Death in Salem (2 page)

Rees was astonished that Boothe, even in the midst of his grief, was able to express interest in a stranger. “Yes,” Rees said, “I—um—came to buy some imported cloth, you know, some of that fine Indian cotton and maybe silk, and then I saw Twig…” Realizing he was stammering, Rees shut his mouth.

“Well, you won't find better than Mrs. Baldwin's Emporium, corner of Essex and Walnut streets,” Mr. Boothe said, clapping Rees upon the shoulder as though they were old friends. “She's a lovely lady, a widow, you know, and her prices are fair. Tell her I sent you. She'll treat you well.”

He moved on, speaking as easily to the poorest sailor as to the most affluent butcher. “He seems a fine gentleman,” Rees said.

“He is,” Twig agreed in a heartfelt tone. “He is well regarded by everyone.” He was still as tall and angular as Rees remembered from their first meeting twenty years ago, and although a few white strands glittered in his hair he looked much the same. “So, what brings you to Salem, Will?”

“Weaving trip,” Rees said. “I was north and west of here.” He purposely kept his response short, reluctant to share the whole truth. Since he had injured his brother-in-law Sam, Rees had been the butt of jokes, insinuations, and outright accusations in his hometown of Dugard, Maine. Weaving commissions had dropped off, so cash was scarce. And since many men were now fearful of facing Rees directly, it was David who bore the brunt of the gossip. He often returned from town with bowed shoulders and a white line around his mouth. Rees sighed. He'd hoped all of that would die down with the arrival of good weather and farming chores, but it hadn't. If anything, it had gotten worse. So Rees had been glad to leave town for a while on this weaving trip, and earn some extra income while he was at it.

“We have no need of weavers. Ships dock here with cotton from Bombay and silk from Cathay.” Twig's comment broke into Rees's thoughts.

“I thought I would purchase something for my wife.”

“Ah. And you have a son, I believe?”

“Yes. David.” David, who was furious with his father, especially since Rees and Lydia had returned home with several adopted children. Since David had moved out to the weaver's cottage, Rees only saw him when they were both engaged in doing chores. Their relationship was as bad as it had ever been. Rees brushed away the despair that swept over him and continued speaking. “He's the oldest. Three other boys, two girls, and baby on the way. You?”

“Not married,” Twig said, but his expression was so furtive Rees wondered what secret Twig was hiding.

“But what?” Rees asked. Twig leaned in and whispered.

“I will be soon.” And then, as though fearing he had said too much, Twig turned and started away. Rees grasped his sleeve.

“Wait.” Now he remembered how Twig was. The manners that were pounded into most people during childhood had passed him by. “You can't leave it like that.”

“Secret,” he said, and folded his lips closed, his gloved hand polishing the silver ball at the end of his undertaker's baton. Since he looked ready to scurry away, Rees cast around for another topic of conversation.

“And what exactly did Mrs. Boothe die of?”

“Oh, natural causes. She's been ill for as long as I've been in Salem and that's fifteen years. Jacob Boothe was a catch for Anstiss; he was already successful and pulling in wealth with both hands. The Covilles aren't poor, you understand. But Mr. Boothe seems intent on giving King Derby and merchants like him a run for their money.” He jerked his head like a startled rabbit. “They're probably in the dining room right now.”

“I see.” Of course, Jacob Boothe had set up a separate room for close friends and family. But he was not ignoring the poorer sort. Once again Boothe's generosity impressed Rees. “Do you enjoy being an undertaker, Twig?”

“Indeed, I do. It pays well. People keep dying. I don't mind the dead. Quiet. No trouble at all. I've got to go.” He turned and hurried away, rapidly cutting through the door to the inside hall and disappearing around a corner.

Well, that was Twig. Never doing what was expected. As a soldier he'd been more likely to fling himself face down on the ground at the first sound of gunshots than to return fire. But sometimes he would hurl himself at the enemy with reckless bravery, as he had when he'd saved Rees's life.

Rees eyed the tradesmen and the poor folk around him. He did not quite dare pursue Twig into the second room where those of Boothe's social class congregated, and anyway, perhaps Twig's startling departure was for the best. It was time to leave.

