Charity's Burden Page 6

  thirteen

  I made it home in time to wash up and ready myself for three client visits in a row. Lina Doyle, the hired kitchen girl, was busy scrubbing pots and readying to wash the floor. I greeted her and availed myself of a thick slice of bread and butter before heading into my parlor. I smiled, thinking of my lesson to Faith in this room the night before. She’d been a motivated learner, naturally.

  I checked my schedule. One initial appointment with a woman I hadn’t seen before. After that came a four-time mother with a rich husband. She was a woman who loved giving birth and had an easy time of it. And then a case not too different from Charity’s, one which I prayed would have a safe and happy outcome. The family had no extra money, but the couple loved each other and their three children, and both worked hard to keep the young ones interested in learning and bettering themselves. After this birth I planned to convince the couple to try several methods to space out any remaining pregnancies. A woman with more than four or five births in a short period could become worn down physically and emotionally. It put a strain not only on the family’s monetary situation but also on the sacred relationship between husband and wife, leading to arguments and sometimes even dissolution of the bonds.

  First things first. I finished my brief repast, brushed the crumbs from my dress, and washed my hands again. I penned a note to the Women’s Business Meeting of Amesbury Friends, a task I should have undertaken yesterday. I mentioned Charity’s death, although not the details, and suggested that the family would appreciate the usual care. I knew the women would organize Friends to deliver a series of meals to Ransom, something he doubtless would be glad of at this time.

  After my client arrived and we had filled out my questionnaire about her general health, her mother’s and sisters’ pregnancies and births, and the situation of her home, I asked her to recline on the chaise and began my examination. She was rather robust for her height. Sometimes carrying too much fat caused problems later in the pregnancy, and sometimes it provided a healthy buffer in case the first trimester brought so much nausea the mother-to-be had difficulty gaining sufficient weight.

  “I notice thee has well-spaced children. I commend thee for minding thy health in this way.”

  “The mister would have a dozen if he could.” She gave a little snort. “Not me. And this one, my third, will be my last.”

  “How does thee achieve this spacing?”

  “I’m a firm believer in the water cure. I douche with a vinegar solution, and I also take herbs. But once …” Her voice trailed off.

  Before Charity’s death, I might have let such a comment go by, but I found myself curious. I paused my examination, waiting a moment, then gently encouraged her to continue. “Once?”

  “Once all my methods didn’t work, and my baby was only a year old. I was damned if I was going to have another so soon. So I did away with it.” Moisture filled her eyes and a small tear rolled down her full cheek. “I visited Madame,” she whispered.

  “Who is Madame?”

  She shook her head, hard. “A lady who takes care of such things. I promised I wouldn’t tell a soul her full name. She could get in hot water with the cops.”

  I filed away this name of a Madame who “takes care of such things.” That sounded very much like an abortionist, but since my client hadn’t used that word, I wouldn’t, either. “Thee was fortunate to have a competent person taking care of thee. I’ve heard of bad, even fatal results from time to time.”

  “I was very lucky.” She nodded, crossing herself.

  I thought again of Orpha’s words and imagined a world where abortion would be safe and legal. Medical knowledge of the body was ever increasing in these modern times. Perhaps one day soon women would be able to truly control the size of their families without risking their lives in the process. I shook off my musings and resumed assessing my client’s health. I was in the middle of taking her pulse when she spoke up again.

  “I heard a lady in your care died a violent death yesterday and you were with her. Is it true?”

  A violent death? Was that the word around town? Was I never to escape being associated with unnatural death?

  “It is true that she lost her life from excessive bleeding. But it was an early miscarriage of her pregnancy. There was no violence involved.” I hoped this was true.

  “My cousin’s wife’s brother works for the police. He told her violent was what they were saying. They got some kind of test of her body after she died. An auptosink or something like that.”

  “An autopsy?” I asked. Her mangling the pronunciation was understandable. It wasn’t a word the average citizen would be familiar with.

  “That’s it. She told us the results said the poor lady was killed.”

  I tried not to stare at her. Kevin had ordered the autopsy after all. It showed death by violence. Was he even going to tell me? Or … maybe he had.

  As I showed my client out after we were done, the morning mail waited on the floor in front of the mail slot. On top of the other letters was a long envelope addressed to me in Kevin’s sloppy sloping handwriting. So he had sent the news. A conclusion of a violent death changed everything. Or maybe it didn’t change a thing.

  fourteen

  It was one o’clock before my last client left and I had time to open the letter from Kevin. Sitting at my desk, I unfolded it and smoothed it out.

  Before I could start to read, Lina popped her head into my office.

  “I’ll be off now, Miss Carroll.”

  No matter how many times I’d asked her to address me simply as Rose, the kitchen girl always refused, saying it wouldn’t be right to use the lady of the house’s Christian name. I’d stopped rolling my eyes—for one thing, I was certainly not the lady of the house, despite being the eldest female living here—and accepted her ways. Lina was not a Friend, but was a reliable fifteen-year-old who had left school to help support her large family. We were glad to employ her, and it had freed up both my time and Faith’s.

  “Thank thee, Lina. We’ll see thee tomorrow.”

