A Death in Utopia Read online

"Perhaps it is more important for people here to understand themselves and try to cultivate their own values before they turn to reforming society," added Winslow. His voice was deeper than Abigail remembered it and he sounded a little smug, just like many other ministers.

  The smugness bothered her and she forced herself to speak up again. "Most people don't want to be reformed. Even some of the Quaker meetings have had trouble when they try to introduce freedmen into their groups."

  That caught Mr. Platt's attention and he agreed heartily. "People like to live with others of their kind," he insisted in his rough voice. "Mixing the races together brings nothing but trouble. I mean no offense to the lady, but folks here don't want to be told what they should do and outsiders should watch what they say." With that he turned and stomped out of the room.

  "That's enough discussion for tonight," said Mr. Ripley. "Our guest is tired, I am sure."

  The students reluctantly edged toward the door and Abigail followed them. Winslow still hadn't acknowledged her, but now he walked over to hold the door open and as she passed, he handed her a small, white envelope and said. "I hope you will consider this."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Charlotte Sees Too Much

  September 23, 1842.

  When Charlotte got back to her room, she was too excited to go straight to bed. Imagine hearing Lydia Maria Child in person. Her books were read everywhere and people flocked to hear her speak. She was even more impressive in person than in her books. How did she find the courage to speak out so confidently on topics no one else mentioned?

  Would Charlotte ever be able to do as much? Sighing and leaning on the windowsill looking out on the grassy lawns she watched the full moon casting long shadows of the trees. An owl hooted in the distance and somewhere a dog barked. A patch of white at the edge of the trees behind the Eyrie caught Charlotte's eye. Was one of the cows out? Or was it a clump of Queen Anne's lace blowing in the wind?

  Just then she saw a something bright—a flash of light near the barn. Only a flicker at first and then she realized it was a lantern. Why was someone down there with a lantern? Who could that be? She leaned as far out the window as she dared and tried to see who it was.

  She saw the flash of white again—there were two people out by the barn. And one of them was Abigail. It was Abigail in her white dress standing with someone who was carrying a lantern. Someone tall who moved closer to her as he lifted the lantern. The light caught Abigail's face looking up and, sure enough, it was Winslow Hopewell who was leaning toward her and talking. That was a surprise. Hadn't Abigail said they hadn't seen each other in years? Were they trying to make up for lost time? That sounded romantic, but why they were meeting secretly so late at night?

  The next day Mrs. Child went back to Boston and on to wherever else she was giving talks that month. Charlotte longed for a chance to talk with her, but teaching the primary children kept her occupied all day. When she finally dismissed them, Mrs. Child was gone.

  For the next two weeks life continued to seem normal in the Community. Winslow Hopewell stayed on longer than expected. He and Mr. Ripley spent hours in the study with papers spread out on the desk in front of them. Charlotte caught glimpses of them frowning as they walked on the grounds deep in conversation. Were they talking about serious issues in religion and philosophy or were they more worried about money and how good the harvest would be?

  Most of Charlotte's days were filled with routine chores. In the classroom she struggled to keep her primary students interested in reading their primers. Timothy and the others loved the little jingles in the book, but she soon got tired of simple-minded verses.

  I like to see a lit-tle dog,

  And pat him on the head;

  So pret-ti-ly he wags his tail

  When-ev-er he is fed.

  She tried making up verses of her own

  Whene'er you see a pretty mouse

  A nibbling at the cheese,

  Don't pull its tail or tweak its ear

  Just ask it to say 'Please'.

  For all small animals are our friends

  And we should treat them well.

  Boys and girls who torment them

  May find themselves in Hell.

  Of course she never wrote these out for the students. Mrs. Ripley might send her back to England if she had dared, but sometimes she recited them to Ellen at night. The two of them tried to outdo each other in creating teasing verses. Even though they both believed in what the Ripleys were doing—what all of them were doing—it was hard to be as solemn about it as some of the older members were.

