would you consider looking after them until a more permanent solution can be found?”

Rees stared at the other man. “Why us? We're strangers. What will your fellow selectmen say?”

“Most of them won't care, as long as the Whitney children are not a charge upon the public coffers.”

“And Demming?”

“I can handle him.”

Rees hesitated a moment. “We can't remain in Dover Springs for very long.”

“I know,” Mr. Randall said with a nod. “But maybe the religious community will take them after you leave.”

“Maybe,” Rees said. Zion, the community he was most familiar with, accepted children, foundlings and orphans, as well as runaways like his son. “But I don't want to speak for the Elders at Mount Unity. And there is the matter of Sister Hannah.”

“If she's found guilty, you mean. But you just told me Maggie's death might be an accident.” Mr. Randall paused and rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “I suggest we worry about that when—if—her guilt is determined.” He glanced at his daughter, hesitating in the kitchen door. Mr. Randall leaned forward and continued in a low tone. “I can fight for the farm. I know Olive wanted Maggie to have it. But if there is no one to care for the children, Silas will take them, as their nearest living relative, and so gain possession of the farm in that manner. The eldest will be apprenticed out. The youngest, well, they will be in Silas's care. I leave the quality of that care to your imagination.”

Rees shuddered. Judah and Nancy would be lucky to survive. “And the foundling?”

“Sent to someone else. Perhaps.” Mr. Randall rose slowly to his feet, leaning upon his cane. He rubbed his right knee. “No one will care you are a stranger. Please think about it.” He turned and limped back to his checkerboard.

Rees's first emotions were frustration and anger. How dare the old man hand the responsibility for those children over! But his next thought was about the children. Could he be so callous as to just walk away from them, knowing what their future would hold? Lydia certainly would not be so indifferent to their plight.

Mr. Randall's daughter hurried over to place the stew in front of Rees. He tasted it. It needed salt but it was hot. The bread brought out a moment later was still warm from the oven, with a crisp buttery crust. Rees dived in, eating with hungry speed.

And he still had to tell those children about their mother's death. What should he say? Death, of both parents and children, was common, but this was something altogether different. He still hadn't decided what to tell them when he finally pushed his empty bowl away and left the table.

Rees went upstairs. Since he heard nothing, no crying or sounds of conversation, he knocked quietly on the door before entering. Three of the four children were asleep in the bed; Nancy's blond head nestled next to the two dark ones. Jerusha and Lydia were sitting together, Jerusha awkwardly holding knitting needles and Lydia bending over her to offer instruction. “Wrap the yarn around this needle, like so.…” She paused and looked up at Rees.

“Where's Simon?” he asked.

“He found a ride to Baker's farm,” Lydia said. “He didn't want to risk losing his job.” She raised her arm to wipe her forehead and Rees noticed the dark wet patch on her sleeve.

“I gave them all baths,” she said, catching his glance. “And they ate dinner.”

“Did you?” Rees asked in concern. “I don't want you exhausting yourself—” He stopped short. He had meant to say “exhausting yourself for these children,” but he couldn't say it with Jerusha's bright eyes fixed upon him. Lydia dropped her gaze and did not reply.

“Where's my mother?” Jerusha asked, dropping the needles and the lumpy strip to her lap. Her mouth was already trembling with the expectation of bad news.

“No one told us anything,” Lydia said, her eyes sparking with anger.

“She is dead, isn't she?” Tears spurted out of Jerusha's eyes. “Tell me.”

Rees nodded.

“What happened?”

Rees hesitated, considering and discarding one explanation after another. “We don't know,” he said finally.

“Did someone hurt her?”

Jolted, Rees stared at her. “Why would you say that?”

“She said, before she left, that he wouldn't be happy to see her. That he would be angry even though he should love her. And she was crying and laughing both.”

Rees contemplated the child in mingled pity and regret. “Who is he? Did she mention a name?”

“She must have been joking,” Lydia said, frowning at her husband.

He ignored her. “Did she give you any idea who she might be meeting?” he persisted, looking at Jerusha.

She shook her head. “Just that she needed to get the rest of the money for the taxes.” Raising tear-filled eyes to him, she added, “Did someone kill her?”

“Maybe not,” Rees replied. “It's possible she froze to death. It was cold last night and she was without her cloak.”

“She was wearing it when she left,” Jerusha said, tears rolling down her cheeks. “And her best bonnet. You saw.”

“Enough,” Lydia said, putting her arm protectively around the child. “This is a sad time. These questions can wait.” The child wept quietly and Rees, who would have expected a child's noisy uncontrolled sobs, was moved by the little girl's resigned control.

“Don't worry,” he said, offering her what comfort he could, “if someone hurt her, I'll find him.” He paused. Although Mouse seemed to be the only suspect so far, she could not be the “he” to whom Jerusha referred.

“What happens to us now? Can we go home?”

“I think it might be better if you went to the Shakers,” Lydia said. “They'll take care of you.”

“We don't need anyone to take care of us,” Jerusha said fiercely. “Simon and I can do that.” Rees and Lydia exchanged a glance.

