Delivering the Truth Read Online Free PDF Page B

wouldn’t find me harsh. I was known for being a little too forthright and I saw no reason to temper my attitude with this famous but personable Friend. I had been a member of the Religious Society of Friends my entire life, and had known John Greenleaf Whittier since my sister’s marriage to Frederick nearly twenty years ago.
    â€œI am sure we shall, as way opens.”
    I nodded. The Quaker concept of waiting for guidance, or for further events to show the way, was a tricky one for me. Patience was not one of my virtues.
    I bade John farewell. There was much to consider. I was surprised he called Kevin Donovan “friend.” I’d had a run-in with the burly policeman in the past when I’d asked him to take to task a husband I knew was beating his wife, even while she was with child. He’d responded in his Irish accent about how the law said the business of a man and his wife should remain behind the closed doors of matrimony. I didn’t agree. And because of his opinions on the right of a man to abuse his wife, I hoped he was a competent detective when it came to other crimes. If the fire was set by an arsonist, Kevin needed to find this criminal before he or she acted again. That shadowy shape I had seen as I left Parry’s the evening before. Could it have been the arsonist?
    John Whittier could seek to understand that of God in the killer after such a person was safely locked up.

five
    After Faith returned home, I spent the rest of the day working alongside her. I had no ladies scheduled for visits, no births pending until the next week. We did the washing, running the wet clothes through the wringer we were fortunate enough to own, and hung them on the line out back. We scrubbed down the kitchen, put together a lamb stew, and baked dozens of gingersnaps and sugar cookies for the service. The twins and Betsy helped on the last, especially when it came time to clean the remnants of sweet batter from the bowl.
    As we worked I mourned for Isaiah. And I thought of all the families now without homes. All the men, mostly, now without jobs. The parents without children and children without parents. Those grievously injured by the flames. Zeb’s remark about the fire being set stuck in my brain like the incessant grumble of a mill wheel.
    My thoughts turned to Ephraim, forced out of his job before the fire. Perhaps he had wanted to destroy the factory that deprived him of his livelihood. But also burning up the men inside—that was a horrific thought.
    When we were finished baking, Faith let out a sigh of exhaustion. “I’m going to collapse and read in the sitting room. Or perhaps just collapse.” She paused with her hand on the door jamb.
    â€œThee has earned a rest, niece.”
    I, too, felt tired to the bone, but I had other plans. I packed a basket with a bowl of stew, a loaf of bread, and a small paper of cookies.
    â€œFaith, I’m going to pay a visit on the Pickard family. I’ll be back for supper,” I called in to her.
    â€œThee is a kind woman,” she called back.
    Kind, perhaps. Curious, certainly.
    Ephraim Pickard and his family lived on Friend Street beyond the Meetinghouse in a building housing four families. I had assisted his wife with the latest addition to their family some months earlier. Ephraim now sat on the stoop in the sunlight, a book open on his knees. He glanced up when he saw me, then stood, closing the book. His coat fell open, showing a dark smudge on the front of his white shirt.
    â€œMiss Carroll, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes. I brought thy family a meal, Ephraim.” I extended the basket but pulled it back when he kept his hands at his sides.
    â€œWe don’t need charity.” He frowned.
    The door opened behind him and two girls about Betsy’s age ran out, leaving the door open. One bumped into Ephraim. “Sorry, Papa!” She ran off with a laugh.
    â€œPlease consider it a gift from a friend