  Sometimes when her class was restless, Charlotte took them outside to sit on the grass under one of the oak trees for their lesson. Even though it was almost the end of September, the sun was still warm and goldenrod still lined the road. One afternoon when she had taken the class out there and was reading Aesop's fable about the jay and the peacocks, they were interrupted by a fat blue jay that swooped down and landed right at her feet. He was probably only looking for acorns, but it seemed as though he was objecting to being made a fool of by the peacocks like the jay in their story. The children laughed and clapped. Charlotte looked up and saw Winslow Hopewell and Abigail Pretlove walking across the lawn. She had often noticed them talking to each other and wondered whether he had lingered on at the Farm because of Abigail. Which one of them was the jay trying to impress the other?

  Whether or not they were flirting they didn't have much time by themselves. Mr. Ripley and Mr. Dana walked past the tree where Charlotte was sitting with the children and headed straight for the couple. Mr. Ripley's gentle face was twisted into a scowl and she heard him say as they stalked by, "...doesn't realize how serious this is. We all need to pull together to make..." That was all she heard, but she saw them stop to talk to Hopewell. Then the three men moved back toward the house.

  Soon it was time for the children's music lesson, so Charlotte took the group back into the Hive and looked around for Fanny Gray. They taught music together. Fanny had a lovely voice, and Charlotte could beat time and lead the children in responding. Ellen sometimes joined them too and taught ballads she had learned as a child in Ireland. There was no sign of Fanny so Ellen and Charlotte started the lesson. They wanted the children to learn the words to a new song to sing it in the dining room on Sunday when Mrs. Ripley liked to have some entertainment from the school children.

  I had a little nut tree

  Nothing would it bear

  But a silver nutmeg and a golden pear.

  The King of Spain's daughter

  Came to visit me

  And all for the sake of my little nut tree.

  Everyone was having fun singing and talking about pears and how good they tasted when Fanny Gray came in looking very serious.

  "Do you think we should let the children sing about kings?" she asked. "We're all good Americans who don't believe in kings. Don't you know any better songs?"

  Ellen quickly started singing

  Ye fair maids of London, who lead a single life

  I'd sooner be a barrow girl than a rich merchant's wife,

  For so early in the morning you hear me to cry,

  Artichokes and cauliflowers, pretty maids will you buy?

  "That's a cheerful song," Charlotte said, "and it's not about a king or his daughter. A barrow girl sounds more like someone who should join Brook Farm. We need someone who could sell the crops we raise and make some money for us."

  "We certainly need people to join us," Fanny muttered. "Too many people are leaving and outsiders who say they support us just slither away without doing a thing. Why don't they understand that the kind of community we are building is going to change the whole country?"

  Charlotte wanted to ask what she meant about people leaving, but the children were growing restless so she took them to dinner.

  As September turned into October, the wind became brisk. Mornings were chillier and darker clouds scudded across the sky. The tiny piglets in the b
arn were growing livelier and the last of the scarlet maple leaves were drifting down and littering the grass. Charlotte pulled a shawl tight around her shoulders each morning as she walked across the lawn toward the Hive to start working with the kitchen group.

  The sharp sound of a slamming door startled her one morning and she was even more surprised to see Mrs. Ripley hurrying across the grass toward the clump of trees behind the barn. Then Charlotte noticed a group of people on the hillside and she heard faint voices. She quickly followed the sounds.

  Abigail Pretlove was standing stiffly twisting her hands in her shawl; her white dress bright against the dark pine trees. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and she was crying incoherently and trying to talk, although Charlotte couldn't make out any words. Mr. Ripley, Fanny, and some of the students were there. Everyone was silent, looking intently at something on the ground.

  Mrs. Ripley went to Abigail, put her arm around her, and began to lead her down the hill toward the Hive. Abigail stumbled uncertainly as though she didn't know where she was walking.

  As Charlotte moved closer to the group, she saw the dark form of a man on the grass. She gasped as she realized who it was. Winslow Hopewell lay on his back, his arm flung out, and with a trickle of blood on his forehead. Mr. Ripley was leaning over him, but he straightened up as he heard more people coming up the hill.

