Cradle to Grave (9 page)

“Now, we take up the case of Margaret Whitney, widow.”

Rees's attention focused upon the selectmen.

A wiry man in a dark blue coat, seated at the opposite end of the table from Mr. Randall, rose shakily to his feet. “I say no—” he began.

“Wait, Mr. Demming,” Cooper interrupted. “She has not applied for relief.”

“She is late, again, with her property taxes,” Demming snapped. “And she has requested relief before.…”

“Only once,” Cooper burst into speech. “And that was soon after the death of her aunt, Olive Tucker.”

“Mr. Cooper,” the chairman said, “if you interrupt again I will be forced to remove you from this meeting.”

Cooper sat down with a thud and muttered something under his breath.

“She is insolent, a woman of intemperate habits and well known to be a thief,” Demming said, swaying slightly where he stood. “She demands relief as her right.”

The chairman looked at Demming. “We've discussed this previously. Mrs. Whitney was born here. She grew up here. And Phineas and Olive Tucker adopted her and left her their farm.”

“But Maggie Whitney was born to Olive Tucker's sister, who was neither born here nor lived here. Maggie Whitney should have no claim upon the taxpayers of this town.”

Rees turned to Cooper. “So Maggie really is Olive Tucker's niece?”

Cooper nodded. “So Olive always said.”

“Maggie Whitney and her children should be warned out,” Demming continued. Rees eyed Demming's superfine jacket with its silver buttons and wondered why such an affluent man should balk at paying a few pennies for the care of a woman and her children. Demming must not believe Mark 10:25: “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.”

“And she and those bastard children of hers are living upon land that should be mine,” a man exclaimed as he surged upright on the other side of the meetinghouse. Rees had to shift forward and crane his neck to see the scrawny man of about fifty years. His graying hair was neatly tied back and he'd shaved recently. Although his jacket was of good-quality linen, it was much patched.

“Silas Tucker,” Cooper whispered to Rees. “Phineas's brother. And Maggie's uncle, although you wouldn't believe it from his behavior.”

“I accepted the right of my brother's widow to continue to live in her home,” Silas continued. “I was generous. But Maggie? She's not my brother's child, and none of my kin. So that property belongs to me.”

“I've said it before and I'll say it again,” Demming said. “That offensive rubbish should be warned out.”

“To where?” For the first time Mr. Randall spoke. Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet. No one spoke while he did so, the silence revealing the respect in which this gentleman was held. “We know only that Olive helped her sister bear this baby, Maggie, in the very cabin where she now resides. Olive and Phineas, your brother,” he added, fixing Silas with a steely gaze, “adopted Maggie as their own.”

“Phinney was on his deathbed,” Silas argued. “Everyone knows that. He didn't understand what his wife was asking.”

“He understood more than you believe and he agreed that Maggie should bear his name,” Mr. Randall said. “And Olive left that property to Maggie at her death. Her children, all but Jerusha, were born in Dover Springs.”

“To different fathers,” Demming sneered. “I say those bastards should be removed from her care and given as orphans to families who can raise them properly.”

Where, as apprentices, they might be worked to death. Rees's jaw began to ache with the effort of keeping his mouth shut. He wanted to argue with Silas Tucker and Demming and expose them as the coldhearted bastards they were. Cooper's hands were so tightly knotted together his knuckles were white.

“I say, as I have done before, that Mrs. Whitney fulfills all requirements for relief. She was born here and she owns property. The need for relief is temporary. And she and her children strive to maintain themselves with their own labor, she by wet nursing foundlings and her son by working on Mr. Baker's farm.” Mr. Randall stared at Demming. “And she has always paid her taxes, eventually.”

“At least once with a silver dollar that she surely stole,” Demming shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. “We should have let that Mount Unity woman keep the brats.”

“I also must add that this discussion is premature,” Mr. Randall said, his low calm tones sounding even more reasonable juxtaposed against the shrill passion in Mr. Demming's voice. Mrs. Whitney has not applied for relief. And Constable Cooper, who has been making regular visits to investigate the situation, reports that so far the family is managing.” He glanced at Cooper.