  She curtsied, another habit I had yet to break her of, and turned to go. Now for my letter.

  Miss Rose,

  Kevin had dispensed with the flowery opening salutations of most letter writers.

  Upon your suggestion, I ordered the autopsy be done with all due dispatch. The medical examiner found that Mrs. Skells’s womb had been pierced in several places by a sharp object, thus the excessive bleeding. Due to the nature of the internal wounds, he was not able to ascertain whether she had been with child.

  My job now is to locate this dangerous abortionist and bring him or her to justice.

  I am risking my job merely writing this to you, so please don’t come here with information you might glean. However, based on our past collaboration and your extremely useful access to persons and places where I am unable to traverse, I would welcome communication addressed to my home.

  Well, knock me into a cocked hat, as Orpha often said. Kevin was welcoming my investigatory contributions. He even gave his street address. I stared at it. He lived not a half mile from me on Boardman Street, two over from Clark.

  I’ll tell the missus not to worry if I receive a letter addressed in a lady’s hand. I’d like you to meet Emmaline and my wee boy someday soon. I think you’d enjoy my wife’s company, and her, yours.

  I would like to say that I’m sorry about the Chief’s admonishment. Obviously I couldn’t tell you that in front of him.

  Now duty calls. Will write again when I know more about this sorry turn of events. That poor woman.

  Most sincerely yours,

  Kevin

  I sat back and stared at the paper. The report said Charity had been pierced more than once with a sharp object. No wonder she’d bled so copiously. And that the examiner wasn’t sure if she was pregnant or not. Had she in fact been carrying an e
arly-term fetus? She thought she had. Depending on the type of sharp object, her uterus could have been scraped clean. Or had her death been at the hand of a malicious person posing as an abortionist? Perhaps the Madame my client had mentioned? Except my client this morning hadn’t spoken of Madame in a bad way at all. She’d wanted to protect her, in fact. What a confounding puzzle.

  At least Kevin was still welcoming my help, as long as I wrote to him at home, not in care of the police department. And he’d apologized for the way the chief had treated me. That was kind of him, but independent women like myself were accustomed to men not crediting us with our own minds or expertise, with them not treating us as equals. We weren’t even allowed to vote, for heaven’s sake.

  But that was neither here nor there. I too wanted to seek out whoever had killed Charity. I would heed Orpha’s words, though, and keep my mind open to the person being a supporter of women and of family spacing. Based on the report, I doubted this particular abortionist was much in favor of women’s lives at all, so it likely was not Madame Whoever She Was.

  The loud and insistent brring-brring of the new telephone startled me from my thoughts. I hurried into the sitting room and picked up the hearing device.

  “Hello, Rose Carroll here.” Frederick and I had conferred when the telephone was installed and decided the members of the family would all answer similarly. With so many people available to use the device, it would be important to let the operator know who was speaking.

  “A call for you from Mr. David Dodge,” Gertrude’s tinny voice said. “I’ll put him through.”

  David? Calling me in the middle of the afternoon? My heart couldn’t decide whether to soar with joy or sink in dread of bad news. This happened nearly every time I received a call. Using the communication box was still so new I hadn’t become accustomed to the thought that a call might not be urgent or bearing ill tidings. Which was silly. A letter didn’t prompt the same reaction at all.

  I quickly thanked the operator.

  “Rose, dear?” David asked after we were connected.

  “Yes, David. Is thee well? Is everything all right?” The anxious words tumbled out of me.

  My betrothed laughed, a delicious sound that even over the wires set me at ease and made me smile. “Yes, of course. I simply had a few free minutes and wanted to hear your lovely voice. And is life going smoothly for you, my sweet bride-to-be?”

  I blew out a relieved breath. “Not completely smoothly, no. I am well, but I lost a client to bleeding yesterday morning. I sent thee a letter this morning about it, but thee wouldn’t have received it yet. I just now learned the hemorrhage was not from a miscarriage.” I cut myself off. I shouldn’t talk on the telephone regarding the autopsy report. Which I had learned about in a somewhat illicit fashion.

  “Does this mean you’ll be starting up another investigation, as you have in the past?”

  “No. Well, after a fashion, perhaps. I’ll tell thee all the details when thee returns.” By Sixth Day perhaps we’d have answers, even a culprit in custody.

  “I look forward to that.”

  It occurred to me that David might know of doctors who provided abortion services, as illegal as they were. “And I might need a bit of help from thee.”

  “Whatever I can do.”

  “We had a happy announcement here last night. Faith and Zeb are also to be wed, and it will be this First Day.”

  “My, so soon. You’re correct, that’s very happy news.” He fell silent for a moment. “Did this news make you wistful for our own vows, darling?”

  “I confess it did.”

  “I will redouble my efforts with Mother upon my return. I think she might be softening.”

  Clarinda Dodge, soften? That I’d like to see. The woman was as brittle as a piece of frozen treacle. And as unyielding as steel.

  “I don’t want to run up your penny, David.” Making calls from a public place was not inexpensive, even though I knew David and his parents did not want for funds. “Might thee come directly here on Sixth Day after thy train arrives?”

