Tempest
Kingston Chronicle
An unexpected death at Kingston.
At Kingston, on Monday, the district coroner held an inquiry into the suspicious death of Michael Land, 43 years of age, a miller. On Friday July 19th the man was discovered dead on the floor of his residence by a customer trying to buy some flour. The body was covered in ordure and a post mortem examination was to the effect that death might have been due to diarrhoea. His housekeeper who was the only living occupant of the house stated that her master had been well the previous day. A verdict was returned that death was believed to be due to rampant diarrhoea leading to dehydration.
*.*.*
The comforting sound of rain drummed on the roof. Water drops chased each other in bands until they met, creating rivulets running down the window to the gutters, then gurgling down the drainpipes. There really were few things nicer in this world than snuggling next to your husband in a warm bed, while the rain poured down outside.
But Marilla had never liked storms, the rain already intense, grew louder. At the first low rumble of thunder, John felt her shudder and firmed his grip upon her, murmuring soft words of comfort. Marilla jumped as the thunder crashed, closer than ever. "Shh" he murmured into her hair, "it's just a storm. I have you." The lighting momentarily illuminated the room in sharp relief, but with a trembling Marilla in his arms John paid it no mind, whispering soft words of comfort into her hair. The rain drummed down harder than ever, but he believed the old house would keep them safe, he hoped Marilla knew it too. Another long rumbling boom had her squirm closer if that were possible, her eyes closed tightly and pressed into his chest. "Count with me," he suggested "one, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand…" Marilla listened to him, but did not trust herself to speak. Crash, the thunder boomed as Marilla jumped, "one, one th..." there it was, an ear-splitting boom this time, possibly directly over the house. Marilla actually shrieked and lay trembling in John's arms. The next rumble was a bit further away and the next further away still, and so the storm passed and the rain abated. John felt Marilla's heart rate and breathing slowly subside until she fell asleep in his arms.
His beautiful, strong wife still had her vulnerabilities and he loved her for them. He kissed her temple gently before he moved his arms out from under her and fell asleep by her side.
After their broken nights' sleep, John popped out in the gloom of dawn and hastily scrawled a note for Mme Soigne Breakfast in bed, scrambled eggs, S.V.P.
When she arrived, Mme Soigne read the note and grinned. They certainly liked their eggs, these two. After popping a couple more logs in the stove, she cracked some eggs in a bowl and whisked them deftly before cutting up some bread. Once it was cooked, she placed the breakfast on a tray and carried it over to the bedroom door then knocked gently, before she set it on the floor and walked back to the kitchen. She heard the door crack open and the tray dragged inside, but out of modesty did not turn to watch; remembering happy mornings like that in her own past. She was just pleased her lovely employers were able enjoy moments such as this, even now.
Inside the room, Marilla was stirring, still rather groggy. John walked over to the window and opened the curtains to reveal a sunny morning, the storm had blown itself out and the world looked crisp and new after the rain. Marilla lazily watched him as he walked over with the tray. "What a delightful surprise, when did you organise this?"
"In the wee sma's," John explained as he loaded up a forkful of egg, grinning at his wife. Using her elbows to leverage herself up, she stuffed a spare pillow under her back and lay back expectantly. John always did have a knack for eggs.
Mme Soigne carried precious cargo on her trip to work a few days later; a piece of art so intricate and beautiful that she wanted to hang it on the Blythe's kitchen wall; she hoped they would not object. Their house was in view now with its green gables catching the morning sun; it looked particularly beautiful, set in amongst the trees. It was a pretty house she thought, as she strode towards it; and the couple within were very pleasant to work for.
Marilla came out for breakfast an hour later, tucking a stray hair or two back into her bun as she walked into the kitchen. She stopped as she spied the new fixture upon the kitchen wall, "what is that?" she asked Mme Soigne, pointing at it.
"Ah, oui, that is a drawing by my son, Victor. I hope you don't mind my putting it up. I thought it was particularly good."
"No, I don't mind at all," Marilla walked over to examine the drawing more closely. It was a detailed rendition of local road, "It's the Avenue isn't it?"
"In spring. He's always loved it."
"My Anne fell in love with it when she arrived in Avonlea. She christened it The White Way of Delight."
Mme Soigne laughed, "somewhat of a romantic then?"
Marilla glanced at her with a smile, "absolutely. Her head was always in tall towers waiting for her prince to arrive. Drove me a little bit crazy actually, she was always burning things and making mistakes as her daydreams preoccupied her. She told my brother Matthew that the Avenue was the first thing she'd seen that couldn't be improved upon by imagination. Say, Mme Soigne, do you think Victor could do another drawing of the Avenue for me? I'd send it to Anne for her birthday, I know she would be delighted."