With an apologetic glance at Rees the constable rose to his feet. “I was just there yesterday. There was food in the cabin. The laundry had just been done. And Mrs. Whitney was nursing the baby.”

Cooper's statement was certainly true, but not the complete tale. Still, Rees found himself reluctant to stand up and tell the plain truth: that he and his wife had accomplished all that Cooper saw while Maggie Whitney lay passed out in a drunken stupor in the other room. It seemed that this family might just as easily be tossed into the road as taken care of. Rees decided he must make Jerusha aware that the Shakers would accept them, if they were able to make it to the community themselves. They'd have to be quick, though, before Silas signed the oldest children into apprenticeships and farmed out the babies to families all over town.

“With all respect to my esteemed colleague, Mr. Demming,” said Mr. Randall as he sketched a bow at the other man, “I suggest we stop wasting our time discussing Mrs. Whitney, who has not applied to us for relief, when we have other cases that are unresolved.”

“I agree,” said the chairman with alacrity. “Let's continue on to the case of Mr. Obadiah Claremont.”

“Why does Mr. Demming bear Mrs. Whitney such animosity?” Rees asked under cover of the discussion.

Cooper shrugged. “I don't know. I don't believe they have ever met, and yet he seems to resent her very existence. And this argument is played out again and again at every meeting.”

“And Mr. Randall?” Rees asked, turning to look at the old man curiously.

“Phineas Tucker was his best friend from boyhood.” Cooper's mouth quirked up into a mirthless smile. “Owen Randall, the innkeeper; Phineas Tucker, Maggie's adopted father; and Elias Gray, the gentleman who lives by the log church, were as close as peas in a pod. Mr. Randall and Judge Jacob Gray, Elias's father, looked after Olive Tucker on the strength of that friendship. The judge is dead, so I suppose Randall is doing the looking after now.”

“I throw myself upon your mercy, kind sirs.” A woman's voice cut through the low-pitched grumble of male conversation: every head turned toward the speaker, a woman dressed in an assortment of grimy, ragged clothing hesitating in the doorway. She was of swarthy complexion and the hair under her tattered bonnet was as black as night. Rees guessed she was of mixed blood.

“Mary Pettit,” said the chair with weary exasperation. “You know this is no place for a woman.”

“But when I applied for relief before I was denied.…” Mrs. Pettit began.

“Constable, please remove her from the room.” The Chair thought better of his terseness and added in a more kindly tone, “We'll discuss your request immediately, I promise.”

With a sigh, Cooper stood up and approached the woman. Rees took the disruption as an opportunity to escape and hurried out through the church door. But he had just descended the stairs to the street and started back to the tavern when Cooper pushed Mary Pettit out of the church. He slammed the door behind him. Mary staggered unsteadily down the three steps to the road and toppled face-first into the snow.

Rees hurried back to her and extended a hand to help her up. She was not as young as she'd appeared from a distance. Her hair was only lightly threaded with white, but what he had taken for well-nourished fat was bloating. Her ankles were swollen and she limped, uttering regular gasps of pain. He offered her his arm and helped her across the street to the tavern. Close up she smelled of wood smoke and whiskey.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” she said. “I midwifed most of them men into life. But now they dismiss old Mary as worthless.”

“Were you born here?” Rees asked.

“That I was. But my father was French and Seneca and I suppose that makes me undeserving of Poor Relief.” She sounded bitter and Rees nodded in sympathetic understanding.

“But Mr. Demming,” he said, trying to cheer her, “wouldn't pay a farthing to see his Lord Jesus Christ ride down the street upon a white horse.”

An involuntary snicker escaped from Mrs. Pettit. “He wouldn't,” she agreed, and chuckled the remaining few steps to the tavern. “You are correct about that, Mr.…”

“Rees. Will Rees.”

Once inside he offered her a couple of farthings so she might sit by the fire and have something to eat and a glass of ale. But when she stepped into the common room, a young woman bustled over. “My father says no more credit, Mary.” She sounded sympathetic but unbending. “Go home.” Mary opened her grubby hand to show the coins and the girl, Mr. Randall's daughter Rees assumed, stepped back and allowed Mary a seat in the corner. Rees hoped her personal appeal might succeed with the selectmen when the more formal plea had not, but he knew better than to expect it. Some of the town fathers had flint for hearts.

