Delivering the Truth by Edith Maxwell Read Free Book Online Page A

them converse, tall Nell gazing down on him a little, but they were too far away for me to hear, even if I hadn’t been standing at the edge of the noisiest, busiest area of town. He laid his hand on her arm and she shook her head with great vehemence. I hadn’t realized Nell and Jotham knew each other, but Amesbury was a well-populated place with nearly ten thousand inhabitants. I was sure there was much I didn’t know.
    A large cart filled with squealing lambs clattered by in front of me. When it had passed, Jotham no longer stood with Nell. She seemed rooted in place, so I made my way toward her.
    â€œOh, Nell.” I waved as I called. I stepped around two men smoking cheroots. Keeping my eyes on Nell, I nearly stepped in a pile of vegetable refuse.
    She turned toward me and waited.
    â€œHow is thee?” I asked when I reached her. “And baby Lizzy?”
    She gazed at me with dark eyes. “She’s fine.” Her voice was flat, and her eyes, while on me, seemed to be out of focus, as if she saw something else than my face.
    â€œThat’s good. Has thee been well, too?” I asked.
    â€œI’m fine.” Her arms fell straight at her sides, her left hand clutching a canvas bag hanging as limp as her arm.
    â€œThee is out doing the marketing,” I said.
    She finally seemed to see me. “Yes. The marketing. I’d better be getting on with it.”
    â€œI think I’ll pick up some fish while I’m here.” I gestured toward the fishmonger’s door. “Say, was that Jotham O’Toole thee was speaking with? I delivered his sister of a baby this week.”
    Her eyes became unfocused again. “I don’t know him.” She turned and walked up Friend Street as if a machine governed her movements.
    I watched her go with concern. Something was ailing her, I thought as I entered the fish shop, the bell on the door jangling, the smell of brine pricking my nose. I resolved to pay Nell a visit early in the week. For now, I’d bring home a nice cod for supper and then try to rest before heading to the sad event at the Meetinghouse.

    The end of Isaiah’s Memorial Meeting drew near as the bell at Saint Joseph’s tolled three o’clock. The worship room at the Meetinghouse overflowed with Friends, townspeople, and Isaiah’s family and friends. Even William Parry, owner of the factory, was there, clearing his throat constantly and checking his pocket watch with great regularity.
    When I’d entered with Frederick and the children an hour before, I glanced at John Whittier, already seated with straight back in his customary seat on the facing bench, watching people stream in. Little Betsy’s hand was in mine and I saw him wink at her. She looked up at me, delighted, and then waved at him before he closed his eyes. To the outside world he presented a serious, almost stern demeanor. From what I had seen, he loved young people and wasn’t above a wink at them.
    As Clerk of Meeting he had broken the initial silence with a welcome and introduction to worship after the manner of Friends, inviting those present to celebrate the life of Isaiah, whose spirit had been released to God. He asked attenders to leave a few moments of silence between each message. I sensed several non-Quakers ’ unease with the stillness. For me it provided a lifelong calming comfort.
    Book in hand, the disturbed son of the mill owner, Stephen Hamilton, arrived late and squeezed into a back-row pew. I didn’t know he was a friend of Isaiah’s, but it was a public service, after all. He jittered in his seat and never seemed to settle into the quiet place that is Friends’ worship. John Whittier opened his eyes and trained them on Stephen in a moment of unspoken admonishment.
    During the service Annie bravely stood and shared a memory of Isaiah’s warmth and humor as they had walked along the Powow one afternoon only a week earlier. After she sat,