  “I will plan to. It should be shortly past noon, and then I’ll fetch a carriage and make my way across the river.”

  “Good. I’ll make us a special soup.”

  “Only if you have time. I love you, Midwife Carroll.”

  “And I thee, Dr. Dodge.” I depressed the hook and hung up the device. Two days seemed a long time to wait for my man, but wait I would.

  fifteen

  I plunked down my coins for the Amesbury Morning Courier half an hour later in the Mercantile. I hoped to find advertisements for people offering health services to women. Such terms were sometimes a coded way to say the person actually offered contraceptive advice, treatments, and devices. I might find an abortionist among them. But could I get such a person to talk with me?

  “Catherine isn’t working today?” I asked the young woman behind the counter as I slipped the newspaper into my bag. Catherine Toomey was a congenial woman who’d assisted at a birth I’d been called to last fall. She’d also provided a critical piece of information about the murder of a woman suffrage activist, a killing which had taken place nearly across the street from Catherine’s home.

  “No, she’s off visiting her kin,” the clerk responded.

  I thanked her and headed for the door. I paused next to it. Tacked-up slips of paper filled a board. They seemed to be notices about all manner of news and services. Best firewood in the county. Best price, too, read one. Another advertised, Weekly spiritualist sessions. Contact loved ones who went on ahead. Resolve unfinished business. First séance free of charge. I snorted at that one. As if we could contact our dead relatives. Then my eyes went wide. In the bottom corner of the board was a neatly lettered card. Ladies, are you feeling poorly? Babies wearing you down? Get help from Madame Restante. Female tonics made to order, and more. That wording sounded a lot like family-spacing services couched in vague terms about women’s health. And this might very well be the Madame who also provided mechanical abortions.

  I grabbed the pencil and paper I’d added to my bag before leaving the house. I copied down the exact wording. Unlike the other notices, no home address was listed, no storefront, nor a mention of reaching her by telephone. The only way the card provided to contact Madame was a post office box. I jotted down that information and made my way out into busy Market Square, clutching my cloak about me against a bitter wind. This investigation might be looking up, because I knew precisely who to talk to next. My friend Bertie Winslow, that was who.

  But the post office was bustling with customers picking up packages, buying postage for letters, and chatting about the events of the town. Furthermore, Bertie stood alone behind the counter. She normally had more than one employee working for her. Maybe they were out doing an errand for her or on a lunch break.

  She spied me lurking at the back of the line. “Five o’clock?” she called.

  Half the people in front of me twisted to see who the postmistress was talking to.

  I nodded and waved, then turned to go, bumping smack into a man whose coat smelled of stale tobacco. “Excuse me.” I took a flustered step to the rear even as I heard a snicker behind me. I pulled my bonnet back onto my head and glanced up to see Joey Swift.

  “Well, well, Midwife Carroll, wasn’t it?” His breath again reeked of spirits through his grin.

  “Joe Swift. Please forgive me, I wasn’t watching where I was going.” On the other hand, why had he been standing so close behind me? I gazed at him. Up close I could see his bloodshot blue eyes and that he hadn’t shaved since yesterday. I also saw that he would be a handsome man if he cleaned himself up.

  “Not a problem, miss. You friends with the postal lady up there? Going to head out for a spot of sherry at five, are you? I could join you both, become acquainted.” His grin turned to a leer.

  What? I blinked. “Tha
nk thee, but no. I don’t imbibe, and we have personal matters to discuss between us. Good day, Joe.”

  “G’bye, Miss Carroll.”

  His mocking tone followed me out the door. My skin prickled as if he was watching me go, but I didn’t turn to check. I walked a block, pausing to peruse the reflection of the street behind me in a storefront window. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t following me. Relieved he was nowhere in sight, I hurried home. I’d learned over the years to pay attention to that still small voice within, as Friends put it. No matter if it was seemingly God’s voice telling me an action was wrong, or the one nagging at me when I left home telling me I’d forgotten to bring something I needed. It always behooved me to listen. Right now the voice was telling me Joey Swift was a problem. I had no idea why, or what kind of problem he was. Still, I was listening.

  Safely at home with the door locked behind me, I sat at my desk with paper, pen, and ink. I wanted to write to Madame Restante, but should I say I was a midwife—true—with a client wanting her services—false—or pretend to be a woman in need of help—also false? I chose truth, mostly.

  Dear Madame Restante,

  I saw your notice in the Mercantile. I am a midwife and often have pregnant and postpartum clients interested in services such as yours.

  In fact, I had prescribed herbal contraceptive teas and regulating pills available at the pharmacy in the past, pills sold ostensibly to help women become pregnant, but which could also help end a conception before its time. I didn’t actually need Madame’s knowledge about such things. But a slight mistruth in pursuit of justice did not seem like much of a transgression.

  Might I pay thee a visit in the very near future?

  Sincerely,

  Rose Carroll

  Like Kevin, I didn’t hold with the elaborate groveling salutations many used. “I remain very sincerely your humble servant,” and so on. I wasn’t even sure why I used such a word as sincerely. Why would I not be sincere? Why would a reader need reassurances that I was?