Delivering the Truth (12 page)

“Yes. And Margaret is for Margaret Fuller, who was the editor of Mr. Emerson's journal
The Dial
and also wrote for it. But Father wanted me to be called Rose, so Margaret had to take second place as my middle name.” I realized I was babbling on from nerves and closed my mouth.

Kevin examined his hands. He glanced up with a wry smile. “I'll tell you, I have never before discussed literature in this room.” He sighed again. “But to get back to business. I suppose you take your knitting every time you attend a birth.”

“I'm afraid so. It helps to pass the time.”

“When was the last time you can recall using this particular pair?”

I ticked through the last week in my head. “I don't think I have done any knitting for several days.”

“When was the last time?” he repeated, sounding irritated.

“I believe it was last Sixth Day evening. Yes, I was working on Betsy's sweater.”

He rolled his eyes. “What do you mean, Sixth Day?”

“What most call Friday. Friends choose not to honor ancient deities with the names of the days of the week.”

He let out an exasperated breath, then leaned forward. “And where were you on Friday evening?”

“Why, I was at home. With the Bailey family.”

He pressed his eyes shut for a moment and then slumped back in his chair. “So the needles have been safe at home for five days now?”

“No, of course not. I keep them with the yarn in my birthing satchel. Which I carry nearly every time I go out. Except for this morning, obviously.”

That caused him to sit up straight again. “I need you to tell me every single place you've been between Friday night, or whatever you want to call it, until now. Every place you've toted your bag of tricks along to.” He reached over and pulled a cord hanging out of the wall near the door.

A bell rang faintly somewhere else in the building, and a few seconds later Guy popped his head into the room.

“Need something, Detective?”

“Come in and scribe. My writing can barely be read, even by myself.” Kevin glanced at me. “Thank goodness for younger officers with a legible script.”

After Guy sat and lifted the pen, I relayed my whereabouts since Seventh Day morning. I spoke slowly, to keep pace with his scribing.

“Let's see. I visited Genevieve LaChance and then Minnie O'Toole on Seventh Day morning, carrying my satchel to both homes. Seventh Day afternoon was the memorial service, where I saw thee, Kevin, and I didn't bring my satchel along to there. First Day is a day of rest, well, if surprising an arsonist can be called restful. I went to tea with David Dodge at the invitation of his mother in Newburyport. I was called to a birth in the evening and of course I went. I delivered Patience Henderson of a little boy late that night. In the early morning of Second Day, in truth.”

I waited for Guy to finish noting my whereabouts so far. He bent his head low over the paper and his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth like a child's.

“On Second Day afternoon I visited John Whittier, came here, and then took my satchel to visit thy very wife, Guy. While I was out I paid a call on Orpha Perkins afterwards.”

Guy raised his head. His eyes displayed alarm.

“Write it down, Gilbert,” Kevin demanded.

Guy bent to his task again.

When he was done, I went on. “Yesterday morning I checked in on Lillian Parry, Kevin, as thee well knows”

Kevin waved his hand. “Thomas was killed Monday night. Or in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. I don't care where you carried the bag yesterday.” He rapped his fingers on the table. I supposed it helped him think, but the habit irritated me.

“So you didn't cart this satchel of yours to the Pickard house?” he asked. “Ephraim himself wasn't near it?”

“No, and no.”

“That doesn't rule out somebody handing him the needle, though. He'll stay behind bars until we get to the bottom of this.” He nodded at Guy. “Thank you, Gilbert. You can leave the notes here. I'll make sure it gets into the Parry file. That will be all.”

Guy rose. At the door, he shot me a look, eyes wide, forehead furrowed. I couldn't interpret it. Resignation? Despair? A call for help?

Kevin tapped the table again as he studied the notes. “Never heard of this LaChance woman, or Henderson, either. O'Toole I know of.”

“Minnie O'Toole's a
brand-new
mother,” I said. “She's not left the house yet since giving birth, I don't believe.” He must have made the connection between Minnie and William Parry.