He'd planned to quit Salem soon after noon and be well away by nightfall. But when he descended the front steps into the brilliant June sun he saw that it was already several hours past noon. And he still hadn't bought anything for Lydia and the children. Rees jingled the coins in his pocket. He was already so late he saw no point in hurrying now. Grabbing a sailor who was climbing the steps—people continued to enter the Boothe home for the averil—Rees solicited directions to Mrs. Baldwin's Emporium. Then he collected his horse and wagon from the stable yard behind the Boothe's house and drove into the street. From the corner of his eye he saw two more sailors, one of them black, disappear into the house.

 

Chapter Two

With the excitement of the funeral and following averil, the shop—in fact, most of the shops along the road—was empty of customers. Rees was able to browse at his leisure, under the eye of Mrs. Baldwin, of course, who busied herself straightening merchandise. A short woman and plump, she wore her gray hair scraped back into a bun. A white wave sprang from her forehead, struggling to curl in defiance of her efforts to discipline it. Rees thought she was no older than forty, despite the gray hair and the lines furrowing her forehead. And she did not intrude as he examined all the different fabrics, dizzying in their colors and patterns.

A variety of calicoes beckoned, the cloth inexpensive enough for several yards of two or three patterns. He suspected most had been printed in England. In an effort to protect their own industry, the wool merchants of almost one hundred years ago had forced through a number of laws forbidding the importation of printed calico from India into either England or the colonies. Rees wasn't sure the industry in India had recovered, even though America was now a separate country and could import what they chose—although they had to outrun the British ships to do it. The British had not accepted their former colonies as a separate country yet. The trade to India and Cathay by American captains was very recent—not even fifteen years old.

Rees fingered a number of the calicoes he found most appealing and decided to purchase several bolts more than he needed for his family. The women on many of the far-flung farms in the northeast where he sold his own cloth would have little opportunity to see, let alone buy, such fabrics, and he could make a good profit.

Then he turned his attention to the expensive cottons and silks. Rees fingered the sheer lawn enviously, wondering about the delicate threads. How many dents, the slots per inch, would a reed require? He did not think his large hands could manage such tiny filaments. The silk was even finer and more delicate, the threads gossamer. He could barely conceive of threading a loom with such thin strands.

The embroidered scarlet with its silken luster drew his eye, but he knew better than to purchase that bright color. Although Lydia had left the Shakers a few years previously, and had surrendered her square linen cap upon her marriage, she still adhered to simplicity of dress. Perhaps a blue? Mrs. Baldwin appeared at Rees's elbow. When he asked the price, her answer sent Rees's eyebrows shooting to his hairline. Silk was too dear for his purse; he couldn't afford enough yards for a gown. Perhaps she could make a shawl? Or rework one of her older dresses with the new silk? After several moments of cogitation, he selected a pale blue embroidered with flowers. Even the few yards cost a significant portion of the coins in his purse, but he would not see Lydia poorly dressed in front of Dugard society.

Rees wondered how a widow like Mrs. Baldwin had obtained the necessary brass to buy and outfit such a shop.

“Are you here for Mrs. Boothe's funeral?” Mrs. Baldwin asked as she figured the tally.

“I did not come to Salem specifically for it,” Rees said, “but I did attend the averil. Mr. Boothe has a fine home.”

“He does indeed. Earned by his own sweat, too. He began on one of the merchant ships as a cabin boy, and look where he is now. Such a tragedy about his wife … he is a good man.”

“He referred me to you,” Rees said. “Do you know him?”

Mrs. Baldwin nodded her head. “I've met him. He is active in a small group of captains and supercargoes that extend help to widows and orphans of seamen. When my Ezra died … well, I didn't know how I would support myself and my son. I didn't want charity,” she said, lifting her chin with defiant pride. “But he made sure the committee lent me the money to start the shop. Oh, that first year was hard, but I paid back every farthing. A good man is Jacob Boothe, and one who deserves only the best.”

