I awoke, fully dressed, when the clock downstairs chimed ten times. I’d barely had time to unpin my hair and remove my shoes before sleep overtook me like an opiate stupor, or so I imagined. I had never experienced even a single dose of laudanum, but I’d seen the effect the potent poppy had on those who ingested it by whatever means. Yawning and stretching, I caressed the other side of the empty bed. I would be home soon enough to share marital joys with my David.
For now, a little more than three hours of sleep would have to suffice. I had things to do and places to go today, starting with a good wash downstairs, some breakfast, and penning a letter to my husband.
With a clean self garbed in a fresh day dress and freshly washed hair in a plait down my back, coffee and two eggs happily in my belly, I found paper and pen on the small desk in Tilly’s room. It was sparsely decorated, smelling faintly of rosewater. A small vase filled with dried wildflowers sat on a doily on the dresser, and a bookmark marked her place in the novel Middlemarch on the stand next to the bed.
I wondered again if Tilly felt bad not to be in her own home during her time of mourning, and concluded again it might be easier for her to not be surrounded by reminders of Frannie, at least for these first few days.
I sat at the writing desk to compose a missive to my husband. A dictionary, a volume of Emily Dickinson’s poetry, Whittier’s Snowbound, and a copy of The Journal of John Woolman were lined up between bookends on the shallow shelf above the desk. A small brass letter holder next to the books contained envelopes that had been slit open and restuffed with their contents.
Instead of writing, I took down the itinerant Quaker minister’s journal, penned over a hundred years earlier, and read about his occasional employment as a scribe. When a Quaker slave owner hired Woolman to write his will, Friend John refused to include the part about deeding the slaves to the man’s son, thereby convincing him to grant them emancipation upon his death. John Woolman was a man who lived by the values of his faith.
I sat back. Did I do the same? I tried, certainly. I did not kowtow to power. I treated all as equal children of God, and I attempted to conduct myself peaceably. I had to admit I had occasionally blurred the lines of integrity, telling a small lie here and there, but only in the pursuit of a murderer. My mother had once remarked that if we were all perfect, God would get jealous. I didn’t think there was much danger of that happening in my case.
Peering more closely at the letter file, I spied a corner of paper sticking up at an odd angle behind the envelopes. I could see only the letters Fra. It had to be about Frannie, or maybe a note to her that hadn’t been delivered in time. But why would Tilly write a message to a girl who lived in her household?
I was dying to look, but this was Tilly’s private correspondence. In light of Quakerly integrity, I had no business poking into her personal files. On the other hand, she had requested my help in finding the person who ended her ward’s—her granddaughter’s—life. What if the slip of paper held a clue? My hand crept toward it, but I pulled it back. I could simply ask Tilly. She might not tell me, though. I sensed she still held back a secret beyond the one of Frannie’s identity, which she’d already revealed.
No matter how much I wanted to see what else was written, I had to let integrity rule. I tore my gaze away from the siren call of that “Fra” and began my letter to David.
How I miss thee, my dearest David. I am apprehensive to receive news of Clarinda’s condition and pray she is already much improved.
But had I prayed enough for her? I laid down the pen and closed my eyes, holding my mother-in-law in God’s Light. I pictured her in fine form, tending her gardens, hosting her lady friends, and attending services at her beloved St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. I exiled all negative thoughts about her less-than-pleasant side.
I resumed writing.
I am well, although a bit fatigued from being up all night assisting at a birth with Zerviah, the Indian midwife. She’s a wise woman, and we are fast becoming friends.
We had the sorrow of burying Frannie last evening and will remember her with a Memorial Meeting for Worship tomorrow afternoon. Daddy arrives tonight, for which I am grateful.
I lifted the pen for a moment. While Sadie and Huldah had been more than welcoming, they weren’t family, and I’d never been close to my aunts. I was truly looking forward to my father’s support and comfort. Both he and Mother had always offered the kind of love that had no conditions set upon it. Even when my sister and I had been firmly disciplined as children—with words, not corporally—it was with the understanding it was about our behavior. We knew we were still loved for ourselves. I hoped to be such a parent myself.
