Cradle to Grave (30 page)

“I don't know,” Mr. Randall said. “But he assured me he would have allowed those children back into their home. Their disappearance surprised him.”

“I believe you are too much influenced by your friendship with Mr. Silas Tucker,” Rees said in annoyance. Mr. Randall shook his head, a fleeting smile crossing his face. That expression, odd under the circumstances, brought Rees to a pause. “I saw you at the selectmen's meeting,” he said slowly. “You spoke for Maggie. Are you her father, Mr. Randall?”

“No, I am not.” Rees watched a mottled flush rise into the old man's neck. “As I have said many times, it should not matter who her father is. She was born and raised in Dover Springs. She owned property, left to her by Olive Tucker. Nothing else should matter.”

Rees eyed the man with doubt.

“I assure you,” Mr. Randall said, “I am not Maggie's father. If I were, I would have gladly acknowledged her. No, her father was most likely a British soldier. And if that is the scandal you wish talked about, then continue down this path.” He jerked upright, his chair falling over behind him, and limped back to his draughts board in the corner.

Rees sat there for a brief time and then rose to his feet and left. Mr. Randall had sounded completely convincing when he denied fathering Maggie, but Rees still wasn't sure he believed him. And then there was the revelation about Silas Tucker. Mr. Randall must have been lying, he must have been. But Rees knew the old man wasn't. Cooper had given Maggie's few pennies back to Rees and said someone had paid the taxes. Such a generous gesture did not fit with Silas as Rees knew him. Could his opinion of the man be so wrong?

Rees hesitated just outside and tried to gather himself. The fat wet flakes of spring snow fell so thickly he could barely see the stables. And the snow was building up. Lydia! Suddenly realizing he'd spent more than an hour with Mr. Randall, Rees hurried through the deepening snow to the outbuildings and the buggy.

The horse had to be hitched again; that took almost twenty minutes. And then the traveling was slow; the snow was already deep upon the road. Another twenty minutes passed before he reached the outskirts of town and began the approach to the Pike house. He saw, coming toward him, a figure wrapped up in a burgundy cloak, whose rapid steps toward Rees revealed a dark blue gown.

Her quick gait through the deepening snow alarmed him; she was angry. He pulled the buggy to a stop. Although he planned to call out, Lydia saw him before he opened his mouth. Her expression was set in a scowl. He jumped down and hurried around the horse to assist her into the seat. Although she accepted his assistance, she neither glanced at nor spoke to him. When he jumped up beside her he burst into apologies. “I'm sorry. I…” But she waved his apologies away.

“Please, don't worry. Although I wish you'd come sooner.”

Rees waited for a few moments and then said delicately, “Your visit didn't go well?”

“I just have little patience for someone whose selfishness is overlaid by sanctimony.”

“You've taken against her,” Rees said, selecting his words with care. “To me, she seems pleasant and sincere, if a little condescending.”

Lydia paused, considering Rees's statement. “Maybe I am behaving unfairly,” she agreed with a sigh. “I've known too many society matrons who pride themselves on their charity.”

“What did she say?”

“She talked at length about her upcoming wedding to Reverend Vermette. She is, she says, looking forward to calling upon the poor and needy.” A line insinuated itself between Lydia's dark brows. “She wants to be a ‘helpmeet' to her husband as he ‘prepares souls for salvation.' I can just imagine how the recipients of this largesse will react. And she gave me a pocket Bible. ‘To help me on my path to Salvation.'”

Her dry tone startled Rees into a chuckle. “Surely you didn't speak only of Reverend Vermette.”

“No. Although she did ask me if I didn't think he was truly kind and good.”

Now Rees burst out laughing. “You agreed, of course.” He knew Lydia would not have described Vermette in those words.

“Of course.” Lydia raised her brows. “We agreed on one point, however. Reverend Vermette is away regularly, traveling to the frontier to minister to those without preachers and churches of their own. He's away now. And I expect she'll be lonely, without the duties of a housewife or such society as she enjoyed in Albany.”

Rees wondered if she knew how much her comment about traveling hurt him. His profession as traveling weaver took Rees away from home regularly as well, and although Lydia hadn't seen much of that yet, he worried she would feel as abandoned as David did. “I believe Reverend Vermette said he planned to spend more of his time here after his marriage,” Rees said.

