A Changing Light Read online

  Praise for the Books of

  Agatha Award-winning author

  Edith Maxwell

  “The historical setting is redolent and delicious, the townspeople engaging, and the plot a proper puzzle, but it’s Rose Carroll—midwife, Quaker, sleuth—who captivates in this irresistible series . . .”

  —Catriona McPherson,

  Agatha-, Anthony- and Macavity-winning author of the Dandy Gilver series

  “Clever and stimulating novel . . . masterfully weaves a complex mystery.”

  —Open Book Society

  “Riveting historical mystery . . . [a] fascinating look at nineteenth-century American faith, culture, and small-town life.”

  —William Martin, New York Times

  bestselling author of Cape Cod and The Lincoln Letter

  “Intelligent, well-researched story with compelling characters and a fast-moving plot. Excellent!”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “A series heroine whose struggles with the tenets of her Quaker faith make her strong and appealing . . . . imparts authentic historical detail to depict life in a 19th-century New England factory town.”

  —Library Journal

  “Intriguing look at life in 19th-century New England, a heroine whose goodness guides all her decisions, and a mystery that surprises.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Title Page

  

  Copyright

  A Changing Light

  Edith Maxwell

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Edith Maxwell.

  Cover design by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-950461-99-8

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Dedication

  For reference librarians everywhere. Authors depend on you for history, for deep databases you know how to search, and for an affinity in wanting to know the facts about the past.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Books by Edith Maxwell

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  The annual Spring Opening was a very real affair, bringing visitors from all over the world to view Amesbury’s carriages. John Mayer, Executive Director of the Amesbury Carriage Museum, dug up newspaper notices on the Spring Opening for me. I also consulted Amesbury historian Margaret Rice’s Sun on the River: The Story of the Bailey Family Business 1856–1956 for descriptions of the week’s business negotiations and nightly social events. Amesbury librarian Margie Walker has helped me find facts from the past for every book in this series, and I am grateful.

  I have invented members of Amesbury’s 1890 Board of Trade and make no claims about the actual board’s involvement in murder, nor about Mr. Lowell’s disinclination to become involved in the issues before the town, as a character claims in the book.

  The Montgomery Carriage Company of Ottawa, Canada, came out of my imagination. I wish to cast no aspersions or senility on any actual Ontarian carriage manufacturer of the era.

  I consulted about railroad timetables and routes with local historical train expert Peter Bryant, formerly with the Salisbury Point Railroad Association (Peter is also a docent at the John Greenleaf Whitter Home Museum). I also received maps, timetables, and other details of train travel from Richard Nichols, Carl Byron, and Archivist Rick Nowell of the Boston & Maine Railroad Historical Society, Inc. I am grateful for the help of experts, and any errors in the book are of my own doing.

  Amesbury very nearly became the automobile capital of the United States. My fictional Ned Bailey’s thoughts about starting a motorcar company were not complete fantasy. Some of the first electric cars in the country were made in the town by the real Bailey family from 1907 to 1915. Two still exist—and still run. Also, I imply no aspersions whatsoever on the historical Baileys, who were one of Amesbury’s First Families and whose descendants still live in Amesbury and surrounding towns.

  The Remedy: Robert Koch, Arthur Conan Doyle, and the Quest to Cure Tuberculosis by Thomas Goetz is an excellent reference on tuberculosis and the rise of science toward the end of the nineteenth century. I gleaned a number of helpful facts from it for this book, and it’s also great reading. I wrote this book during the Covid-19 pandemic, and I found the parallels between the scourge of TB, with its lack of either a vaccine or a cure, and the current novel coronavirus frankly terrifying.

  As I’ve done with each book, I consulted Miss Parloa’s New Cook Book and Marketing Guide, published in 1880, for ideas about food as well as sample menus that might have been served at the Grand Hotel. I also made use of the Montgomery Ward & Co. Catalogue and Buyers’ Guide from 1895, Marc McCutcheon’s Everyday Life in the 1800s, and The Massachusetts Peace Officer: a Manual for Sheriffs, Constables, Police, and Other Civil Officers by Gorham D. Williams, 1891.

  I have taken liberties with Friend John’s whereabouts. According to John Greenleaf Whittier: a Biography by Roland H. Woodwell, Whittier spent the entire winter and spring of 1890 with the Cartlands in Danvers, Massachusetts. I brought him back to Amesbury for this book so Rose could take counsel with her wise fFriend. Apologies to those who study his life and to my docent friends at the John Greenleaf Whittier Home Museum in Amesbury. I quote some of the lines Whitter wrote for Susan Babson Swasey, which Woodwell cites as later published in “Whittier and a Girl’s Album” by Ethel Parton
in Youth’s Companion, January 23, 1896. I also reference Whittier’s poem “The Meeting.”

