Authors: Eleanor Kuhns
David scowled at her.
“If there is even an unnatural death in this case,” Rees said.
“Mr. Potter must be fairly certain, else he would not have driven all the way out here to ask such a favor of you,” Lydia said, turning around to look at him. “And, if there isn’t one, why, you’ll be back in the fields all the sooner.”
Rees tried to pretend that the thought of returning to farmwork did not depress him.
“David and I will gladly relinquish your company for a little while. Won’t we, David?” Now she stared pointedly at Rees’s unhappy son.
“I suppose,” he said. He did not sound enthusiastic and he never looked at Lydia.
“It’s just for a little while and then I’ll be back,” Rees said.
“Yes, and for how long, then? I know you’ll pack up your wagon and leave as soon as spring arrives,” David said.
Rees expelled a short impatient breath. “Weaving is how I make my living,” he said. “Weaving brings cash to the farm.” He never knew when David would explode. Not that Rees entirely blamed him, but sometimes it seemed the boy would never accept his father’s apologies. And David, like Dolly, loved the farm, loved the work. He just couldn’t believe his father would never settle to it. “And I’ve promised.” Although he dreaded the prospect of uncovering all the secrets, large and small, of those he’d known since boyhood, he had to admit that the anticipation of escaping the farm’s drudgery even for a little while excited him. “I’ll ride out tomorrow,” he said. “Speak to Mrs. Bowditch and take a look at the body.” Nate’s body. Rees suppressed a shiver.
David sighed. “Daniel Freeman asked if I had work,” he said. “It’s a large family; he could use some extra pennies.”
“Does he have a sister?” Lydia asked, only half-joking.
David threw his father a quick look and said, “I believe so.”
Rees, who didn’t want anyone in the house observing his irregular relationship with Lydia, said firmly,. “Outside work first,” he said. Her mouth drooped in disappointment. “Chores,” Rees said, and fled.
Thunderstorms blew in during the night but did not diminish the unseasonable heat. Although the clouds continued to spit rain the next morning, Rees hitched Bessie to the wagon and set out for Dugard and the Bowditch farm west of town. The shops were opening as he passed through the village. A few men nodded to him. Rees did not recognize them and wondered if he’d known them as boys.
Once out of Dugard, he did not turn left down the dirt lane that led to the Bowditch homestead he recalled from his childhood. Instead he continued straight. According to Potter’s notes, all the property visible from here belonged to Nate. Rees stared around in amazement, noting the lush fields of wheat, corn, and rye as well as pastures of cattle, horses, and sheep.
“Nate did very well for himself,” Rees muttered. Not envious, exactly, as he did not want such responsibility. And the farmhouse! Far larger than the rough clapboard in which Nate had grown up, this structure was built of brick. A long low porch ran the length of the front, littered with discarded boots and a whip and stacks of baskets. The red barn lay across the road with stables and other outbuildings behind it, and Rees realized he’d driven up to the back. Rather than ride out and circle around to the front, he thumped up the steps and tapped upon the wooden door.
A thunderous deep-throated barking greeted his knock. Rees waited a few minutes. Finally, a black man flung open the door. A large brown mastiff leaped at Rees, barking. He held himself still, offering his hand for inspection.
“Leave him, Munch,” the servant commanded. Munch sniffed but did not trot away. “Mr. Rees? I’m Marsh.”
The black man stood as tall as Rees and they stared at each other eye to eye. Rees was so used to being the tallest man in a crowd that he found their equal height disconcerting. An apron spotted with dirty water and bright dye spots protected Marsh’s nankeen breeches and waistcoat. His sleeves were rolled high above his elbows, and a strange bluish cast tinted the coppery brown of his hands and wrists. Since only a few strands of gray glittered in Marsh’s curly black hair, Rees thought they were probably near the same age, mid-thirties.
“Mrs. Bowditch is expecting you,” Marsh said. His precise phrasing, and the very faint singing cadence underneath, betrayed an accent that was still present despite all attempts to erase it. Probably Southern, Rees thought, although it was not a drawl he heard underneath the careful enunciation.
“Come in.” Stepping aside, he motioned Rees through the door. Munch fell into step behind them, his nails clicking on the wooden floor.
Inside the house and out of the sun, the temperature dropped slightly. Rees looked around. The wooden floors, although frequently swept, were scuffed and worn. A hall ran across the width of the back, offering access to the rooms on left and right and to the narrow servants’ stair that rose to the second level.
