Delivering the Truth by Edith Maxwell

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    He blinked several times. The scowl disappeared, replaced by raised eyebrows and a small smile. “You want my help?”
    I nodded. “If thee pleases.”
    He nodded, then handed me the book and pulled the glove off his right hand. He hefted the jug with a hand marred by small red scars on the back. I tried to see what had caused the scarring but couldn’t see clearly. It was likely smallpox, although these marks appeared more raised than indented. I followed him to the front where he set down the container and took back his book.
    â€œMay I help you with anything else, Miss?”
    He seemed a different person from the wild ranter of a few moments earlier. Perhaps, as the man in town had suggested, Stephen did need a job, or at least an avenue to help others.
    â€œDoes thee know aught about who set the fire?” I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.
    He shook his head and strolled away, swinging the Bible.

seven
    The women and I were nearly done clearing up the food after the memorial meeting’s social time. Many of the visitors had left and it was mostly Friends who remained in conversation with the Weed family. I looked up to see William Parry shaking Isaiah’s father’s hand. William shook his head sorrowfully and walked toward the street.
    â€œWilliam Parry?” I called. I hurried toward him.
    He stopped and turned. He was an imposing man, tall, with a well-fed midsection and rich-looking clothing. His waistcoat fit snugly and his white collar stood up perfectly starched. A chinstrap beard framed his face under his high rounded hat.
    â€œRose Carroll.” I extended my hand.
    He raised his eyebrows, but took my hand and shook it briefly.
    â€œI thank thee for coming,” I said. “What a terrible accident, thy factory burning down.”
    He frowned. “It’s terrible, that is certain, but the police are telling me they think it might have been set. Not an accident at all. I can’t think what dastardly soul would have lit a place afire that had men working within.”
    â€œIt’s a sad time for all the families.”
    â€œMr. Clarke has decided to rebuild his factory. I shall rebuild, as well. I have resolved to do so.” He clasped his hands in front of him and raised his chin.
    â€œThat’s wonderful news. What a benefit for the town, for all of us.” Indeed it was. So many relied on the business the carriage industry fostered. From the workers themselves, to the mercantile selling goods to the workers, to the seamstresses who finished off the insides of the finer vehicles, to the railroad that carried the white-cloaked new carriages away on the Ghost Trains—the entire populace was the beneficiary of a thriving industry.
    He put his hand to his hat as if to doff it before leaving.
    â€œBut I have another matter to bring up with thee,” I said, looking him directly in the eye, even though he was a good half foot taller than my five feet eight.
    He blinked as if annoyed, but stayed put.
    â€œI attend thy wife. In her pregnancy,” I added when confusion crossed his face. Surely he should know this, but apparently he didn’t. I went on. “It’s important for her health and that of the baby that she feel happy and at ease in the last weeks before the birth. She mentioned how occupied thee has been of late with thy business.” Or with Minnie O’Toole. Much as I’d like to ask him about that, now wasn’t the time. I wanted to keep the conversation about Lillian.
    â€œI have. And now with the fire—” He pursed his lips and tapped his leg with one hand.
    â€œI hope, though, thee can find time to dine with her regularly.” I knew I was overstepping my bounds but I wasn’t afraid of this wealthy, powerful man. He had no hold on me.
    He looked at me as if he hadn’t quite seen me before now. “I will conduct my family business as I see fit, Miss … Miss