Rees carried his purchases to the wagon and stowed them under the lashings that held the loom down. He'd lingered in Mrs. Baldwin's shop longer than he expected and now afternoon was bleeding into early evening. The salty tang in the air seemed more intense than ever. Rees examined the sky in concern. He wouldn't make it very far before dark and would have to spend the night by the road. Not that he'd mind, he'd done it many times before, but he expected he would be close to the city this time. Salem was only slightly smaller than Boston and he didn't relish trying to sleep next to the clatter of Salem's busy roads. After a moment's thought, he returned to the shop to ask Mrs. Baldwin if she knew where he could rent a room. Her initial surprise transformed into a careful inspection.

“Well, since Mr. Boothe sent you to me, I daresay you will be all right. I have a room to rent. Upstairs. Would you care to see it?”

“I would,” Rees said. She motioned him to the back of the shop and through a door into a hall. These were her living quarters. Rees saw her kitchen and main room through one opening and a small garden and stable yard through the other. Stairs led to the upper levels. She preceded him up to the second floor.

Two doors, now closed, led off the hall to rooms above the shop, one bedchamber for Mrs. Baldwin, the other for her son. She directed Rees to a room he thought was situated over the kitchen and at the back of the house. Rees preferred that to a room at the front of the house, where iron-shod horses and wheels would fill the air with noise. Although small, the room was very clean. And Mrs. Baldwin offered him the use of the barn at back for Bessie and his wagon. Rees brought up his canvas valise and settled in for the night. From the windows that overlooked the yard, if he turned his head to the right, he could see the masts in the harbor. Mrs. Baldwin's Emporium could not be more than a street or two west of the docks.

About six, her son came home, and soon after the sounds of quarreling penetrated Rees's room.

“I found a berth on a whaling ship. And it's time for me to leave home,” the boy said, his voice rising.

The sound of Mrs. Baldwin weeping was audible. “Please, Billy. I already lost your father to the sea. Please, stay home.”

“No.” Billy refused in an angry and resentful tone that was so like David, Rees almost looked around for his son.

David had never completely forgiven Rees for abandoning him to his Aunt Caroline and Uncle Sam. After Rees's first wife—David's mother—had died, Rees had embarked on a series of weaving trips to earn the money necessary to support them, and had entrusted David into Caroline and Sam's care. But they had treated David more like a servant than a son, and David still hadn't forgiven his father for not taking him along. Although their relationship had improved when Rees and David had moved back to the farm together, the adoption of the orphans had now set it back once again. David's feelings of abandonment had resurfaced. Rees had tried to explain several times that the adoption did not mean he loved David any less but the boy always responded in such a nasty and aggrieved voice that Rees had wanted to strike him. Fortunately, David's anger centered upon his father; he maintained a cool politeness with Lydia and ignored the children.

And Caroline, well, she believed she should own the family farm. Like Rees, she'd grown up there, and once he'd allowed her and her family to move in, Caroline thought it should be hers. Especially after Rees's fight with Sam that had led to the injury that now prevented Sam from finding work. And with at least half the people in Dugard blaming Rees for it … He sighed. If it weren't for Lydia and the children waiting for him at home, he would be tempted to keep traveling south. He missed them all—he even remembered the constant noise with some nostalgia.

A slamming door marked the end of the argument between Mrs. Baldwin and her son, and when Rees looked out his window he saw the youth storming to the stables. He disappeared into the shadows within. Rees would wager that most of the mothers in Salem experienced the loss of both husbands and sons to their watery mistress. He had never felt any desire to set sail or even work on the small vessels that plied the coast of Maine. A traveler he might be, but he preferred his travels on dry land.

And what had the Baldwin family's final decision been? Would the boy go or stay home? Well, it wasn't Rees's problem to solve. Yawning, he took off his shoes and washed his face in the basin provided. Best go to bed. Early tomorrow he would start for home and his family. He could hardly wait to see them.

 

Chapter Three

He was awake before dawn. After breakfasting at the nearest tavern, Rees collected his horse and wagon from the stable and set off for home. Rapidly leaving the seaport behind him, he struck northwest. Other wagons, as well as horses and buggies, also traveled this road, although most of the traffic went east, toward the ocean. Farm wagons laden with rolled hay cocks, straw, and harvested produce trundled by, all filled up although the farms were kept small and struggling by the stony soil. Rees wondered how the farmers managed to wrest anything from this poor land. No wonder they'd also turned their hands to fishing. Rees would have to tell David about this hard farming—if his son would ever speak to him again.