“You entered through the servants’ door,” Marsh said, taking off his apron and hanging it over the stair rail. Rees said nothing. Since when did farming folk have a servants’ entrance?
They circled around to the east side, passing a small dining room with white walls and a scatter of silverware on a cloth over the table. Some of the cutlery glowed, polished to a shine, evidence of Marsh’s recent activity. A door, propped open to catch any breeze, revealed stairs going down to the lower level. When they crossed to the front of the house, they entered elegance and wealth; polished wooden floors covered with Chinese carpets, a formal dining room painted in the fashionable emerald green, and a large front hall with wide curving stairs rising to the second floor.
Marsh crossed the hall and guided Rees to a small plain room with a battered wooden desk and a few chairs. Stacks of bills and a pile of folios told Rees this was Nate’s office. “I’ll inform Mrs. Bowditch of your arrival,” Marsh said with a bow. Rees sat down on a chair to wait. He dared not put the backside that had so recently warmed a wagon seat upon the one upholstered couch.
“Mr. Rees.” A woman several years younger than Rees swept into the room. He rose to his feet as Munch rushed to Molly’s side and tried to leap upon her. She swatted the dog away. “How good of you to come. Nate spoke of you often and I always regretted not knowing you.”
Rees murmured a polite response, unable to control his staring eyes. Her dark brown hair was cut
à la victime,
a style he’d seen adopted by a few of the more adventurous ladies in Philadelphia and New York. But in Maine? A tall woman and slender, she wore a filmy pale blue gown with long sleeves ending in ruffles. She looked more like a young girl than like a mother of three. Rees thought in surprise that he would never have expected Nate to choose such a fashion plate as a wife. But a closer look revealed the marks of discontent and unhappiness creasing the corners of her eyes and forming a permanent pleat between her brows. “Please, sit down.”
“I dare not, not with the dirt of travel upon me,” Rees said.
She smiled without warmth. “You are a considerate gentleman, Mr. Rees. My husband would never hesitate.” Rees said nothing. “Please, sit where you choose, then,” she said. “Marsh will bring refreshments. I understand from George Potter’s letter that coffee is the drink you prefer.”
“I changed from tea to coffee during the War, in the spirit of patriotism,” Rees said, “and now find it a habit I cannot break.” He wondered what else Potter had divulged.
“I do hope you can help us,” she said, clasping her hands in entreaty. When the ruffles fell back from her wrists, Rees saw long scratches marring the white skin of her right forearm, from dog nails.
“I will attempt my poor best,” he said.
Marsh entered the room carrying a silver tray with a coffee pot, delicate porcelain cups, cream in a silver jug, a bowl of sugar chunks and a plate of small cakes. Mrs. Bowditch poured Rees a cup and then took one of her own.
“Where is your son now?” Rees asked as he added cream to his beverage.
Mrs. Bowditch put down her cup without tasting her coffee. “Working somewhere on the farm,” she replied. “I’ve been trying to keep Richard working elsewhere. That drunken constable is on the verge of jailing him.”
“I’ll need to speak with him,” Rees said.
“He would never kill anyone,” Mrs. Bowditch said emphatically. “I know my son.” When Rees did not respond, she burst into hasty speech. “The constable points to the quarrels between Richard and his father, but, well, it’s common for father and son to disagree, isn’t it?”
Rees recalled arguments with David. “Sometimes,” he said. Some of the tension went out of her. “And what did they argue about?”
“Well, Richard and Nate, they’ve never gotten along, and now Richard is courting a girl of whom Nate did not approve.…” Her words trailed off.
Rees, who remembered Nate’s own conflicts with his own father, dipped his head in agreement. But, watching her carefully composed expression, he noted the trembling of her eyelids and wondered, what did she hide from him? “So you’re saying Constable Caldwell suspects Richard on the basis of a lifelong rebellion demonstrated toward his father?” Rees asked.
Mrs. Bowditch nodded, leaning forward and stretching out an eager hand. “It’s foolish, I know. As though Richard would ever harm his father.” She uttered a quick laugh, tinny in its falsity, and those betraying eyelids flickered again. This time Rees clearly identified fear behind her girlish manner.
“Does Caldwell have anything other than that to suggest Richard’s involvement?” Rees asked. The constable might have additional evidence. Molly’s opinion of her son, Rees discounted completely. A mother always saw her child through a rosy mist of love and hope.