I regret to write that, although I was able to locate thy brother at his place of employment yesterday, he was not eager to journey home and rally around thy mother in her time of need. He seemed to think she might have been claiming to be ill as a ruse to lure him home. I was unable to convince him otherwise. We met the owner of the opera house, who also is the proprietor of the burlesque theater. It’s located in, shall we say, an interesting neighborhood. I’ll tell you all about it when we are joyfully reunited.
I’ve been working diligently—and safely, I assure thee—to uncover the truth about Frannie’s death, but I plan to travel back to Amesbury on Seventh Day, whether the case is solved or not.
David didn’t need to know about my scare last night, which had turned out not to be a threat at all.
I expect I’ll go as far as Boston with Daddy, and perhaps he’ll decide to accompany me all the way to Amesbury so he can enjoy a few days with his Bailey grandchildren. Won’t it be a delight when we can also invite him to come and play with a few Dodge grandchildren?
I hope thee and thy father are both well, and that Clarinda’s health is rapidly improving. Please convey my best wishes to her.
Adding a few endearments, I signed the letter and set it aside while I addressed the envelope. I looked up, startled, at a loud knocking. I peeked out the curtain at the front, still drawn from last night, to see Edwin Merritt raising his hand to knock again. I hurried to open the door.
“Good morning, Edwin.”
“Hello, Mrs. Dodge. I wondered if I could trouble you for a few minutes of your time.”
I gazed out at the day, which was sunny and mild. “Let’s sit out here.” I led him to two chairs at a small ironwork table in the shade of a young maple tree, its leaves beginning to transform themselves into fall’s unQuakerly bright palette of reds and golds.
I folded my hands and waited.
“More and more troubling details seem to be drifting into my case, Mrs. Dodge. I don’t mind telling you I’m stumped. Donovan up there in Amesbury wrote again urging me to avail myself of your keen investigator’s brain, so here I am. Might you have discovered anything new for me?”
“Let’s see. We last spoke yesterday morning, I think.” What had I learned since then? Not much, really, except possible confirmation of Currie’s involvement with young women. No, Sadie had told me the bit about Abial’s daughter. “I did hear about the unfortunate circumstance regarding the departure of Abial Latting’s children, particularly his daughter. Thee must be aware of what happened.”
He tilted his head, regarding me. “When his late wife’s sister removed the girl from the house? Yes. Is there more than that?”
“I’m not sure. But if he was beginning to accost his own daughter, surely that would be reason for her to want to flee.”
Edwin’s expression turned to that of a man who had tasted spoiled milk. Still, he jotted down something in his small notebook.
“Thee thyself heard what Tilly said to Abial yesterday as we were burying Frannie. She had harsh words for him.”
He looked thoughtful. “Yes, I did.”
“And thee also witnessed the extent of Reuben’s grief?”
“Yes, indeed.” The detective sighed. “I’m no more the wiser.”
“Thee hasn’t had luck discovering any more facts about the actual death on the water?”
“Alas and alack, nothing specific. But we might have a lead on it.”
“And what about Hazel Bowman?” I asked. “Is she on the list of suspects? We spoke of her on Second Day, as I recall.”
“Miss Bowman is certainly a person we’ve been watching carefully. This line of inquiry might prove fruitful yet, Mrs. Dodge.”
“Both Tilly and Dru say she is prone to telling mistruths, that she makes a habit of it.”
“Duly noted.” He stood. “I must be off. I thank you for your time.”
I rose, too. “Thee is welcome to join us at Frannie’s Memorial Meeting tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock,” I said. “I should inform thee I plan to leave for home the following day.”
“Let’s hope we get a break in this conundrum today.”
“I shall pray for a swift resolution.” I watched him trudge away. I would do more than pray, if I could.