Cradle to Grave (38 page)

“You told me Phinney, your close friend, begged you to look after Olive and Maggie.” Rees's voice quivered with outrage. “This is how you do it, by collaborating in the death of Olive's daughter?”

“Well, I didn't know the whole truth, did I? Maybe Olive offered herself to the judge. Maybe she sold herself to British soldiers. She was desperate, after all. I didn't know. But Judge Gray was a great man, well respected by all. I wasn't going to tarnish his reputation. Or dishonor Phinney's memory and embarrass Elias. And my nephew and Maartje, well, they deserved to inherit Elias's property. As for Maggie, I did what I could; I spoke for her at the selectmen's meetings.”

Rees looked back at the four selectmen. Although Cooper's father-in-law was regarding Mr. Randall in revulsion, the other three town fathers were shaking their heads. They refused to believe. But Mr. Gray, he accepted the truth. Tears ran freely down his cheeks. He lifted one blue-veined hand to wipe his eyes.

“She applied to you for money so she could pay the property taxes. But you sent her away,” Rees said, pitying the old man in spite of himself.

Mr. Gray nodded. “I didn't believe her then. Didn't want to.” Using the heels of his hands, he scrubbed at his wet eyes.

“Then?” This time Rees paused to allow Mr. Gray a moment to speak.

“I … thought about it. After, you see. I remembered certain things I had overheard. And there was Olive's silhouette on the wall of my father's room. I realized…” He swallowed painfully. “I realized Maggie might be speaking the truth.”

“And you began to think you might give her some money?” Rees suggested. Mr. Gray nodded.

“Yes. I even thought of amending my will. Those children are my nieces and nephews.” Even now the wonder of it filled his voice. “But I said nothing to Maartje.”

“She knew,” Maartje's cousin said loudly, her sweet high voice cutting through the air like a knife. “She overheard your conversation with Maggie. And she was furious about it. She felt you owed her. Because she took care of you, you see.” Mr. Gray turned to her.

“I'm sorry,” he said, ashamed. “Maartje was always my favorite. I'm sorry for that now. I wronged you as well as Maggie.”

Rees, drained into exhaustion, lowered himself into the front pew next to Lydia. After a minute of appalled silence, people began to prepare to leave. No one approached him. He hadn't expected it. Telling the truth, especially when it revealed long-buried secrets, made him unpopular. He remembered hearing a story about a female fortune-teller named Cassandra. Nobody listened to her or believed her and she was hated when her predictions came true. He knew how she must have felt.

In the pew behind Rees, Reverend Vermette turned to Miss Pike and reached out for her. They rose together and started toward the doors, arm in arm.

“So they will wed after all,” Lydia said, joining Rees in the front.

He nodded.

“And what of Mr. Randall?” Lydia said, turning around to look at the old man. Rees followed her gaze. Mr. Randall was threatening the constable with his cane as he attempted to take Mr. Randall into custody. Cooper met Rees's eyes and saluted him with a quick wave.

“Mr. Randall will be lucky to escape hanging,” Rees murmured, “not the least because he made fools of everyone. His fellow selectmen, once they accept Mr. Randall's confession as true, won't forget that slight.”

By now most of the audience had hurried out. Mary Pettit approached Rees, her steps hesitant. Rees stood up. “Thank you,” he said. “You told the truth.”

Mary paused a few feet away. “Maggie was my friend. Anyway, I'm dying. No one can hurt me anymore.” She attempted a small smile and turned to go, her gait slow and unsteady.

“Wait.” Rees pulled his last handful of coppers from his pocket and offered them to her. Mary accepted them with a bow of thanks.

“I give her no more than a month or two,” Lydia murmured as the old woman made her careful way to the door. “But that impulsive generosity of yours will keep her fed for a little while.”

“Mr. Rees?” Elder Herman said from behind Rees. He moved around to face the Elder. Mouse, her eyes downcast and her hand held protectively over her mouth, stood a few steps to the Elder's side.

