Cradle to Grave (20 page)

The cold air outside took his breath away. Rees left the snowy rutted drive behind and began ascending the slope. The untouched snow was deeper than it looked and every footfall snapped through the icy crust like a shot. At least the snow scattered the light so Rees could see his way.

As he reached the crest he saw a dark blot a distance away, slowly lumbering through the snow. “Simon. Simon,” Rees shouted, breaking into a stiff trot forward.

“Mr. Rees,” the boy said as they came within earshot of one another.

“We were worried,” Rees said.

“Mr. Baker kept me after.” Simon's words dissolved in a fit of coughing and he stumbled. Rees caught his arm. “I'm so tired.”

Rees looked down at Simon, so little he did not even reach Rees's waist. He carried a milk pail and although it was only half-full, it seemed too heavy for the boy to lift. Rees took the pail and put it down into the snow. “We're almost home,” he said, bending down and lifting the boy into his arms. “Don't worry anymore. We're almost home.” When he next saw Mr. Baker he planned to say a few harsh words to him.

“I'm not a baby,” Simon protested. “I'm the man of the family.”

“I know you are,” Rees said. “But I'm taller and this is faster.”

He lengthened his stride, half-sliding down the slope to the shack below. He was close enough now to see Lydia limned against the candlelight. And by the time he reached the cabin, she had the door open and her arms outstretched for the boy.

“Food on the table,” she said to Simon as Rees deposited him inside. She helped the boy off with his coat and hat.

“Mr. Baker kept me after,” Simon said again, his words slow with fatigue. He sat down at the table and took up his spoon. But he ate no more than a few bites before his eyes began to droop and his head nodded over the bowl. Lydia shook his shoulder. When Simon looked up at her, his eyes heavy with sleep, and she saw his scarlet cheeks, she put a hand on his forehead.

“He's burning up. Help me get him into the bed, Will.”

Rees picked up Simon, who roused sufficiently to say again, “I'm not a baby.”

It suddenly hit Rees that Simon was almost the age David had been when Rees left him with his aunt and uncle after his mother's death. This could have been David in his arms, unloved and worked half to death. Sudden moisture burned in Rees's eyes. This time he wouldn't allow that to happen. This time he would make it right. Simon, in fact none of these children, would be abandoned to such harsh care, he'd make sure of that. “It's all right,” he told Simon. “It's all right.”

He didn't want to think of that now, did not want to feel tears burning his eyes. Dumping Simon in the bed, he fled to the outer room. But he couldn't sit. He picked up the poker and stirred up the fire with such unnecessary vigor that a swarm of sparks rose into the chimney. The milk: recalling the pail Simon had been carrying, Rees jerked on his coat and went back outside. Although it was much darker now, his tracks were deep and black, like ink stains, and he was able to follow them to the pail.

That night, after all the children were in bed and Rees was finally alone with his wife, he said, “Do you know that Simon is the same age as David when I left him with my sister?” His voice broke on the last word and Lydia moved forward to put her arms around him.

“This situation is not the same,” she said. “You left David with family. And you brought money home, to support him and secure his future. These children here, they have no one but us.”

“David only had me,” he said. “He was my responsibility. I failed him.”

“You didn't fail him,” Lydia said. “You went back home for him. You followed him to the Shaker community at Zion. You didn't abandon him.”

“No one wants these children,” Rees said, looking up at her. “Only Maggie cared for them. It must have been so hard for her.”

“They have us,” Lydia repeated. “They're our responsibility now.”

“I know.” Rees said. Suddenly recalling Judah's mad dash down the church aisle, to the horror of the congregation, he burst into laughter. “No one will ever forget us. Or Maggie Whitney's memorial service.”

Chapter Seventeen

When Rees awoke Monday morning he found the fire half extinguished from snow sifting down the chimney and the cabin frigidly cold. Jumping to his feet, he quickly stirred up the embers, until flames hissed and crackled with the fury of its blaze. Rees glanced at the wood stacked in the corner; they would burn through it very quickly in this weather. Fortunately the pile outside was almost as tall as he was and ran half the length of the lean-to. He put his boots on and tiptoed to the door. Snow had drifted in around the windows and the door and ice coated the inside of the windowpanes. He scraped a hole and squinted through the frost into a white world. Even the lean-to that housed Ares was almost invisible; snow plastered the walls and the roof and wedged the door tight shut.

