Dillard Beach Mystery – 1

Chapter One

DILLARD BEACH MYSTERY UPDATE

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Cape Cod, September 12, 1678

Rebekah Howland was late. If she took the short cut across the lower pasture of Dillard Farm, she might arrive at the meeting house before the final blessing. But she knew by doing so, she was taking a chance.

The last time she was late for service, the Minister singled her out for admonishment. No matter that she was delayed by the unexpected delivery of twin boys, new sons to the town’s blacksmith. Her service as midwife was obviously less important than listening to the Sunday lesson, according to Minister Warren.
I might as well not go in at all, she thought. Why should I be singled out? There are many others, who are always late or missing worship of a Sunday. She didn’t want to judge, but if Doctor Rigsdale could miss a service to tend to one of the elders getting over a cold, why couldn’t she be excused when the needs of a woman bent over by the pain of childbirth demanded her attentions?
As she approached the last turn in the road, Rebekah could see several horses tethered near the meeting house gate. Three carts and a small carriage were clustered beneath the trees, the mid-afternoon sun spreading a golden light through the branches. Another time, Rebekah would have considered the scene as bordering on the mystical. But today, she was in a rush, and mystical thoughts were far from her mind.
If only I can find a seat in the gallery before anyone discovers I am absent, she thought. But it was too late. As she reached the meeting house porch, the door opened and the first of the congregation began filing out. She was greeted with furrowed brows and a scowl of disapproval from Elder Putnam. Rather than wait to hear what would doubtless be a torrent of impossible questions, she quickly turned on her heel and escaped down the path that led away from the meeting house towards the shoreline. Rebekah slowed her pace when the path opened up onto the dunes that gave protection to the small harbor.
As she approached, she scanned the shoreline eager for a glimpse of the man she intended as her future husband: the handsome John Rand. He was unaware of her intentions and she wanted to keep it that way until the time was right.
Most mornings on her way to the village, she would walk the shore above the docks and look for Rand. He was tall, and lanky with a swagger that set him apart from all the young fishermen who rowed their dories up and down the rocky coastline. She would sometimes watch as he rowed out beyond the breakwater. When he returned at mid-day, his boat would be filled to the gunnels with cod, already salted and ready for selling back at the village pier. It was hard work and Rebekah admired John Rand for doing it. But she couldn’t help but wonder why he worked alone when so many men joined forces and split the labor. One of the fishmongers on the dock finally shared the sad tale. Rand’s brother, Joshua, had been his partner until the spring of 1679. The two were fishing just off Nantucket Shoals when a sudden storm hit and up-ended their boat. They both went into the sea. John was able to cling to the dory until help came, but Joshua’s body had never been recovered.
Now, on this warm September evening as she reached the shoreline and the autumn sun began to set behind the trees of Tangler Island, Rebekah kept a sharp eye out for John Rand. She had often seen him walking of an evening and hoped to do so again this day. She stood on the dunes, until the last rays of sun dipped below the horizon. But John did not appear.
Disappointed, Rebekah turned for home. It would not be seemly to be seen alone on the beach after dark. As the first stars appeared in the darkening sky, she gathered up her skirts and hurried back across the sand and beach grass towards her cottage on the edge of the woods.
The tiny house sat on a patch of ground, surrounded by small pines, just off the town road. Originally built as a shelter for his cows, Amos Dillard had given her both the land and the structure in thanks for saving the life of his wife during a very difficult child birth several years earlier. A generous gift to be sure. Rebekah was grateful as it was most unusual for a single woman to own her own land, much less a cottage. When no one questioned his generosity, she determined it was both Dillard’s position as one of the town Elders and the cloud of mystery that surrounded her life as a midwife and healer that made all the difference in the minds of the villagers. And she had no intention of diminishing their wonder.
Rebekah knew how fortunate she was. She had been working as a midwife in the village for the past five years and had successfully birthed dozens of children. Only one had failed to survive past three months, having been born premature. If the villagers chose to believe her success was due to her having special powers, she was not going to dissuade them.
Rebekah loved her home. She loved the simplicity of having just one large room with a hearth for warmth and cooking, and a dark corner with a comfortable bed of straw tightly stuffed into a linen ticking. She imagined if she could only attract John Rand to join her under the covers, her happiness would be complete. It hadn’t happened yet, but she had been making plans and knew it would not be long before he was under her spell.
On this Sabbath eve, she found herself smiling as she entered the cottage, and lit the single candle she always kept at the front window. It had been a good day. The blacksmith’s wife would recover quickly and her twin sons would thrive. All thanks to her skill. Rebekah knew this to be true but she had to be careful not to boast. It would not be seemly for her to appear too proud. Let her reputation as a midwife and healer spread not from any words she might utter but from the praise she received from those she served. Isn’t that what any humble citizen should do?
But she could not leave it all to chance. Only a few days before, a rumor had reached her about a woman in the village of Sandwich who had suffered through a difficult birth and died soon after. Neighbors blamed the local midwife though there was little evidence. When things go wrong, Rebekah thought, someone is always blamed.
She had learned it was important to keep a record of the events of each day and her part in them, especially as they touched on her work as midwife. In this she was certain. It is best to be vigilant in these matters. She reached for her journal, ink and quill and carried them to the small table under the front window.
The flickering candle gave just enough light for her to make her daily entry. Opening the journal she turned to her last entry, dipped her quill into the small bottle of ink and drew a straight line across the page. She scratched in the date and noted the weather. September 1678 – cool morning, called out before dawn to bedside of Abigail, wife of Jonathan Parker, twin sons born with some small difficulty. Offered Crampbark tincture. All resting comfortably.
She studied the entry. Simple and neat. Paper being so precious she hesitated to add anything but the essentials: date, weather and patient information.
Her script was not fancy like the hand of Lady Whitworth. It had few embellishments but was serviceable and easily read by anyone with a mind to do so which is all she could expect of herself having learned to pen by fits and starts. The journal would serve as her witness if her practice ever came into question.
She carefully wiped the quill clean and placed it with the ink and journal on the small corner shelf near her bed. Tired from a long day caring for others, she was tempted to lie down, pull the covers over her head and sleep until dawn. But there were still chores to do. She glanced at the hearth. The coals she had banked that morning were nearly gone out. She would have to feed the fire and warm the kettle if she wanted warm porridge for supper. It was times like this Rebekah thought it might be worth it to take in a border. Someone to keep the home fires burning while she went out and about. But the house was so small, they would be on top of each other most of the time.
She opened the wood box and selected two small logs and a few pieces of kindling to add to what was left of the fire. Carefully feeding the embers one twig at a time, she had a fire blazing before long and the kettle of porridge began to steam. A square of corn bread and a pitcher of warm cider completed the meal.
The moon was high in the sky when Rebekah finally put her head on the pillow and fell into a deep sleep. The last sound she heard was the distinctive hoot of a barn owl.
. . .