  I got the quote from Annie Oakley from the Women’s History Museum, but I wasn’t able to verify when she said it. Her marriage in Ontario, Canada, is fact.

  As always, I consulted the Online Etymology Dictionary (https://www.etymonline.com/) and Google Ngram Viewer for information about when particular words and phrases entered the language, as well as The American Slang Dictionary from 1890, originally published by James Maitland in 1891.

  Chapter One

  The world was changing around me, around all of us, in this first year of the 1890s. I passed men stringing wires above Main Street in Amesbury, Massachusetts, converting the horse-drawn trolley system to one powered by electricity. Our country had four new western states. We had vaccines available for rabies, cholera, and anthrax, although—alas—not for tuberculosis or the recent scourge of Asiatic influenza.

  My own small world was transforming, too. I smiled to myself on a chilly late afternoon in early Third Month as I raised my hand to knock at the door of the Orchard Street home where my elderly mentor, Orpha Perkins, lived with her granddaughter and her family. The door opened before I could lift the knocker. It wasn’t Alma Latting who faced me, though, but a pleasant-looking lady in her forties. She toted a black satchel very much like my own midwifery bag.

  “Oh! Good afternoon,” the woman said. She adjusted a bowler decorated with a blue ribbon atop her still-blond hair. “I hope I didn’t startle you.”

  “Not at all. I’ve come to call on Orpha.”

  The smile slid off her face. “Good.” She peered more closely at my face. “Are you the midwife?”

  “Yes.” I extended a hand. “I’m Mrs. Rose Carroll Dodge.”

  Her handshake was firm. “My name is Mary Chatigny, physician. Mrs. Perkins is under my care.”

  “I’m pleased to meet thee, Mary. I thought that looked like a medical bag.” Lady doctors weren’t unheard of, but I hadn’t realized one practiced here in Amesbury.

  “I’m normally a tuberculosis specialist.”

  My eyes widened. “Does she—”

  “No.” She held up a hand. “Have no fear. Old age is Mrs. Perkins’s infirmity, nothing more.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it’s not the deadly wasting disease.” While modern medicine had recently identified the cause of the illness, it hadn’t discovered a cure other than clean air and water, as well as rest. “How did thee come to care for her?”

  “She knew my late mother, Margaret Flaherty, who bound me to look out for Mrs. Perkins. I’m happy to do so. She was speaking of you just now.”

  “Orpha is my mentor. I took over her midwifery practice several years ago after she retired.”

  “Spend as much time with her as you can. While you can. Good day, Mrs. Dodge.” She strode down the walk to the two-person buggy waiting at the street’s edge.

  I stared after her. While I can? Orpha was old, it was true, and increasingly frail. Was she on her final decline? I prayed not, even though I knew it would come one day soon. I wasn’t ready to let her go, this wise, funny woman who knew me to my core, who had delivered me twenty-seven years ago.

  Alma appeared in the doorway. “Come in, Rose, please. Nana’s eager to see you.” She stepped back so I could enter.

  “Is she . . . ?” I couldn’t finish.

  “She’s, well, you know her. But she’s getting weaker.”

  I followed the dressmaker, a few years older than I, not into the parlor where Orpha usually spent her days reading in a rocking chair, but into the old lady’s bedroom. She reclined in the bed, supported by pillows, and snored lightly.

  I whispered to Alma, “I can come back another time.”

  “No.” Alma also spoke softly. “She wanted to see you. Nana,” she added, raising her voice. “Rose is here.”

  Orpha’s eyes flew open. “There you are, my dear. I knew you would arrive. Come sit with an old lady.”

  Alma slipped out as I perched in the chair by the bed and took Orpha’s soft hand. Her paper-fine skin was nearly translucent, with ropy veins rising up on the back of her hand.

  “How did thee know I would come today?” I asked.

  She smiled. “I know these things. And I know you have news for me.”

  “They’re electrifying the trolley. Can you imagine? And the town is full of foreigners and people from all over the continent.”

  “For the Spring Opening.” She nodded. “But I meant your own news, Rose. I sensed it, you know.”

  Tears sprang up. Orpha was the most remarkable woman I had ever met. I swiped at my eyes.

  “It’s true.” I slid my other hand over my belly. “I am with child. Orpha, we’re both so happy.” David and I had been married last Ninth Month and had decided to let a family happen as it would.

  “I’d say you’re four months gone. Perhaps a little more?”