"Goodness, he doesn't usually take commissions, but I will ask him."
"I am prepared to pay for it," Marilla urged.
"Oh, it's not necessary," Mme Soigne protested.
"Of course, it is," Marilla said as she took her seat at the table, "talent like his should be recompensed, you never told me he could draw like that?"
"Have I told you about Victor?" Mme Soigne enquired as she sat down at the table, drawing the sugar over for her coffee.
"No, I know he exists, of course, but you've never described him to us."
"Victor suffered from scarlet fever when he was a baby."
"Oh dear, that can be nasty, I believe?"
"Oui. He survived, but he is deaf and dumb. As you can see, however, he is a talented artist."
"Oh, I am sorry," Marilla patted her hand, "how old is he?"
"He is twenty-nine. He lives with me and draws all day long, he is always drawing. I spend half my wages on his art supplies."
"Does he sell much of his work, then?"
"No. No one we know has any spare money to waste on art."
"Goodness, well if he would draw the Avenue for Anne, I will certainly pay him for his work."
"Thank you, Mrs Blythe. I will ask him, now I'll just get on with the floors. I think they're due for a clean," Mme Soigne pushed up from the table with her hands, put her cup in the sink and fetched the mop.
"Right, have you got everything you need?" Marilla enquired, from her perch in the buggy.
"I'll be fine, Mme Soigne will be here soon. You go, I'll see you soon."
"If you're sure?"
"Yes, go. Millie needs you by her side."
"Don't you need me too?"
"Always, my love," John replied with a kiss on her hand, "now go and don't forget to give Millie my love." With a smile Marilla shook the reins and clucked the horse to get moving. Millie's mother had succumbed to fever the previous year, so Marilla had offered to help her through the labour.
Marilla always marvelled at the way a pregnant woman's centre of gravity shifted. Leaning back slightly, and rubbing her stomach, Millie appeared in the doorway dressed in a voluminous skirt, hair unkempt; as Davy helped Marilla down from the carriage. "Darling, let me look at you?" Marilla greeted her daughter in law.
"I feel terrible," Millie replied with a grimace, "I can't sleep, I'm itchy, I need to visit the privy every five minutes and the baby is kicking my lungs." Marilla bustled in, determined to help the poor girl any way she could. The twin boys appeared from around the corner, "good afternoon, Grandma," they called in unison. The rambunctious boys had settled down momentarily after their fright a few months ago, but that had not lasted long. The Boulters had kindly offered to take them when Millie entered labour, but until then Davy and Marilla would be in change with Mme Soigne providing the cooking. Millie being deemed too large to do anything practical.
During the day the women prepared the nursery, ensuring the bassinet and the baby's clothes were ready. There were plenty of diapers left over from the boys, but Marilla made sure they were ironed. She reported she wasn't quite as big as she had been the first time, leading them to hope there was just a single baby this time. Other times Millie lay on the sofa or in her bed as Marilla kept her company, knitting, reading, chatting or rubbing her calves and feet. They were sure it was just a matter of days. Anne sent an encouraging letter, which Millie received with appreciation.
"Mmmuhmmm. Mmmm."
"Breathe through the pain, darling."
Millie was in labour. Her sweat slicked hair stuck to her face and neck as she panted through her mouth. Marilla had her braced in her lap, mopping her brow. The midwife was down the other end.
It had been several hours since Millie had gasped with a sudden sharp pain and they both watched as liquid trickled out from between her legs. After a moment of shock they adjusted their plan for the day, Marilla called for Davy. He collected the boys and took them to Milty's place and on to fetch the midwife, Mrs Wren.
Marilla was left with Millie, rather pleased that things were moving at last, "now darling we'll just take it at your pace. Where do you want to be?" Obviously, Marilla had never experienced this process first hand, but she had witnessed Anne's laboring, and apparently Millie and Dora's too, though she had no memory.
"I'll just walk around for a while, I think," panted Millie. She remembered this part from last time. The longer she could walk, the better.
"Of course, darling. Can I fetch you anything?"
Millie shook her head as she pursed her lips, overtaken by yet another contraction. She swayed back and forth with her eyes closed until it lifted. Marilla boiled some water to fill the time, it always seemed to be required during labour; and generally tidying up. When the first contraction had abated, Marilla suggested Millie change into a nightgown for the comfort and ease it afforded.