Lydia nodded, unaware of the guilt and worry that curled through him. For a few minutes they rode in silence. Then Lydia said, “I hope she doesn't call upon me again. She spoke very harshly about Maggie and the cabin. I've no doubt Miss Pike says nasty things about me to Mrs. Griffin.” Giving herself a shake, she turned to Rees. “And how did your errand fare?”

“Well, it seems that Maggie was not Olive Tucker's niece, but her daughter.”

“I wondered,” Lydia said sadly. Rees glanced at her in surprise. “But it seemed so sordid.”

“Yes. The identity of her father is still a mystery. And Mr. Randall swears that Silas Tucker paid the taxes on Maggie's house and would never have evicted Maggie and her children from the property.”

Lydia looked at her husband with an expression of total disbelief.

“I know,” Rees said. “I can't believe he would be so … so altruistic.”

“But if Maggie was Olive's daughter, she was a legal resident in Dover Springs then, was she not?” Lydia asked.

“I would certainly think so.” Rees threw Lydia a glance in which disgust and resignation were equally mixed. “But no one knows that secret. And who then is Maggie's father? I wish I knew. Because if Phineas had fathered Maggie, the children would not be in danger of warning out.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Once Lydia and Rees reached the cabin there was no more opportunity to talk. Lydia set Jerusha to spinning and then began preparing a light supper. As she peered into the barrels and bags she said, “We'll have to purchase more supplies. That cornmeal you bought is almost gone. We still have some beans, but no bacon. Thanks to Mr. Baker, we still have a little cheese. But we're down to only a small jug of maple syrup.”

Rees hesitated. His fund of coins was dropping dangerously low. “Tomorrow,” he said, looking out at the white world outside. The whirling snow completely occluded the lean-to, and he thought the snow must now be above his knees. “I wonder if I should harness the horse and fetch Simon.” Turning to Jerusha he asked, “He did return to the Baker farm, didn't he?”

Jerusha nodded. “He said they were counting on him.”

Rees hesitated a moment and then slung on his greatcoat. If the snow went to his knees, it would surely be higher on Simon; he was just a little boy. “I'm going for him,” he said. “He won't be able to come over the hill. The snow is already too deep.”

He hurried to the lean-to. Ares resisted every attempt to pull him from the lean-to and tried to bite but finally, panting and angry, Rees managed to propel the gelding into the buggy traces. They started down the drive. The snow drifted to the hubs of the wheels, even as high as they were, and crept well up over the horse's knees. The buggy trundled slowly down the drive, and the gelding was soon panting and blowing with the effort.

Other wheeled traffic had left channels upon the road, and they were able to speed up a little. Rees settled back into the seat, trying to relax. He would have to rely on Ares's senses to keep them on the road and traveling in the proper direction; the white cocoon blinded him to everything surrounding them.

They were almost at the Baker farm when a small black-clad form, tramping determinedly home, appeared suddenly out of the white. “Simon,” Rees shouted. “Simon.” Ares jerked to a stop and Rees did not fight it. He looped the reins around the front bar and jumped down. Simon stopped, panting. He'd been following a buggy track; the drifting snow on the road's shoulders would reach his chest. Rees grasped the boy by his shoulders and jerked him out of the snow. He carried Simon through the wet and clinging drifts to the buggy and deposited him in the seat. He clambered up beside the boy and took up the reins.

Ares found his path and started home. He traveled more quickly on the journey back to the cabin, although he struggled to pull the buggy up the slope. Rees finally jumped down and, taking the bridle, pulled the horse forward. Without Rees's weight, the buggy moved more easily anyway, and within a few minutes they came to a stop in front of the cabin. Simon jumped down and ran in. Rees unhitched Ares and, leaving the buggy where it was, put the horse into the lean-to. A thorough rubdown, a blanket, and a bucket of oats, and he was settled. Finally Rees struggled through the blizzard to the cabin.

Lydia was waiting for him beside the door; the window was steamed opaque by the water boiling on the hearth. Heedless of the nearby children, she plunged into his arms. Surprised by the tears he saw in her eyes, he squeezed her shoulders before releasing her. “The snow won't last,” he predicted. “It isn't cold enough. This is winter's last gasp before warm weather.”