  I bobbed my head. It hadn’t taken long to conceive our first child.

  “I’ve known all along but waited for you to tell me,” she murmured.

  “I pray I haven’t hurt thy feelings by keeping it to myself.”

  “I’m not so easily wounded. Women tell in their own good time. Soon enough your dress will reveal your condition.” She laughed. She’d always had a surprisingly hearty guffaw. It was now diminished in volume but not enthusiasm.

  “I know.” My plain dress was increasingly tight in the waist and across the bosom. “I’ve not had the morning nausea many women experience and only a few food aversions, so I’ve been eating with a great appetite.”

  “Good. Eating heartily will lead to a healthy newborn, as you well know.”

  “I do.” I always told my clients the same thing. “Before I leave here, I plan to ask Alma to make me a couple of Aesthetic-style dresses to wear during the rest of my pregnancy.”

  “Tell her to use a light fabric. You’ll be due in the heat of summer.” Orpha tilted her head. “And your apprentice, Miss Beaumont, will watch over you?”

  “Of course. Annie is ready to set out on her own. She’s a fine midwife, Orpha. Truly. I plan to ask her to be my partner.”

  We sat holding hands in silence for a moment. Her eyes drifted shut.

  With a little jerk, she opened them again. “I don’t think I’m long for this world, my dear.”

  “Nonsense.” I squeezed her hand, but gently. “I’m sure thee is wrong.”

  “No. In the same way I sensed your pregnancy, I sense death encroaching within me. You mustn’t grieve. I’ve had a long and full life. I have a family who cares for me. I’ve safely brought hundreds of babies into this world. And I trained you and have watched you come into the full blossom of your profession, to which you were deeply called, and now your own family. My work is done.”

  My throat thickened. “But I want you to meet my baby.” I very much did.

  She laughed again. “I can guarantee I will not be alive in five months’ time. Instead I’ll be reunited with my Hiram and with all my loved ones who crossed the dark river ahead of me.”

  I gazed at her. “I was hoping for your prayers during my own labor. I’ve seen women through so much. What if my first baby is one of the difficult ones?”

  She tilted her head. “Come closer with that belly of yours.”

  I scooted nearer. She reached out, laying both hands below my waist. When I’d taken her hand earlier, it had been cool compared to mine. Now warmth radiated from her touch. It went through my dress and deep inside me.

  She moved her lips silently, then nodded. “All will be well. We’ve had a little talk, your babe and I. Don’t you worry. The wee one will emerge in due time with no injury to either of you.”

  As odd as her prediction sounded, I had to believe her.

  “And after this comes to pass, I shall watch over you both from the afterlife.” When she straightened in the bed, the movement made her grimace. “Now run along, my dear Rose. I must rest again.”

&nbs
p; I bent over and kissed her forehead after her eyes closed. “Thee knows how much I love thee.”

  A smile spread across her face. She’d heard me, and that was all that mattered.

  Chapter Two

  I pulled my cloak close about me as I walked toward home—my new home, which I shared with my beloved husband. The most direct route to the lovely abode David had had custom-built for us last summer would not take me into the heart of town but instead past the Friends Meetinghouse where I worshipped weekly. But the annual showing of the carriage industry filled the town with so much excitement, I wanted to catch a glimpse of the happenings. I headed first toward the center.

  Amesbury was world-famous for our graceful and well-built carriages. Once a year the carriage factories opened their doors to customers, who came from as far away as Australia. Residents opened their homes to the visitors, too, and every evening the Board of Trade hosted a dinner or an event, culminating with a gala at the end of the week. The industry’s open house was called the Spring Opening, even though it was held at the end of winter. The weather didn’t feel a bit spring-like today now the sun was going down.

  My heart wasn’t light and sunny, either. Would today be the last time Orpha would be able to speak to me? She was nearly eighty-five and had already survived an attack of apoplexy almost two years ago. She’d said she now felt death encroaching, and she seemed at peace about it. But I wasn’t. I would miss her terribly.

  I took in a breath and let it out. I could do nothing to keep her alive. My only course of action would be to stop by every day and offer my presence. And pray, after the manner of Friends, that her passage be a smooth and painless one. I took a moment to lean against a tree, close my eyes, and hold Orpha in God’s Light before resuming my walk.

  I slowed as I neared the opera house on Friend Street. Near the Armory, the tall ornate building was ablaze with lights and activity. It must be the site of tonight’s event. It was across the street from here that we, a hundred women strong, had held placards in protest during the last presidential election. Women still didn’t have the vote, but the effort to secure it was ongoing.