When Rees craned his neck and looked at the front, he could see that snow buried the cabin door almost halfway up. He could see no sign of the drive and suspected the road at the foot was as impassable.

“What's the matter?” Lydia sounded groggy with sleep. “Oh my, I overslept.”

“No one is going anywhere today,” Rees said, nodding at the window. “I wouldn't allow Simon out in this weather even if he weren't ill.”

Lydia jumped to her feet and threw her cloak around her to run into the bedroom. She returned a moment later, shaking her head. “He still feels feverish to me.” She dressed quickly and put the kettle on. “I'll make tea for him. Mush for breakfast and a hearty soup for dinner.” She stopped talking very suddenly, her face going pale. She went for the bread, already hardening, and sawed off a chunk. She cut it into small pieces and carefully ate each morsel, one by one.

“What's the matter?” Rees asked.

“Nothing. I'm fine. Just very hungry.”

“I'll see to Ares,” Rees said, with an anxious look at his wife. Putting on his coat, he jerked the door open. A drift of fine white snow tumbled into the cabin. He took the broom and began sweeping, making a path to the lean-to and the woodpile beside it. The air felt solid with the cold and by the time he reached the lean-to he was shivering despite his heavy coat. Pulling open the lean-to door was an added struggle. After he fed and watered Ares, he gathered up another armful of wood and hurried back to the warm cabin.

Simon spent most of the day in bed. Lydia made tea with some of her Shaker herbs, but the boy was too ill to drink very much. The other children ran around the main room, quarreling and screaming until Rees thought he would go mad. He would have sent all but the baby into the snow to play if they'd owned boots and coats. Lydia settled them down with tasks but as soon as she left to check on Simon, they were up and running around again. Rees finally gathered them together, compelling obedience with bellowed threats, and started a story. “Once upon a time…”

*   *   *

With Monday's heavy snowfall, a journey to Albany would not have been possible, even if Rees had not planned to question Maartje Griffin again. Since he knew she spent a few hours every morning and afternoon with her elderly uncle, Rees and Lydia intended to leave just after daybreak on Tuesday and catch the woman before she left home. Rees expected the journey to be a long one.

After hitching Ares to the buggy, they set out through the deep snow. The drive was slow and even the short distance to the Baker farm took over an hour.

When Rees told Mr. Baker Simon would not be working for the second day in a row, the farmer said in annoyance, “I need him here. Several of my hands and my own sons are down with the fever.”

“Simon is still quite ill,” Lydia said in a frosty voice. “I don't want him outside in this weather.”

Mr. Baker frowned.

“You rely on the child, don't you?” Rees asked.

“I took him on to help out Maggie, at the constable's suggestion,” the farmer said. “My wife didn't like it, though. She's a bit jealous, I suppose.” He smiled and Rees saw how much the thought of two women quarreling over him pleased him. “But she's glad of Simon now. And fond of the boy as well. He's a hard little worker.”

“He is only seven,” Lydia said, even more coldly.

“His mother agreed to it,” Mr. Baker said with a shrug.

“Because she was desperate,” Rees said. Mr. Baker did not respond. He turned and marched back to the barn. Lydia seemed ready to follow, but Rees took her arm and urged her back to the buggy. He doubted they would gain anything by continuing the argument. And besides, Mr. Baker had been kinder to the children than most.

They drove around the log church and headed northwest. Rees found the drive described by Cooper, and they soon approached the farmhouse squatting in the center of a patchwork of empty fields. As Lydia jumped down, Rees took the horse blanket from the back and draped it over Ares. They went up to the porch and knocked. Rees hoped Maartje was still home.

A slender maid with olive skin and dark brown eyes opened the door. Rees's eyes rested upon the smooth black hair revealed by her cap and wondered if she were part Indian.

“We're here to speak with Mrs. Griffin,” he said. The maid glanced over her shoulder.

“I don't know … She'll be leaving soon.”

“Who is it?” Mrs. Griffin came up behind the maid. “Mr. Rees.” Her gaze shifted curiously to Lydia.