“It was her brother Jotham who reported the body,” Kevin said. “Gilbert's wife, well, she's a bit strange in the head lately. But I know of no cause she'd have to stab a man in the neck in the middle of the night. What about Perkins? I heard she's some variety of witch.”

“What? Thee must be toying with me. She's my esteemed teacher and a very dear friend.” I knew of the rumors that Orpha Perkins had helped a young woman or two safely relieve themselves of an unwanted pregnancy early on in their term, and I did not find issue with it. “Besides, she's in her eighties and much too frail to be traipsing about in the dark on her own. But most important, her life's work has been in bringing forth life. She'd never kill a man.”

“Well, I'm no further ahead than when you walked in that door, Rose Carroll.” Frustration etched lines into his face. He stood. “There's nothing for it but to keep on looking. I probably should search this satchel of yours at some point. When the killer stole your
needle, he
might have dropped something in there. A button, or who knows what.”

“I don't mind it being searched. I wish thee luck. I want to know who stole the needle and killed Thomas as much as thee does.”

“Luck might help. More likely it'll be hard work that does it. Now, I'm sorry if I alarmed you by having Gilbert bring you in,” he said. “I had to follow procedure, you understand. The chief is breathing his dragon breath down my neck. The carriage factory owners want answers. William Parry hungers to find his son's murderer.”

“I understand.” I also stood.

“Do you want this needle back when we're done with it?”

I set both hands on the table and stared at him. “I don't think I do. I have others, of course, but none so special as this pair my mother painted for me as a gift when I left home. But knitting with a murder weapon?” I shuddered. “No.”

Kevin peered closely at the flowers and initials before wrapping the needle up in the cloth again. “That's very close work, I admit. And quite artistic. A pity what was done with it.”

seventeen

When I returned home
from the station, I was drained from the experience of my jailhouse interview and from learning that my mother's gift to me had become an instrument of evil. The day had become even lovelier than it was earlier, with a gentle sun and an even gentler breeze. But it brought me no joy. In the morning mail, though, was something that did bring a smile to my lips: a letter in David's nearly illegible script. At least the post office had been able to decipher my address. That we still had a morning post after the fire was also an occasion for gratitude. Bertie and the Salisbury postmaster must have worked out a deal. I settled into the rocking chair with the missive and slit it open.

Dearest Rosie,

It was a delight to spend time with you this past weekend. It makes me greedy for even more of your hours and sweet attention. May I have the pleasure of your company at a dinner dance this Saturday? Mother desperately wants me to attend and I can think of no one I want to escort except you. Please respond at your earliest convenience.

Your faithful admirer,

David

My joy at hearing from David in such a sweet manner was tempered by the actual invitation. A dinner dance? My heart sank. Sooner or later David would have to face the fact that he and I were simply not of the same social class. I had no frock suitable for such an occasion, and no real desire to acquire one, not to mention that party frocks weren't exactly in line with the manner of Friends. But as much as I cared for David, I had no doubt my good dress wouldn't be good enough for a society soir
é
e. Beyond my attire, there was also the question of dancing, which was generally frowned upon among Friends.

I walked with a firm stride up the steps to Friend Whittier's home an hour later, letter in hand, hoping I was early enough not to interrupt John's midday dinner. I needed to get back for my one o'clock client, but I also wished for his counsel. I vowed to ask our elder which path he thought I should choose. I knocked and was grateful John answered it himself instead of Mrs. Cate.

“Friend Rose. Do come in.”

“Does thee have a free moment?”

“Of course.” He stepped aside and ushered me into his study. Sitting, he tented his hands. “Something bothers thee.”

I nodded, taking a chair. “Indeed. I'm presented with a conundrum and wonder how to follow both my heart and my faith.”

“Ah. Shall we hold this puzzle, whatever it might be, in the Light of God for a few minutes?” He closed his eyes.

I followed suit. I attempted to wait with a listening spirit, but my mind refused to quiet itself. Dinner dances, knitting needles, fatherless babies, smoking ruins, melancholy mothers, grieving fathers—all vied with each other for my attention. A deep sigh escaped me.