“I am so grateful to you both,” she said. “You've cleared my name. Thank you for that.”

From her tone, Rees suddenly experienced an unwelcome suspicion that something unfortunate had happened and the Shakers were keeping it from him and Lydia. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Tell me, Mouse.” She threw a glance at Elder Herman. Rees looked at the Elder, who was watching Mouse with sadness. “What have you done?” Rees asked.

Herman sighed. “Sister Hannah will be transferred to another community now that the murderer has been found and our Sister cleared of all wrongdoing.”

“Away from here?” Rees asked.

“Away from Joseph?” Lydia's voice rose. “But she loves Joseph.”

“Yes,” the Elder said. “It is felt by the Ministry that she should not obtain her heart's desire through an act of wrongdoing. She attempted to steal those children twice.”

“She probably saved Joseph's life,” Lydia argued. “And the other children … they needed our care.”

Elder Herman inclined his head in a tacit acknowledgment of her point. “You may very well be correct. And those of us who know our Sister”—he looked at Mouse with sympathy—“know she acted only from the very best and most loving of intentions. But this was not her decision to make. And she disobeyed a direct order. I instructed her to leave those children alone and she took a buggy and went after them a second time. And then, after I gave my promise to the constable, she didn't remain at Mount Unity.”

“Oh, Mouse,” Lydia said, reaching out to take Mouse's hand.

“I know.” The Elder bowed his head a moment. He didn't want to take this step any more than Mouse did, but he had to follow the Shaker way. “Sister Hannah understands.”

Mouse nodded. “It's all right, Lydia. I do understand. Watch over Joseph for me, please.” Lydia nodded, unable to speak, and the two women bowed their heads together in silent grief.

“And what of the children?” The Elder asked Rees. “When will you bring them to us?”

Lydia looked up, her tear-filled eyes flashing. “Wait,” she said to Rees, so vehemently he paused. She stared at him, her fierce gaze warning him to promise nothing.

“There are some … knots still to be worked smooth,” he said. “Simon is the heir to both Maggie's and Silas Tucker's farms. I will have to see about a contract.”

Elder Herman nodded. “Very well. I look forward to speaking with you again.” He looked at Mouse, who slowly and reluctantly pulled herself from Lydia's comforting embrace.

“Remember,” she said to Lydia. “Take care of him for me. You promised.”

Rees put his hand upon Lydia's arm and slowly drew her away. Mouse looked at Lydia once more, her gaze full of meaning, and then she turned and meekly followed Elder Herman down the aisle.

“We have to keep Joseph,” Lydia said.

“What!”

Lydia offered Rees a slight smile. “Mouse just asked me to raise him and I promised I would. And I will.”

“But Lydia,” Rees began. She did not argue, but she looked at him with an unyielding expression. He knew this was a battle he could not win.

“And the other children?” he asked, already resigned to something different than leaving them with the Shakers.

“We'll see.”

*   *   *

When he followed his wife into the cabin, all the children but Joseph were seated around the table. Joseph was lying on the floor playing with Judah's wooden cart and horse, thumping them both relentlessly upon the floorboards. Jerusha and Simon looked at Rees anxiously.

Rees sat down. “We know the identity of the man responsible for your mother's death,” he said. He paused, but neither of the two older children asked who the murderer was.

Instead Jerusha asked, “What will happen to us?”

“Are we being sent to the Shakers?” Simon asked, clutching his hands anxiously together.

“Yes,” Rees said. “For the time being. And you,” he spoke to Simon as though he were another adult, “will want to learn all they have to teach you. When you reach your majority, you will inherit this farm and this money.” He pushed the bag of silver dollars across the table. “This was given to your mother by your father.”

Simon opened the bag and looked at it. With the air of a man of business, he pulled out a coin and shot it across to Rees. “For your expenses,” he said. Rees almost sent it back to the boy but didn't. His pockets were empty.

“Thank you,” he said. “This will pay for the journey home.”

“The farm,” Lydia said, looking around her, at the rough cottage, “was left to you by your grandmother Olive.”

