Authors: Eleanor Kuhns
“She would be,” Lydia said. “She lost her husband, possibly at the hands of her son.”
“That’s not it,” Rees said, recalling the discontented creases at the corners of her eyes and the sad droop to her mouth. “Her sadness is long-standing, I believe.”
“An unhappy marriage?”
“I don’t know,” he said, recalling the bed in the weaver’s cottage. “But I think so.”
Lydia paused, her deep blue eyes examining Rees’s face. “And what was your friend Nate like? Mr. Potter said you were such good friends.”
“He was fun. The first time I met him, he was spitting through the gap in his front teeth for the amusement of a group of boys. I thought that the most wonderful skill. Nate always had an idea for a new adventure, usually something no parent would countenance. And we both disappointed our fathers, so we shared a bond. Then, when we both apprenticed to Mr. Samson, the local weaver…” He shrugged, his throat clogging up. “I wonder if Richard Bowditch is as entertaining as his father.”
David entered, his hands and face still damp from recent washing. He looked at his father curiously. “Richard who? Bowditch? I knew a Richard Bowditch in school,” he said. “In fact, I knew a Grace Bowditch, too. She is a year or two younger than me. And there were several boys.…” Of course David would know them; they all went to school together.
“Those boys probably belong to Thomas,” Rees said. “And what did you think of Richard?”
“He was a bully,” David replied promptly. “He made Miss Bair cry.”
“The teacher?” Rees asked. David nodded.
“Disgusting,” Lydia said.
“What happened?” Rees asked.
“I don’t know. He said something to her. I heard several of the fathers spoke to Mrs. Bowditch, and Richard stopped coming to the dame school. I believe he was sent away. Anyway, I didn’t see him for over a year. But then, I wasn’t in school either.” Rees nodded grimly. He still had not forgiven his sister and her husband for taking David out of school and working him like a slave on the farm. “Augie would know,” David added.
“Augie? Who’s Augie?”
“Augustus. He’s Richard’s half brother. Son of a slave,” David explained.
Rees’s thoughts instantly flew to Rachel. Was Augustus her son? And why hadn’t Molly told Rees about him?
“I’m planning to return to the Bowditch farm tomorrow. I’ll ask about Augie.” After a beat, he added, “Thank you, David.” Rees reminded himself that his son knew more about Dugard and its inhabitants now than he himself did. He found that a disturbing realization. “Look, Mrs. Bowditch paid me.” He took the small sack and dumped it out upon the table. Although most were English pence and shillings, there were several French and Spanish coins. Rees, who appreciated coins instead of scrip printed by the states, valued the hoard at more than twenty-five dollars. “We’ll use it to hire help. This should pay a few hands more than fifty cents a day.” David nodded and, rising to his feet, swept the money into a jar.
Lydia removed the dirty plates and brought a warm Indian pudding and a pitcher of cream to the table. “I feel sorry for Mrs. Bowditch,” she said.
“She is certainly concerned about her son,” Rees said. “But about Nate…” He shook his head in regret.
David, uninterested in the Bowditch crisis, scraped his spoon across his bowl with an air of finality. “I’d like to buy a few more ewes and another heifer, too,” he said. “Mr. Mitchell has extras and he’s willing to part with one. She could be bred next year. We need to build the herd.…”
Rees nodded to show he was listening and allowed David’s voice to wash over him. Although the purchase of another cow meant little to him, he wanted to demonstrate interest in the farm. “How much?”
“Seven dollars.”
“I daresay, we might be able to afford that,” Rees said, thinking of his strongbox in his bedroom. Most of the money he’d earned weaving earlier this summer remained untouched in the box. He didn’t want to spend too much of it, though, since they would probably need to live on it this winter.
“Can we afford a heifer and help, too?” Lydia asked.
Rees nodded. “Yes. We’ll supplement with my weaving money.”
“I have some honey to bring to market,” she offered.
“And eggs,” David said.
“Perhaps I’ll have some cheese as well, the soft cheese,” Lydia said. “I thought I might use the extra milk.…” Her words trickled to a stop as she realized David was glowering at her. Cheese had been his mother’s talent.
“Good idea!” Rees said with such gushing heartiness, he sounded false. “With the approach of winter, I’ll pick up a little more weaving.”
“I have chores to finish,” David said, and headed outside. Lydia stared after him and sighed.