She nodded, smiling as she wiped her eyes. “You might not have made it home,” she said. “And Simon surely wouldn't have.”

Rees nodded and looked over at the boy, still in his coat and sitting wearily at the table drinking coffee.

*   *   *

Rees woke up that night, wondering what had pulled him into consciousness. The fire was banked, the coals throwing a subdued reddish light upon the hearth. He heard nothing from the bedroom save for a soft baby snore. But rain thrummed on the roof and hissed into the fireplace.

Quietly he rolled out of the bed and went to the window. He could see nothing but white. The rain sounded like a fistful of pebbles as it hit the ground, and Rees realized it was a mixture of water and ice. After a moment of staring into the white blankness on the other side of the glass, he returned to bed. But now he couldn't fall asleep. His thoughts focused again upon Maggie Whitney. Why was Mr. Randall so determined to keep the secret of Maggie's birth? Both Olive and Phineas Tucker had passed on and most certainly no longer cared. Rees wasn't sure he believed Mr. Randall's denial about fathering Maggie, and the old man's sudden anger now seemed odd. Mr. Randall's temper had put an abrupt end to the conversation. Could Rees even trust what the innkeeper had said?

And then there was Mr. Randall's revelation about Silas's uncharacteristic burst of altruism. What did Rees know of that man? He was grasping and felt entitled to this tiny farm of ten acres. Yet, according to Mr. Randall, Silas had paid the taxes. Why would he do that? If the taxes had not been paid, he would have been that much closer to taking possession of the farm.

Rees could understand why Silas Tucker might have murdered Maggie; his reasons were clear and obvious. But then who had murdered him? And why? A falling out between business partners? Or had Silas known something about Maggie's death? Had he tried to blackmail the murderer? That fit exactly into his character. Rees thought again of Silas's tidy house, recalling the disorder around the desk, a disorder not entirely explained by the cold wind whipping through the shattered window. Someone had been looking for something. Had he found it?

So Silas's house, Rees decided, merited another search. He felt like kicking himself; he should have thought of this previously. His delay meant the murderer could already have found whatever he was looking for. And destroyed it.

Rees yawned. Every thought led to more questions. And now he felt sleep reaching out for him once again. He rolled over and closed his eyes. Tomorrow he would return to Silas's house and search, more thoroughly this time.

By dawn the precipitation had changed to all rain, but an icy glaze remained on the diminishing snow. Rees drank his coffee in front of the window. A torrent of muddy water raced down the drive to the main road. But as the morning progressed the rain eased to a fine misty drizzle and finally, mid-day, the sun came out. Despite the amount of snow that had fallen the previous day, enough had melted to reveal great swaths of mud. Rees knew the wagon would be of little use. He would have to walk over the hill that separated Maggie's property from Silas Tucker's.

After dinner, he put on his coat and boots, slapped his hat upon his head, and set out. Almost immediately he ran into trouble. The slurry of snow and mud that coated the downslope of the hill was so liquid and yet so sticky it was like climbing through molasses. Rees walked north across the field, past the bedraggled scarecrow, to a less steep incline, and struggled up to the crest. By then his boots and the bottom of his greatcoat were thoroughly coated with mud.

The slope continued to rise, more gradually now, undulating over a series of crests as far as Rees could see. The individual fields were separated by worm fences. Already panting, Rees plunged into the long climb. An hour later, he crested the final hill and saw Silas's house in the distance, at the top of another rise. A henhouse, a long barn, and a pigsty with a low fence surrounding it sat directly behind the house. With a groan, Rees plodded toward his destination.

He wove his way around the fields and the structures, finally arriving at the back door. It opened directly into the kitchen. The fireplace was swept clean of ashes, and the copper pots hanging on the brick wall sparkled. The long wooden table had been scrubbed white. But mice were beginning to make themselves at home.

He went through the door to the hall and into the office/bedroom on the other side. Snow and rain had swept through the broken window, turning all the papers on the desk and floor to a sodden mass. Rees peered through the window. The snow in the yard out front was melting down to mud. Wagon wheels scored the sludge into a deep grid.