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
Books by Edith Maxwell
Quaker Midwife Mysteries
Delivering the Truth
Called to Justice
Turning the Tide
Charity’s Burden
Judge Thee Not
Taken Too Soon
Lauren Rousseau Mysteries
Speaking of Murder
Bluffing Is Murder
Local Foods Mysteries
A Tine to Live, a Tine to Die
’Til Dirt Do Us Part
Farmed and Dangerous
Murder Most Fowl
Mulch Ado About Murder
Country Store Mysteries
(written as Maddie Day)
Flipped for Murder
Grilled for Murder
When the Grits Hit the Fan
Biscuits and Slashed Browns
Death Over Easy
Strangled Eggs and Ham
Cozy Capers Book Group Mysteries
(written as Maddie Day)
Murder on Cape Cod
Murder at the Taffy Shop
Title Page
Copyright
Taken Too Soon
Edith Maxwell
Copyright © 2020 by Edith Maxwell.
Cover design by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords
Beyond the Page Books
are published by
Beyond the Page Publishing
www.beyondthepagepub.com
ISBN: 978-1-950461-53-0
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 small historical museums and all the dedicated history fans who keep them running. I couldn’t do this without you!
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
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Author’s Note
Amesbury reference librarian Margie Walker is ever helpful with whatever I ask her. She accessed train information on traveling from Lawrence to Cape Cod for me in the blink of an eye. Believe it or not, the Flying Dude was the name of an actual express train, which ran on a subscription basis, from Boston to Woods Hole and back (Woods Hole was called Wood’s Holl for twenty-one years, including during the period in which this book takes place). Thanks, Margie! In Wood’s Holl, Rose and David see African-Americans on their way to Cottage City on Martha’s Vineyard. This island community of middle-class blacks changed its name to Oak Bluffs in 1907. Gratitude is also due to Woods Hole Historical Museum archivist Susan Fletcher Witzell for her deep knowledge of the area in Rose’s day and for help in finding old photographs.
A slight historic fudge: the Lawrence Meetinghouse wasn’t built until 1895. Forgive my creative license.
Also forgive me if I have altered the personalities of any actual 1889 residents of West Falmouth, as I’ve wantonly stolen character names from the gravestones in the West Falmouth Friends’ cemetery. I also invented another mansion on the scale of the Swift brothers’ homes for the fictional Abial Latting, and located it next to one of them. The West Falmouth Public Library was a gold mine of useful information, and I particularly thank reference librarian Renee Voorhees for her help over the year during which I researched and wrote the book, including digging up a copy of Traditions and Narratives of West Falmouth by John Hoag Dillingham (1909). Local author and Friend Abigail Young also helped with historical facts.
The interior improvements to the West Falmouth Friends Meetinghouse happened shortly after this book, but I moved the date a bit earlier. Apologies, Friends.
I relied heavily on The Book of Falmouth: A Tricentennial Celebration 1686–1986, edited by Mary Lou Smith (Falmouth Historical Commission, 1986), for all kinds of details about the area in Rose’s era and for maps. Many thanks to Linda Hollander, who loaned a stranger one of her copies until I could locate a copy of my own. In ret
urn, I stole her house for Tilly and Dru’s home. Suckanesett: A History of Falmouth, Massachusetts by Theodate Geoffrey, published in 1928, was also a useful history reference.
The real Gilbert Boyce (who indeed managed the Union Store in West Falmouth) might not have invented the egg-carrying case—the first recorded egg cartons came a decade or two later—but who’s to say what inventive solutions people came up with that weren’t attested in the history books? I also invented a few places I couldn’t find record of, including the Falmouth Opera House and the Cape Cod Burlesque Theater. Examples of both could be found all over New England during this period, including an opera house in Amesbury. Falmouth historically had neither at the time.
I visited the Mashpee Wampanoag Cultural Center for information about the Wampanoag tribe. Although I couldn’t unearth any information about native midwives, they must have had them. I did my best to portray fictional midwife Zerviah Baxter with respect and dignity. I borrowed her name from the real nineteenth-century Native American Zerviah Gould Mitchell, an educated woman descended from Massasoit. In 1878, Mitchell published a monograph about him titled Indian History, Biography, and Genealogy.
Lynn Heidelbaugh, Curator at the Smithsonian’s National Postal Museum, helped with questions about special delivery mail. Susan Koso of the Amesbury Carriage Museum once again assisted with carriage varieties.
I make reference to John Greenleaf Whittier’s poem “The Meeting,” written about his worship with Amesbury Friends. Thanks to Chuck Fager for sharing his research about details of Meeting for Worship in Rose’s era.
As always, I consulted the Online Etymology Dictionary (www.etymonline.com/) 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
Not a hint of murder tainted the air. It was the best marriage gift I could imagine. As it happened, the gift was an ephemeral one.
My new husband and I stood greeting our guests emerging from the Lawrence Friends Meetinghouse on this fine Ninth Month afternoon in the year 1889. Puffy clouds as light as my spirit floated lazily under a soft sun. Messages of grace and hope from the service filled my heart. David Dodge and I had had a long betrothal, which had ended not an hour earlier as we stood in front of family and friends and exchanged our vows, then affixed our signatures to the large marriage certificate.
Now we received blessings, kisses, and best wishes from those filing out, who then proceeded to bend over the low table nearby and sign their own names as witnesses to our union. I glanced up at David, looking splendid in a new gray suit, his dark hair set off against a snowy white collar. Beyond him, his mother Clarinda approached, outfitted in the latest fashion, of course.
“My fondest felicitations, dear son.” She beamed and patted his cheek with a gloved hand. “And Rose, welcome to the Dodge family.” She extended her hand, her smile dimming. As usual when she regarded me, it was a less-than-enthusiastic expression.