  He spoke to Charles Dana and the two other men who were there. "I am afraid there is no hope for him. He is dead. We must get the women back to the house and then we can carry the Reverend Hopewell in."

  Charlotte, Fanny and Mrs. Geary walked silently back to the Hive. Ellen was in the kitchen and Charlotte muttered a few words about what had happened. No one was able to talk much. The scene on the hillside was too dreadful to think about but they knew they would never forget it.

  Nothing was normal that day, and Charlotte was not surprised when Mrs. Ripley decided to cancel all the regular classes and let the children play quietly in the parlor. Charlotte walked back to her room as soon as she could. She needed time to be quiet and think about what had happened. None of it made any sense.

  Had the Reverend Hopewell stumbled and fallen on the ground? But why was there blood on his forehead? Had he met someone on the hillside and quarreled with him? It was hard to believe a respectable minister would get into a fight that would lead to such violence. But why would anyone try to injure him?

  Her thoughts were interrupted when Ellen slipped into the room. She reported that the men had carried Reverend Hopewell's body back to the Hive and laid it out in George Ripley's study.

  "This terrible death reminds me about what Mrs. Child said when she spoke here. Remember she told us that people wouldn't let us live in peace because too many people at Brook Farm favor abolition?" Ellen commented.

  Charlotte walked restlessly around their small room. "I wonder what Mrs. Child would say about this. Perhaps she knows of people around here who might attack someone they suspected of abolitionist sentiment."

  "Is Mrs. Child still in Boston?" asked Ellen.

  "I don't know. But you know what we can do? We could go and ask at Miss Peabody's bookstore. She knows everyone who is lecturing in the area. Perhaps she can tell us where Mrs. Child is," Charlotte answered eagerly.

  "We can ride in Mr. Gerritson's wagon," Ellen added. "Mr. Ripley has asked him to notify the Sheriff. He'll be driving to the city soon. There is nothing we can do here."

  Charlotte was relieved to have something active to do. She snatched up her shawl and bonnet and the two of them ran down to catch Mr. Gerritson's wagon before he left..

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Daniel's Rainy Day in Boston

  October 10, 1842.

  An early morning rain had made the streets wet; fallen leaves and blobs of horse dung turned the pavement into a treacherous slide as Daniel Gallagher hurried to reach the newspaper office before anyone else. Already this morning he had made his rounds of the fish market and the stagecoach yard looking for any trace of news. Didn't anything exciting ever happen in Boston? He needed a good story to persuade Mr. Cabot to give him a job. He knew he could do it if he was given a chance. And he swore he wouldn't end up working as a laborer on the docks like so many other Irish immigrants. All he needed was one chance and he could make his mother proud—make some money too so he could bring her over to America.

  This morning he felt he was getting lucky. A mystery in that strange community out in West Roxbury? How did one of those radicals get himself killed? Glory be to God what a stroke of luck if he could get that story!

  He was almost running now, hoping to reach the editor's office before one of those slick Boston reporters got there and grabbed his chance. He'd heard the story from an Irishman, Rory his name was, who'd been out on the road early coming back to the city after sleeping in some farmer's barn all night. A lot of the new immigrants do that. When you're just off the boat and not a penny to your name, you'll sleep anywhere. He was slipping through a patch of woods so as not to be seen, when he noticed a group of people huddled around something on the ground and looking scared silly. Rory managed to get close enough to hear them talking about someone being dead and then he skedaddled out of there so they wouldn't think he had anything to do with it. When Daniel ran into him at the edge of the Common, he was white as a ghost and glad enough to tell the story when he was offered a couple of currant buns.

  Daniel hurried down Tremont Street to Mr. Cabot's office and arrived at the steps just as Mr. Cabot was approaching from the other direction. "Mr. Cabot, sir," Daniel began. "I have just heard there has been a terrible accident this morning out at Brook Farm. Someone is dead. With your permission I would like to write the story for the Transcript."