John opened his eyes. “Tell me about this conundrum.”

I explained about the invitation. “I'm growing fond of David Dodge, as I had mentioned, and he of me. But his mother … well, I think this is some kind of test. She would rather he marry his distant cousin, who certainly owns any number of party frocks and knows how to behave at dinner dances, as well. I possess no such knowledge. And according to our views on simplicity, I should not be wearing a fancy dress, anyway.”

“Does thee want to attend this affair?”

I sighed again. “David wants me to. And I want to be part of his life. So in that sense, yes, I do.”

“And then there is the dance portion of the problem. Thee knows many Friends regard it as vain amusement. In the past it has been seen as frivolous, dissipated, even immoral.”

“I know.” I kneaded my fingers in my lap.

“But if thee is able to conduct thyself in a modest manner with regard to dance, I believe God would not judge it wrong for a beautiful young woman to wear a beautiful dress. Thee must follow thy heart in this matter, of course, but I shall not allow our Meeting to chastise thee if thee chooses to dress somewhat less plainly for this event.”

“Which leads to the problem of my not owning a suitable dress.” I stared at my hands. “But this isn't thy concern, of course.”

He gazed out the window before returning his intense eyes to me. “I fear I do not have a solution to this part of the problem, although the concern is there.” He smiled. “Thee will discern which way to turn. I counsel thee, however, to also consider the long view. What would life with this man be like, should thee marry him? Would he be able to forgo many of these social occasions out of consideration for thee? Would he be willing to study the ways of Friends and join us in silent worship? Would thee be able to keep company with his family while still honoring thy own faith? Will he honor the Friends' views on quality, giving thee equal say in the decisions of thy life together? These are weighty questions.”

“They are, indeed. He has not proposed marriage.”
Yet
, I added to myself. “And at this moment I am not sure of the answers to any of thy queries. But I will think on them.”

I stood, thanking him, and let him show me out. I stood on the walk, unsure of where to turn. I had his blessing for wearing a fancy dress, but where to find one? Could I afford the cost of cloth and a dressmaker? Would there even be time to complete such a dress by Seventh Day, it now being already Fourth Day? And then there were the weighty questions John had left me with. I pictured the tea, with the uniformed maid waiting on us. How many other servants did Clarinda Dodge employ? I doubted she would take kindly to her son marrying a woman who cooked her own dinners, cleaned her own parlor, and mended her own stockings. I sighed again, supposing I should sit and discern in silent prayer, after the manner of Friends. One more custom of my faith that did not come easily to my impatient soul. I took a deep breath in, and with it caught an idea. I turned to my left and hurried to Orchard Street, where I had been only two days earlier.

“Thee has a dress thee can loan me? In my size?” I couldn't believe my luck. I had come to ask Orpha's granddaughter how fast she could make me a dress and what the cost would be. Instead she had offered to lend me one. Way had opened, after all.

Alma, a plump woman of about thirty, smiled. “I think it will be perfect. She's slim and tall, like you. What are you, about five feet eight inches?”

I nodded.

“A lady had me make it for some society affair, and then she said the color was all wrong for her. She didn't want it back, and she's in such comfortable circumstances she paid for an entire new dress. Let me fetch it.”

Orpha sat in her rocker tatting a piece of lace. “Life brings us what we deserve; that is what I have always said.”

“I hope this turns out to be something good, otherwise I'll be getting what I deserve straying from plain dress.” I glanced down at my gray everyday frock, which up to now had sufficed for attending Meeting, attending births, and nearly everything in between.

“Tell me again where you will be wearing this frock that is not plain?” Orpha asked.

“David Dodge wants my company at a society affair on Seventh Day. He very much wants to escort me. Orpha, what if I don't know how to behave? What if they have a myriad of forks and knives and finger bowls? What if I address someone the wrong way, or step on David's feet as we dance?”