Mme Soigne appeared half an hour later with a basket of food. She sat with Marilla and Millie for a while, sharing stories about her own labouring experiences and watching with pity while a succession of contractions overcame Millie. Mrs Wren, arrived after a while with Davy, ordering him out of the house, this was women's work. Mme Soigne wished Millie luck as she excused herself. She had to get home to prepare John's dinner.
"Now, Millie, I'd like to get you into bed so I can examine you. Mrs Blythe, will you help?" requested Mrs Wren.
Both women assisted Millie into the bed, easing her back and swinging her legs around so that she was laying down. Millie drew her knees up and opened them. Lifting her nightgown, Mrs Wren examined Millie and peeked out from under the gown with a smile, "all good, you are labouring wonderfully, Mrs Keith. Have you names picked out?"
Marilla was curious, she hadn't liked to ask beforehand. "Um, Arthur James if it's a boyyyy," she paused as another contraction overtook her, "and Marilla Anne if she's a girl," Millie panted once it was over, with a fond look at her mother in law.
Marilla blushed and waved her hand, saying "oh, you don't want to saddle any child with my name, I assure you."
"We do, we want your name to belong to our baby, Marilla. You've been so good to us both. It was Davy's suggestion."
Marilla felt a tear at her eye, and wiped it away impatiently, saying "well I hope he's a boy then, Arthur is a fine name."
"Still a while to go, I'm afraid Mrs Keith," Mrs Wren cautioned as she examined her once more. "Do you want to walk around a bit more?"
Millie nodded and shuffled over to the side of the bed. The women helped her up and walked around the room with her, stopping when necessary, until she could walk no more, the contractions being too close together and too painful.
"Just breathe through it Millie," Marilla soothed her.
"I can't, I can't Marilla, I just can't do it! Why did we ever decide to have another baby? Oh I just can't," Millie sobbed a few hours later, feeling the sweat trickling between her breasts, her whole body a glow.
"Shh shh, I know darling," Marilla wiped her brow, "you're nearly there, Millie, you're so close,"
"No no, I can't, I've changed my mind. Marilla, I've changed my mind, I caaaaaggghhnnnntttt," Millie screamed as another contraction bore down upon her. The women looked at each other with a grimace, Millie's screams were loud and high pitched.
"I can see the baby's head. Look blond hair, I can see blond hair, we're nearly there, Mrs Keith. Come and look Mrs Blythe, come and see your grandchild." Marilla looked on in amazement as the wee body of her brand new grandson slithered out in a wet mess. The baby covered in white waxy stuff, "vernix," explained the midwife as she cut the cord. She wrapped him in a flannel and handed the baby over to Marilla, he was so small, she looked into his wee face, dark blue eyes gazed directly into her own and she was immediately smitten. Somewhat reluctantly, she handed him over to Millie so she could hold him against her chest. Millie sobbed as she looked down at the perfect face, marvelling at his perfect fingers and toes.
"I'm just waiting on the afterbirth, Mrs Keith. Then we'll get you cleaned up. If we could have some warm water, Mrs Blythe? You might help me wash Mrs Keith?" Mrs Wren suggested.
With a fond backwards glance at mother and baby, Marilla walked out to the kitchen. It was late, very late but she felt only elation rather than exhaustion. Davy was sitting by the stove, a massive grin on his face. He had heard the cries and surmised that all was well. "A boy, darling, another boy," Marilla told him.
"Just the one?" With a laugh, Marilla assured him that there was. "Can I see her?" Davy asked, eagerly.
"Soon, darling," she kissed him on his cheek, "soon. We're just getting them cleaned up. Then you can go to her."
"What does he look like, tell me. I want to know," he said in mimicry of his boyish ways.
"He has masses of blond hair, the sweetest little nose, and deep blue eyes."
"Artie, my little Artie," admired Davy some time later, looking down at his son in his arms and across at his wife, "you are so clever, Mill."
Hiram McIlroy had been a private investigator for many years. Hiding in doorways and alley was his modus operandi. He had been following the exploits of one Irma Munch for years now as she tracked across the island and even over to Nova Scotia. By his count she may have murdered dozens, even before she had landed in the asylum. Gathering evidence was not easy. Many of her alleged victims were dead, their relatives believed they had been the victim of plain bad luck. Hiram plotted out the deaths, where she may have been at the time and in whose employ. Despite her prominent birth mark, Irma was easy to lose, but he was patient. She had already proved wily and manipulative. He desperately wanted definitive proof of her wrong doing before he reigned her in.