“His mother made cheese,” Rees explained. Understanding flashed across Lydia’s face. “He’ll adjust.” He hoped his son and Lydia would become friends. Of course they would, he assured himself. They must. I have weaving to work on,” he said and turned his steps toward the stairs.
Although a weaving cottage had been built many years ago upon the farm, Rees’s father had converted it to a residence when the conflict between his mother and wife exploded into open war. And now Lydia lived there. Although he wished she would move into the house and share his bed, she’d made it clear without speaking a word that she wouldn’t, not without a wedding band. Her experience with Charles in Zion, and the daughter their union produced, had left her wary. Rees thought she blamed herself for the baby’s death, just as guilt tortured him for Dolly’s. So his loom went upstairs into the bedroom once shared by his parents, the one with the best southerly exposure, and Rees slept alone in his boyhood room.
On the road, he could assemble and disassemble the loom in little more than an hour. Here, with all the demands of a farm, and a family clamoring for his attention, he’d been trying to set it up and warp it for weeks. He picked up the beam, his thoughts turning to the many peculiarities surrounding Nate’s death. Running away certainly made Richard appear guilty. And a young man in the full flush of his strength could easily lift the heavy scutching knife and swing it at his father’s head. But there was also Mrs. Bowditch’s connection to Dr. Wrothman to consider, a connection that seemed not only long-standing but also deeply felt. Rees, recalling the several signs of Nate’s illness, reflected that this would not be the first time he’d seen a wife poison her husband. In this case, however, poison hadn’t taken Nate’s life. Instead someone had administered a beating. Dr. Wrothman could certainly handle the scutching knife—and he had good reason to wish Nate gone.
“Will?” Rees jumped and turned to the door. Lydia stood hesitantly in the opening. “One of the cows is stuck in a mud hole. David needs you to help pull her out.” Reluctantly Rees put down the beam and rose stiffly to his feet.
She put out a hand to stay him. “Take me with you tomorrow. I’d like to meet Mrs. Bowditch, make my own interpretation of her behavior.”
Rees firmly shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.” Her mouth set mulishly. But she said nothing as he pushed past her and ran down the stairs.
* * *
By the time the cow had been released to join the rest of the herd and Rees and David tramped muddily back home, the light was beginning to fail. Rees, thinking of the still unwarped loom, scowled and kicked at the stones on the path in frustration. But David, pleased with the outcome, and with his father’s help saving the cow, began to whistle. And after a few minutes, Rees joined him and they marched home whistling “Yankee Doodle” in harmony.
Dawn next day found Rees already on the road back to the Bowditch farm. This time, although he pulled into the back as he’d done the day before, he drove into the barnyard and allowed Bessie to be unhitched and sent into the paddock with Nate’s horses. He did not stop at the back door but went around to the kitchen.
Rachel, frying bacon in a skillet over the fire, jumped when she saw him. “Why, Mr. Rees,” she gasped. “You’re here early.”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he said.
She stiffened. “Forgive me if I continue working,” she said, her voice taut with strain.
“Of course,” Rees said. “Where’s Marsh?”
“Upstairs.” Rachel lowered her voice. “The constable is here.”
“Another early riser,” Rees said.
“Ale, Mr. Rees?” Wiping her hands on her apron, her shoulders rigid, she turned to him. “It’s another warm day; the summer doesn’t want to let go.”
“Thank you.”
Rachel brought him a tankard of ale. The spicy pungency of the aroma and tangy taste flooded Rees’s senses. “This is excellent ale,” he said, following her from the hot kitchen into the cooler air outside. “Do you brew it?” He hoped to ease her tension, but she still looked frightened.
“Marsh does it,” she said, twisting her hands in her apron. “I only help him.”
“When Master Bowditch died—,” Rees began, but she cut him off.
“I still sleep in a room off the summer kitchen,” she said. “I heard nothing. I wouldn’t be able to hear anything.”
Rees found the quickness of her response interesting. “But this was suppertime. You must prepare the master’s trays.”
“Of course.”
“And what did you serve him that night?”
“He always ate everything the family ate.” She stared at him, perplexed by the question.
“And Mary Martha always brought down the tray?”
“Usually. But the night before Master Nate—” She stopped suddenly, her lower lip trembling. Rees waited for her to compose herself. Marsh and Rachel both grieved for Nate more deeply than Molly. Interesting. “Marsh brought it down. He was leaving anyway to visit his sister, so he offered.”