“Do not concern yourself with that, my dear. You will sit up straight and be your usual intelligent forthright self. You have never before given much care to what society thinks of you, have you?”

“Well, no. One can't, really, being a Friend. I'm used to being different.”

“Then you will watch how your friend uses all those forks and follow suit. And if you use the wrong one, does it matter? He will not love you any less, I dare say.” She rocked gently, watching me.

“Thee is right. As always.”

“Do you know how to dance?”

“A bit. Harriet and I used to practice. I'm not the most clumsy person around, but not the most graceful, either.” I smiled at the memory of Father playing his violin as Harriet and I pretended to be a couple at a dance. I had grown taller than her by the time I was ten, so I'd insisted on taking the male part.

“You will follow his lead,” Orpha said. “You will do well.”

Alma returned to the parlor. Over her arm was the prettiest dress I had ever set eyes on. It was of a shimmering
rose-colored
silk. She held it up. The puffy cap sleeves were edged with lace and the flounces had a deeper rose taffeta edging them, and yet the style was simple, which pleased me. The neckline was low and the waist narrow, with a bit of a bustle in back.

“See, its color even matches your name,” Alma declared with a wide smile. “Come on now, try it on. I'll have time to tailor it if need be.”

As we were all women in the room, I removed my dress and stood in my camisole and petticoat.

Alma laughed. “You're going to have to wear a corset with this dress.”

I grimaced. “If I must. Although my own mother is always promoting what she calls healthy dressing.” I was slender enough I usually got away without the fiendish device that caused so many women pain and even health problems from being so constrained. “I guess I'll need to purchase one.”

“Yes, you must. It also gives a more modest,
fastened-in
profile. They'll expect it at such an affair. Now this.” Alma fastened a simple bustle around my waist. It was like a half apron tied on backward, with rows of puffy fabric curls sewed onto it. “I'll lend you the bustle, too.”

“I thank thee, but what a
silly-looking
thing it is.” I stepped into the dress and Alma helped me arrange it half off my shoulders and then fastened up the back.

“Turn around.” She motioned. “What do you think?”

I turned to gaze in a long mirror behind me, and blushed at the sight. I barely recognized myself. The dress was nearly a perfect fit, or would be when my waist was cinched in a few more inches by the corset. The color set off my nearly black hair and deep brown eyes and it made my pale skin glow. I turned away, embarrassed to be so vain. Even so, as I smoothed down the skirt, I wished Harriet could see me in it.

“Will it do, Orpha?” I asked.

“It will more than do. You will put those society girls to shame.”

Alma frowned. “You'll need slippers. And evening gloves. And fine stockings.”

“I can purchase those. Especially since I didn't need to buy the dress, thanks to thee.”

Orpha rummaged in a small enameled box on the table next to her. She held something out. “Here. Wear this around your neck.”

I took the necklace and held it up to the light from the window. It was an ivory cameo of a woman in an oval of gold. A
rose-colored
ribbon ran through a slot on the back.

“It is of my mother,” the old woman said. “It will be perfect.”

“Oh, Orpha, thee is too kind.” I leaned down and kissed her soft,
papery-thin
cheek. “And thee, Alma, as well. How can I thank thee both?”

The
five-year
-old girl ran into the room. “Mama—” She stopped short and held her hands to her cheeks regarding me with awe. “You look like a real princess!”

I laughed. “I'm not even close to being one, but thee is dear to say so.”

Alma hurried the girl out of the room as I glanced at the clock. It was twelve
forty-five
. “Oh, no, I have to rush home! I have a client coming at one.” I turned my back to Orpha. “Unfasten me, please?”

Her arthritic fingers took what seemed like an hour, but soon I was back in my decidedly
unprincess-like
gray dress. I went flying out the door, clutching the pink frock Alma had wrapped in tissue and then canvas as I dressed.

“I am grateful for this loan,” I called back to Alma, who stood with Orpha in the doorway watching.

“You take care you do not trip and fall!” I heard Orpha laugh as I hurried toward home.