“She wasn't our grandmother,” Jerusha began, jumping to her feet.

“She was,” Rees said. “Maggie was her daughter. Olive had her reasons for not telling the truth.” Looking puzzled by the mysteries of the adult world, Jerusha sat back down.

“An agreement with Elder Herman will be drawn up,” Rees continued. “You won't have to join that community unless you wish to. But, until you are old enough to farm it yourself, the Shakers at Mount Unity will make sure no one takes any of this from you. They are the only ones I trust. And this property will be waiting for you.”

Simon remained silent for a long moment. “And my brothers and sisters will go with me?”

“All but Joseph,” Rees said. “Miss Lydia promised Mouse that we would take Joseph and raise him.” Lydia looked at Rees and smiled at him.

“And me,” Jerusha said. “I'm going with you.” Both Rees and Lydia stared at the child in surprise. “You can't go without me. You can't. You'll need my help with the baby.”

“I do believe I can manage Joseph,” Lydia replied with a smile.

“Not Joseph. The baby that's coming. Your baby.”

Rees turned to gape at Lydia, surprise, joy, and fear all running through him. “Baby? We're having a baby? Why didn't you tell me?”

A betraying tide of scarlet swept up her neck and into her cheeks. “I was going to,” she whispered. “I just, well … there never seemed to be a good time.”

Rees sat back in his chair, stunned. He didn't know which of his emotions was uppermost. Joy? Fear? Elation? All three. “When is the baby due?”

“Fall. September, I think.”

“I know you'll need me,” Jerusha said, her saucy confidence overlaying the fear that they would not want her. When she looked up at Lydia, the yearning for a mother shone so nakedly from her eyes Rees felt a lump form in his throat.

“But what about us?” Simon asked.

“Don't leave us,” Nancy said, clutching Jerusha's skirt with one grubby hand.

Jerusha looked from her siblings to Lydia and back again. “Can't you take us all? Please.” Lydia gazed at Rees, her mouth trembling and tears hovering in her eyes.

Rees swallowed. He knew Lydia's heart was breaking; he felt the same.

Jerusha clutched her hands together in an agony of hope and stared at him pleadingly. He looked at Lydia and, although her hands were not clasped in prayer, her expression was no less beseeching.

He sighed. “Oh, very well,” he said gruffly, just as though he was angry and unwilling to adopt them. “It will be a tight trip to Maine. I'm warning you.” But he was glad. He'd been given another chance to be a better father.

He wondered how David would react to this suddenly enlarged family.

Author's Note

How much of the information about the Poor Relief Laws and warning out is true? Unfortunately, all of it. Many town selectmen did exactly as described: decided which people would receive help and which would not. Many people who'd spent their entire lives in a town would be warned out, to travel the roads searching for shelter and food. Or, sometimes, they would be transported to the town of their births, where they knew no one and had no home and no way of earning a living. Pregnant paupers were particularly at risk, since the town fathers would not want a child born who might later have a claim to financial help.

Children were apprenticed out at the age of twelve or thirteen. Orphans could be given out as apprentices as young as six, although usually the new masters expected some remuneration, because children this young couldn't work as hard as adults. Masters were expected to educate their charges as well as feed and clothe them, but abuse was rampant. Contemporary accounts do mention some cases where the children were removed due to abuse so extreme neighbors complained.

Finally, a word on language. This was a much more formal age than our own. Surnames were used in preference to first names, except for children. Parents were not called Mommy or Dad but the more formal Mother or Father. One account I read described a wife who referred to her husband as Mister their entire married life. However, I have chosen to use a lot of first names, especially in the case of families, where calling multiple characters by the same last name might result in confusion.

I also use a somewhat formal writing style, perhaps not as formal as Tobias Smollett or Jane Austen, but more formal than most of us contemporary readers are used to. I apologize for any anachronisms. Sometimes they do creep in, but usually I have chosen to use a word familiar to my readers instead of the one accurate to the period, just for the sake of clarity.

Eleanor Kuhns

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