Rees nodded, recalling the untouched tray. Nate had died before he’d eaten his supper. “Where does Marsh’s sister live? In Dugard?”
“No.” Rachel turned and walked back into the kitchen. Rees followed. “Marsh had to borrow a horse. In Rumford, maybe? I don’t know. He speaks about himself very little.” Rachel lifted the bacon from the spider and laid the thick meaty strips upon a plate. She added a wedge of fresh bread toasted in bacon fat and offered the plate to Rees.
He took it absently. “Did you see Richard here, on the farm, that day?” He saw the struggle on her face.
“I don’t know,” she said at last.
Rees looked at her, sympathetic but stern. “I know you want to protect Richard,” he said, “but lying won’t help.”
She hesitated and then said reluctantly, “He was home that day.”
“Did you see him go down to the weaver’s cottage?”
“I saw him come back—” Rachel stopped talking, blood surging into her caramel-colored cheeks.
“And?” Rees said. She shook her head and became very busy stirring up the fire. “Rachel?” He stared at her implacably.
“I heard him. It was going on dusk. I heard his running feet, running like the hounds of Hell were chasing him, right up to the back door. He was calling for his mother.…”
“And do you know where he is right now?”
“No one knows.”
“What about Augustus? Would he know?” The poker fell out of Rachel’s nerveless fingers and fell to the stone floor with a clatter. “I only want to speak to him,” Rees said.
“I don’t know where he is,” she whispered.
Marsh came down the kitchen stairs and moved rapidly towards Rees and Rachel.
“I thought you wanted to speak to Mary Martha,” Marsh said, his brusqueness almost rude.
“I do.”
“She has returned to her duties. The constable wants to speak to her also.” He looked at Rees. “You may wish to speak with her first. Where is she, Rachel?”
“In the springhouse. I’ll fetch her.” Rachel picked up her skirts and fled at a run.
“You’ve frightened her,” Marsh said.
“I didn’t intend to,” Rees said, staring after Rachel. “Why is she so frightened?” Marsh did not reply, and when Rees looked back at the other man, his face was as blank as carved wood. “And Mary Martha? Is she going to flee from me as well?”
“No. She’s more excited than horrified,” Marsh said with a lift of his eyebrow. “She is … young.”
A few moments later, Rachel returned with a young girl, her hair as fiery as Rees’s own and her skin even more heavily freckled. The smooth rounded curve of her cheeks gave her the appearance of a child. But Rees revised her age upward when he looked at her womanly form.
“This is Mr. Rees,” Marsh said. “He’ll ask you a few questions about the master’s death. Answer them as fully as you can.”
Mary Martha turned her light blue eyes upon Rees. “Will you catch the master’s killer?” she squeaked in excitement.
“I hope to help,” Rees said gravely, depositing the plate upon the table. “Why don’t we step outside to talk?”
But when they went outside, Rees realized there was nowhere to sit. Mrs. Bowditch did not provide chairs for her servants, and dew spangled the grassy slope leading to the front of the house. Moreover, Rees towered over this diminutive child and to look into his face she must bend her head all the way back. Finally Rees gestured her to the granite wall separating the kitchen yard from the lane. They perched upon large stones, Mary Martha spreading her skirts around her. Then she folded her hands primly in her lap and looked at him expectantly. Rees met her eager gaze and agreed with Marsh’s assessment; the child was more excited than horrified.
“Did you enjoy working for the master?” Rees asked, hoping to set her at ease.
“I never spoke to Master Bowditch,” she said in confusion. “I saw him once in a while, when I brought down his dinner. But he was always too busy to speak to the likes of me.”
“Did you enjoy working here?” Rees amended with a sigh.
“Yes,” she said. She didn’t sound entirely convinced, but Rees moved on.
“What did you see that morning when you found Master Bowditch’s body?”
“Everything seemed as usual,” Mary Martha said. “Until I went inside. And I saw him.” The memory pulled the blood from her cheeks. “He was lying on the floor.”
“In what direction did his head point?” Rees asked.
She screwed up her face, remembering. “Toward the table.”
That was not right. The blood stained the floor directly in front of the fireplace. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I thought he was sleeping. He’d been sick all over the floor.”