“No,” she said so vehemently, he jumped.
“If you know something, tell me now. Others will talk,” he warned. “I’ll hear everything about Richard’s life, every childhood prank, every quarrel.” Molly did not choose this opportunity to unburden herself, although her eyelids fluttered again. “Caldwell will hear everything as well, and he will use it.”
Mrs. Bowditch hesitated, contemplating her clasped hands. “I don’t know,” she admitted at last. “Nate spent much of his time in the weaving house. Not weaving,” she added, meeting Rees’s gaze. He and Nate had apprenticed together many years ago. “He lost his enthusiasm for weaving long ago. He’s working with dyes now. Nate is—was obsessed with it.” The sudden realization of the past tense brought tears into her eyes. She wiped them away with a dainty handkerchief.
“To what end?” Rees asked. “Did he sell dyed cloth?”
She nodded. “Some. He also dyed yarns for women who wove on their own. But he usually sold his dyes at market. He was looking for dyes he could extract from the plants and flowers that grew around here—that would be less expensive than indigo or Spanish red. And he wanted to know why certain plants yielded a dye and others did not. Why do iron pots fix some dyes and copper pots work with others?” Molly sighed. “Nate didn’t care about the money either. He tasked Marsh with the selling of his dyes.”
Rees digested this. He had never wanted to do other than weave; he found the repetitive movement of the shuttle relaxing.
“He was working on a substitute for that fashionable green now.…” Her hand clutched convulsively at her throat and she closed her eyes.
“I know this is difficult for you,” Rees said. He paused for a beat and asked, “What happened?”
“A field hand heard raised voices. Richard admits to visiting his father that night and arguing with him. But that was before supper and he came home. We all saw him. Someone must have visited Nate afterwards. Next day when the girl went down with the breakfast tray, she found Nate’s body. He’d been bludgeoned to death.” All the blood leached away from her cheeks, leaving them ashen.
“Was there blood upon Richard’s person?” Rees asked.
“Of course not,” she snapped.
Rees eyed her. One lie after another. “I’ll need to speak to the hand.”
“His name is Fred Salley,” she said. “And George told me you would want to see Nate’s body. Dr. Wrothman moved the body into the root cellar for you.” She shuddered, a deep bone-shaking palsy that shook her entire body. Rees thought it the first truly genuine reaction he’d seen from her. “Please forgive me,” she whispered, pressing a handkerchief to her face. Rees waited while she struggled to regain her composure. He was glad to see this evidence of grief.
“Mama,” cried a piping voice.
Mrs. Bowditch quickly scrubbed away her tears and turned, her arms outstretched. “Ben, my little man. Come to Mama.”
The little boy—so young, he still wore skirts, and with a mop of blond curls any girl would envy—rushed to her. From the circle of his mother’s arms, he regarded Rees with his mother’s sky blue eyes.
“A very pretty boy,” Rees said. “He resembles you.”
The young girl who pursued Ben into the room was the spitting image of Nate, down to the dimple in her chin and the dark curl hanging over her forehead. “I’m sorry, Mama. I know you are entertaining company.” Rees swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. Laughing gleefully, Ben ran behind Rees’s chair. “He got away from me,” the girl continued. She was on the cusp of her teens, with her hair still in two dark plaits down her back.
“He’s not your responsibility, Grace,” Mrs. Bowditch scolded. “Where is that lazy Kate? I hope she isn’t weeping in her room again.” A tide of revealing scarlet swept into the girl’s cheeks. “I do wish you wouldn’t befriend the help.” Grace didn’t roll her eyes, but Rees saw the effort it cost her. “Come and meet Mr. Rees. He was an old friend of your father’s.”
Grace quickly moved forward and curtsied, her lanky body all lean angles, and looked at him curiously from Nate’s dark blue eyes. “Mr. Rees,” she murmured. He bowed over her hand.
“Cake,” Ben said.
Mrs. Bowditch offered him one from the plate. “I shall have to speak to that lazy wench. Again.” She pushed the little boy toward her daughter. “Take Ben outside. And remind Kate I employ
her
to watch him.” Ben clung to his mother’s arm. “Please, Ben, you’re tearing my sleeve.” As Grace dragged Ben from the room, Mrs. Bowditch said apologetically, “Forgive me, Mr. Rees, for exposing you to this domestic drama.”