He soon left and went upstairs and into the bedchamber. Lydia, seated in a chair by the window, was knitting. She'd eaten: a teacup and an empty plate sat by her elbow. When she saw him, she jumped up and hurried forward to greet him. He was glad to see she was smiling and that color had returned to her cheeks. After she kissed him she asked, “What happened in the meeting? You were gone a long time. Will they remove the children from Mrs. Whitney?”

Rees looked at her, knowing he looked guilty. “No,” he said. He couldn't lie to her and with a sigh he continued. “Removing the children was mentioned, primarily as a way to save money,” he said. “And I didn't insist. Cooper is keeping watch upon that family.”

Lydia glared at him. “Didn't you even try?” Her voice rose.

“I did try,” he said. He thought of Mr. Demming. Shaking off his guilty feelings, Rees went on. “I know you're angry, but I couldn't insist. There is little mercy in these town fathers. Those children would be apprenticed out or worse.”

“They can go to Mount Unity,” Lydia said.

“I suppose. If Mrs. Whitney agrees. And if the selectmen agree.” He thought of Demming's speech and Silas Tucker's anger. “It would be risky. I wouldn't be surprised if Mrs. Whitney and her children were required to pay back the funds already given them. And some of the selectmen seem vindictive. They might try to punish the Mount Unity community for interfering.”

“Mouse will be disappointed,” Lydia said. To Rees's ears, she sounded accusing.

“I know,” Rees said remorsefully. “And I would spare her this sadness if I could. But those children are better off with their mother, I promise you. As imperfect as we know her to be, she loves them.”

Lydia shot him a look of utter disbelief and said stiffly, “I daresay you would prefer we eat dinner before we go to Mount Unity and give Mouse this sad news.”

Rees shook his head. “Let's go now.” He always preferred to finish the difficult chores first, and get them behind him.

As they passed through the common room, he looked for Mary Pettit. She was still by the fire, a plate of bread and cheese and a mug of small beer before her. She raised a hand to Rees and he inclined his head in response.

“Who is that?” Lydia asked.

“Mary Pettit. One of the petitioners for Poor Relief,” Rees said. “I fear she will be disappointed in her appeal. Again,” he added in disgust.

Chapter Eight

This time, upon their arrival at the Second Family courtyard, they were shown immediately to the second floor in the Meeting House. Elder Herman met them there, his expression anxious, but he asked no questions. Several minutes later one of the Sisters accompanied Mouse into the room. This Sister was young, with soft smooth skin and large brown eyes. She watched Mouse steadily, fluttering around her like a large moth.

“What happened?” Mouse cried, rushing to Rees's side. Although flushed and excited, her eyes were clear and showed no evidence of tears. “Did you speak to the constable?” Rees did not reply immediately, distracted by the Sister. Instead of behaving with the proper disinterest in someone of the World, she kept sneaking curious glances at Lydia. “Rees?”

“Yes, I spoke to him. He promised he would monitor the situation and keep those children from harm.”

“And the town fathers? Did you apply to them to have those children removed?”

“I attended a meeting,” Rees said, choosing his words carefully, “and the matter was discussed. The children will remain with their mother for now.”

“How could you let that happen?” Mouse whispered, accusing Rees with the eyes of the betrayed. “As long as they remain with that woman they are in harm's way.”

“It's not that simple,” Rees said.

“Yes, it is. That woman already lost one baby she was wet-nursing—”

“That was a fever,” Elder Herman tried to interrupt. “Several babies died.…”

“He would not have perished if she were a better mother,” Mouse shouted. Rees saw his own shock mirrored upon Lydia's face. Mouse raising her voice?

“Sister Hannah,” Elder Herman remonstrated. “Please.”

“Strive for peace and harmony,” said the Sister, putting a hand upon Mouse's shoulder. Mouse shook it off.

“Do all those children have to suffer and die before someone does something?” Mouse burst into sobs. Rees stepped back, at a loss.