“I thank thee, Clarinda.” I clasped her hand for a moment.
“I will be pleased to refer to you as Mrs. Dodge for the rest of my days.” She extracted her hand and touched her hat, a brown velvet with ivory lace and a pink ostrich feather that needed no adjustment.
I swallowed. I would no longer be Rose Carroll. I hadn’t considered how pregnant women who hadn’t already engaged my midwifery services would find me. I’d already written each of my existing ladies a note and let them know of both my new name and my new abode. But I’d have to revise the advertisement I placed in the newspapers, too.
“Of course you’ll be forgetting that silly hobby of yours from now on,” Clarinda continued, arching her eyebrows. “As a wife, you understand.”
I opened my mouth to object. She’d expressed this edict more than once in recent weeks.
“Of course she won’t, Mother.” David laid his arm lightly over my shoulders. “Midwifery isn’t a hobby, and Rose is fully capable of being both a wife and an expert in all matters related to childbirth.”
Clarinda’s nostrils flared, but she kept her silence and moved on.
I whispered a thanks to my darling and smoothed down my new dress, a simple but lovely garment in a dark rose hue. Clarinda had thrown every obstacle she could onto the path to David’s marrying me. He hadn’t let her succeed. Nor had I. I was blessed with an enlightened and loving man with whom to spend my life, and I prayed I could find a way to soften the prickles Clarinda continued to present.
David’s father Herbert was next. Here was a man who was truly happy for both of us. He embraced his son, then gave me a light kiss on the cheek, his eyes smiling, as always. “I am so pleased at this happy union, dear Rose. I hope you’ll make me a doting grandfather with all due haste.”
“Father,” David admonished, setting his hands on his waist.
“It’s all right.” I touched his arm. “Herbert, we have every intention of providing thee with grandchildren, have no fear.” Perhaps not immediately, but the time would be right soon enough.
Herbert moved on, and the Amesbury poet John Greenleaf Whittier—both friend and Friend—approached, with my niece Faith Bailey Weed at his side to make sure he navigated the crowd without mishap. At eighty-one, the famous Quaker abolitionist grew more frail with each passing month, it seemed.
“Blessings on each of thee for a long and happy union in the sight of God,” John said.
David smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Whittier.”
“I also thank thee, John,” I said. “That means so much to us.”
“Welcome to the Carroll-Bailey clan, David,” Faith said. “I’m pleased to have thee as true uncle, finally.” She held out her other hand to me. “My heart is full, Rose.” Her eyes were, too.
“As is mine,” I whispered as I wiped away a sudden tear of joy. Faith, nearly twenty, had been wed to her dear Zebulon Weed only last winter.
“A fine Meetinghouse this is.” John looked up at the edifice, newly constructed within the year. “I’d say the Lawrence Friends building committee received some expert advice on the design.” A smile played around his mouth, outlined by a white chinstrap beard. He had advised the building of our Amesbury Meetinghouse some years before and had been asked to contribute his thoughts to this construction, as well.
“I would have to agree with thee, Friend,” I said.
“It is suitably simple and, as in Amesbury, supplied with generously sized windows to allow the Lord’s light to stream over all of us as we wait upon His guidance.” John touched his top hat. “Faith, if thee would be so kind to escort me to yon bench, I feel the need to sit.”
In a brief lull between well-wishers, David leaned toward me. “We’ll need to be getting to the reception soon, dear wife.”
“I know.” I wrinkled my nose, then pushed my spectacles back up. Clarinda had begrudgingly consented to our simple Meeting for Worship for Marriage after the manner of Friends but had insisted on a lavish reception immediately following at the Central House Hotel near the train depot. Those present here were invited, of course. Also included would be Clarinda’s social circle, many of whom attended St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Newburyport with Clarinda. They were folks generally uncomfortable participating in anything Quaker. I, in turn, was not at ease around them. I sighed inwardly. But this would be my new life, straddling two different societies and expectations, and I had chosen it.
“Afterward we will have our lovely hotel room for the night, just the two of us.” He winked.
“I cannot wait.” I squeezed his hand. I was truly eager to deepen our intimacy.
“And our trip to Cape Cod awaits on the morrow. All we have to do is endure this evening, my sweet.”
“Endure I shall, husband.”
Chapter Two
At the table of honor, as Clarinda had proudly put it, I glanced to my right at my father and mother. Daddy, otherwise known as Allan Burroughs Carroll, squeezed my hand in a sympathetic gesture. Two hundred people milled about the ballroom in front of us, enjoying rich delicacies served by passing men in livery. Our guests held glasses, sipping beverages both alcoholic and not.
We, the happy couple and parents, in contrast, had been relegated by Clarinda to our seated prison to receive even more well-wishes. Mother, at the end of the table, stood in deep and fervent conversation with someone who looked like one of her many suffragist compatriots. To my left, meanwhile, David was enjoying conversing with a fellow physician who had approached the table, while his father happily downed sherry after sherry. Clarinda, ever the appropriate hostess, smiled and chatted with the many Episcopalians approaching to greet and congratulate her. I imagined their disapproval if they knew the plans of the prized son’s new wife to continue practicing her profession of midwifery. Or perhaps I was judging them too soon. Surely Clarinda’s church included forward-looking women.
David glanced at my empty plate and signaled to a waiting hotel servant, who offered me additional dinner. I declined, instead sipping my glass of lemonade. I hadn’t yet had a chance to chat with my dear pal Bertie and her Sophie, nor with Amesbury police detective and friend Kevin Donovan and his family. My niece Betsy and her twin brothers were exchanging jokes with several other children on the far side of the room. I longed to join them, but I knew Clarinda expected me to stay put for the duration of the supper.