“My wife, Lydia,” Rees said.

Mrs. Griffin frowned at her visitors but stepped away from the door and pointed them to the parlor on the left. “I can't visit long,” she said. “My uncle will be waiting for me.”

“Just a question or two,” Rees said with a smile.

The scream of a young child punctuated the air. With a muttered apology, Mrs. Griffin turned to the maid. “Go to Sarah.” The girl obediently disappeared toward the back of the house. “Please sit down,” Mrs. Griffin said, gesturing them to the wooden bench. With a groan she lowered herself into the rocking chair. “I expect you're here to talk about Maggie Whitney. Everyone knows she killed my baby.”

Left breathless by Mrs. Griffin's venomous accusation, Rees took a moment to reply. “I was told you sent a baby to her for wet-nursing.”

“My little girl, my Beatrice.” To Rees's horror, tears flooded into Mrs. Griffin's eyes. Worse, sympathetic emotion sent water streaming down Lydia's cheeks, as well. She moved forward on the bench and grasped Mrs. Griffin's hands.

“I know,” Lydia said. “I lost a baby girl.” For several minutes, while Rees shifted uncomfortably upon his seat, the two women wept together.

“Even though I bore Sarah after that and I'm expecting again, I miss Beatrice no less,” Mrs. Griffin said.

“I know,” Lydia whispered. “I know. The grief never disappears. What happened?”

Mrs. Griffin freed her hand from Lydia's and wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron. “I was ill after Beatrice's birth, very ill. And Maggie had just had Nancy and was nursing her. And she'd already wet-nursed a baby for a family in Albany. So my husband hired Maggie to nurse Beatrice. A few months later she died.” She tried to stifle her involuntary sob.

“I was given to understand the baby died from a fever,” Rees said, speaking for the first time. Mrs. Griffin glanced at him as though she'd forgotten he was there.

“All of those brats came down with the fever. But Nancy lived. I think Maggie fed her baby at the expense of mine. And of course in that horrible little shack … and who knows the identity of Nancy's father? He could have been anyone. Maggie was a whore. And a thief. Did you know she tried to pay me back with a silver dollar? Where would she even get a silver dollar? She must have stolen it.”

“Maybe Nancy's father gave it to her,” Rees suggested, unsettled by her vitriol. “And the money? She was doing her best to make amends.” Lydia put her hand on his sleeve.

“No amount of money could make up for the loss of my daughter,” Maartje said, glaring at him.

“What happened after your daughter's death?” Lydia asked.

“No one would hire Maggie to wet-nurse, of course.” Her face contorted with triumph and fury. “She paid for my baby's death. After that she nursed foundlings, and only when the town fathers could find no one else.”

“Joseph seems to be thriving,” Rees said. Of course, Mouse had assisted with the baby at a critical time, but he saw no point in mentioning that.

“No one else would take him. Look how dark he is. No doubt a mixed blood, although Mrs. Pettit, the midwife, claims ignorance of his parents.”

“Mary Pettit?” Rees asked. “I've met her.”

“She was a well-regarded midwife until the drink got her. The baby just turned up one day on the church steps.” Maartje shifted uncomfortably. “And now I must find my husband. My uncle will be looking for me soon.”

“Would you like us to drive you?” Lydia asked, throwing a quick glance at Rees. “We're driving in that direction anyway.”

Mrs. Griffin hesitated and then nodded. “Yes, thank you. My husband is out doing chores. I hate to disturb him.”

“How will you return home?” Rees asked.

“He'll come for me in two hours or so.” She sighed. “And then I'll go back in the evening to offer my uncle his dinner.”

“It sounds difficult,” Lydia murmured.

“He wants me to move in,” Mrs. Griffin said, turning to Lydia. “Leave my husband and children.” She shook her head in disbelief. “And he refuses to have anyone else in the house, otherwise I'd be willing to offer him my maid. I am the favored niece.” Her mouth twisted.

“And how is his health?” Lydia inquired delicately.

“Perfect. Except for the deafness. He might live another ten years.” Mrs. Griffin sighed again.

“And what will you do when you are confined with…?” Lydia gestured to Mrs. Griffin's swelling belly.