“There won't be enough money,” Lydia said, her voice gentle. “Your Mama earned money wet-nursing Joseph. Of course you and Simon helped a great deal.” Rees, who knew how much it must cost her to praise Maggie Whitney, put a hand upon her shoulder.

“We'll sort it out tomorrow,” he said, glancing at the darkening sky outside the window. “We need to stop at the farm anyway; I'm sure your brothers and sister need some of their things.” And he needed to discuss the proposal made by Mr. Randall with Lydia before any decision was reached.

Jerusha nodded and, twitching her shoulders away from Lydia's arm, withdrew into her grief.

*   *   *

Squeezing five children, for Simon had slept at the tavern that night also, into the buggy made for a tight fit. Lydia was heavy-eyed with fatigue and Rees suspected he looked as drained. Telling Simon the previous night about his mother had been emotional and exhausting. The scene had culminated with Simon launching himself at Rees, fists flying, blaming him for not preventing Maggie's death. And Rees had let it happen, believing in some corner of his mind that Simon was right. Then he had sat up most of the night listening to the boy weep. Rees hated feeling so helpless.

The three younger children cried, too, not understanding why Simon and Jerusha were so upset, but scared by it. Today the two oldest were trying to put on a good show for their younger siblings. Nancy and Judah did not miss Maggie yet; she had not been much of a presence in their lives. Joseph erupted into screaming cries every now and then and clutched at Lydia's chest. “He misses nursing,” she said, adding, “Thank the Lord he is able to manage soft food, otherwise I don't know how we would feed him.”

Rees recalled the child stuffing oatmeal into his mouth with his pudgy hands and winced. He barely remembered David progressing through that phase, but surely he had not been so messy. But then, Rees had been away so much. He recalled David as a baby, maybe four or five months old, and then as a child Joseph's age, on the cusp of walking. Rees had gone away, looking for work as a traveling weaver, and when he returned David was a toddler. The regret that had long shadowed Rees suddenly caught up to him. He had missed so much, and only now did he realize it. His gaze rested upon Lydia, cuddling Joseph to her and crooning, and he wondered if he would someday have another chance.

Ares struggled to pull the buggy with its additional weight, and by the time they reached the farm he was blowing hard. Rees jumped out of the buggy and took the gelding's bridle to encourage him the last few steps to the door. Simon was next out; he fetched some hay from the lean-to. As Jerusha ran to the cabin door, Rees held out a hand to stop her. “Let me go first.” He opened the door and peered inside. He would not have been surprised to find half the furniture missing, but apparently Silas Tucker had taken Cooper's warning seriously. The cottage looked as Rees had left it the previous day, although with no fire in the fireplace, the room was cold and unwelcoming.

He stepped aside to allow Simon entry. The boy took a pail outside and filled it with snow. Then he stopped, realizing there was no fire inside to melt the snow into water. Rees took pity on him. As Lydia and Jerusha carried the younger children into the cottage, he retrieved his tinderbox and spent a few moments fussing over kindling. He finally got a small blaze going, and although the fire didn't put much warmth into the air, just the sight of it made the cabin feel more habitable.

Nancy ran from a chair to the nest of rags exclaiming, “My chair! My bed!”

Jerusha began collecting a pitifully small pile of belongings: the dry diapers, the one change of clothing each child owned, and a few trinkets. Lydia picked up the teething stick from the tiny heap. “Will,” she said, “look at this.” He peered over her shoulder. The metal wand, although tarnished and dented by teeth marks, was clearly made of silver. The handle was a dark pinkish stone, unfamiliar to Rees. Lydia looked up at him and said in a soft voice, “This seems a trifle expensive for Maggie.”

Rees nodded. “Where did this come from?” he asked Jerusha.

She spared a quick glance at the object. “Simon,” she said promptly. “Someone gave it to Mama for Simon. But the younger kids have used it.”

Rees picked it up and turned it over, examining it carefully. A
G
in a circle was incised into the handle. A clue to Simon's father, he'd be bound. He returned it to the pile. Maybe there were other traces in the cabin that hinted at the fathers of these children. Rees looked around but saw nothing other than the poor sticks of furniture and the large Baines Bible. He crossed the floor and went into Maggie's bedroom.

Other than the rope bed with its mattress of old husks and a rickety table beside it, there was no furniture. There wasn't room: the end of the bed almost touched the back wall. On the other side of the bed, on the front wall, several nails pounded into the wood held a few pieces of ragged clothing. A candle sat upon the table. Rees dropped to his hands and knees and peered under the bed but saw nothing but dust and a thick layer of mouse droppings. He squeezed past the bed, knocking over several whiskey bottles as he did so, and sorted through the articles hanging on the nails. Save for a linen scarf, yellowed with age and worn to holes, and a man's old black coat, Maggie had owned nothing but the clothing she stood up in. Rees turned away but then, on second thought, went back to examine the pockets of the jacket. Save for a small pocket Bible, they were empty.