  "Hmm...What do you know about Brook Farm? An Irishman like you has no idea of who those people are or what they are doing. And how did you hear of this mysterious death? Was this a brawl between some drunken Paddys?"

  "No, but it was an Irishman who told me. He was just passing by and heard the news. Readers of the Transcript would be interested in what's happening at Reverend Ripley's Farm. I can walk out there this morning and get the news for you before the other newspapers have heard what happened."

  "All right then, go do it, but you had better stop at Miss Peabody's bookstore first and find out more about those people and what they are up to. Then you'll be able to ask sensible questions."

  Daniel knew about Brook Farm already. His Aunt Maggie was a cook there and his cousin Ellen was going to their school. Still, he didn't want to offend Mr. Cabot, so he decided to stop at the bookstore before starting out. He could take a look at some of the books this George Ripley had written. Could Ripley have been the man who was killed?

  Stooping under the low doorway, Daniel went into the dim bookstore; the towering bookshelves covering every wall always made him greedy to read. There was no sign of Miss Peabody, so he started looking at the shelves to see what he could find.

  A few minutes later, the door into the back room of the shop opened and Miss Peabody came in with two young women. His cousin Ellen! What was she doing here? He didn't recognize her friend who was talking excitedly in a low voice as if she were urging Ellen to do something. A lock of dark hair was slipping out of her bonnet and the set of her jaw made him willing to bet she would win any argument she was in.

  Miss Peabody came toward Daniel, her large body blocking his view of the girls. Her frizzy white hair was escaping from her cap in all directions, but her welcoming smile was good to see.

  "I need to find out more about Brook Farm out in West Roxbury. Do you have any books about George Ripley?"

  Before he had finished speaking, Ellen broke in. "What are you doing here, Daniel?" she asked. "And why do you want to know about Brook Farm? I thought you said you wouldn't waste your time on foolish schemes to change the world."

  The second girl frowned at Daniel when Ellen said that, her dark eyes taking in his shabby suit so intently he was sure she could see spilled curra
nts from his breakfast buns. He tried not to look at her while he answered Ellen.

  "Did you just come from there? Do you know anything about someone getting killed? I'm going to write a story about it for the newspaper."

  "We don't need any newspapers interfering," said Ellen's friend sharply in a fancy English voice. Turning to Ellen she added, "We can't talk to outsiders about what happened."

  Ellen introduced them, but even after hearing he was Ellen's cousin and could be trusted, Charlotte Edgerton didn't look any friendlier. But Daniel knew he would learn more about Brook Farm from them than from any book, so he walked out of the shop with them.

  "Mr. Cabot told me to talk to Miss Peabody," Daniel explained, "to find out more about Brook Farm. She knows most of what is going on all over the city, but I am sure you know more about Brook Farm."

  "That we do," said Ellen. "We were hoping to find Lydia Maria Child and ask her some questions, but Miss Peabody told us she is on her way to Ohio to visit relatives."

  Charlotte Edgerton looked at Daniel. "Why are you so curious about what happened? Are you hoping to write a story to discredit Brook Farm?"

  "Not at all, Miss Edgerton. I want to discover the truth of what happened. Surely that will not discredit your community."

  Ellen broke in quickly. "Come to Aunt Bridget's with us. We can tell you what happened. Jonas Gerritson is going to pick us up in his wagon and give us a ride back to the Farm. If you go with us you'll be there faster than walking."

  They turned down a narrow, muddy street where a group of children gathered around a puddle were kicking water at each other. A red faced man sat on the steps of one house muttering to himself and singing snatches of songs. He stared at the girls as they walked past and called out, "Oh, you pretty girlies, won't you stop and talk with me a while?"

  Daniel could feel his cheeks flushing as he realized what this must look like to the Englishwoman. An excuse for her to think that all the Irish were drunken fools. They were worse than Americans when it came to looking down on the Irish. Bringing her along to visit Aunt Bridget would never have been his idea.