A Changing Light by Edith Maxwell (feel good books to read txt) 📕

“Another drunk and disorderly for her?” asked the cross-tempered man behind the counter.

“Yes, sir,” the younger fellow said. “Found her on a bench singing at the top of her lungs.”

“It’s not a crime to sing in public,” Prudence protested with slurred diction.

“It is when you’re tippling out of a bottle of hooch at the same time.” Her escort pulled a pint bottle out of his pocket. Only half an inch of an amber liquor remained in the bottom. “And when proper ladies are giving you a wide berth as they pass.”

The older officer cocked his thumb toward the door to the back. “Lock her up. I’ll call the husband.” His voice was tired, as if he’d been through this routine before, which he no doubt had.

“I can tell the Weeds she’s here,” I offered.

Prudence gazed at me as if she’d only now seen me. “Well, hello there, Rose. Did they lock thee up, too? Did thee just get freed?” She gave me a sloppy smile.

I inwardly recoiled from the stench of alcohol on her breath. “No, Prudence.” I struggled with what to say next. Scolding her for being drunk before two o’clock in the afternoon would be pointless and cruel. Wishing her a lovely day would be silly. Who enjoyed time in a jail cell? Asking her why she drank wasn’t the right question, either, at least not here and now. But it gave me an idea.

“Instead of calling her family, might I accompany Prudence to her cell and help get her settled?” I asked. I’d visited others in jail in earlier years, but never a woman. “We attend the same church.”

The two men exchanged a glance. “That’d be fine,” the older one said. “The matron isn’t present right now.”

From a previous case, I knew the department employed only one woman, whose primary role was to watch over female prisoners.

“I thank thee.” I followed the younger officer and Prudence into the back, turning into the holding area after he unlocked the heavy door. The cell they reserved for women was the back one of the three, for privacy, I supposed. Blessedly the men’s cells were unoccupied, or Prudence might have been subjected to a dose of verbal abuse.

After the officer unlocked the door, it creaked as it opened. Inside sat a cot with a ratty gray blanket, a small washstand with a chipped pitcher and basin, and a wastes bucket smelling as if it had not been recently scrubbed. The small barred window hadn’t had a cleaning lately, either.

Prudence plodded in and sank onto the cot with a groan.

The officer looked from her to me. “I ought to lock her in, but if you want to stay and visit a bit, suit yourself. She’s not dangerous. Shut the door when you leave, and let me or my buddy out there know.”

“I thank thee.”

“She’s not exactly a flight risk in her condition.” He gave a little toss of his head and disappeared back down the hall.

Prudence gave me a hopeful look. “Did thee bring me something to eat? I am famished of a sudden.”

“I’m sorry, no. Perhaps I can fetch something and bring it back.” There was nowhere to sit except next to her on the questionable blanket. A year ago I would have perched there. Now, carrying a child, I didn’t dare. Who knew what vermin lurked in the cloth or on the thin mattress under it?

“Never thee mind.” She mustered a wan smile. “My husband will release me soon enough, I daresay. Or maybe young Zeb will. He’s such a good boy.”

“He is. And a good husband to Faith.”

She bowed her head, staring at her clasped hands. She looked up at me. “Rose, why does my weakness keep getting the better of me? Every morning I resolve not to imbibe, not ever again. But look at me. This is the third time I’ve been tossed in the clink—in broad daylight.” Her voice rose and ended in a pitiful sob.

I laid my hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know why, Prudence. Some are susceptible to overeating, thinking food will assuage their pain. Others fall prey to laudanum or other opiates. Thee clearly has a weakness for hard spirits. Complete abstention would be thy only cure.”

“I know,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as her shoulders sank. “Thee remembers when we lost poor Isaiah in the Great Fire?”

“Of course. It was a terrible day.” Two years ago, the disastrous fire that nearly destroyed Amesbury’s carriage industry also took the lives of some of its workers. Zeb’s younger brother Isaiah, who’d been stepping out with Annie, had been one of the victims.

“The drink helps me forget the pain of losing him.” She studied her hands. “If I stopped imbibing, I’d have to face my anguish square on. And more. Whiskey is like an old, comfortable friend to me.”

I nodded. I’d heard this reaction from others who struggled with their emotions, including my brother-in-law Frederick. For a time, missing my late sister, he’d drowned his sorrow in drink—to the detriment of his children—until he’d met Winnie. Blessedly, I’d seen no further evidence of his drinking since then.

“Wouldn’t thee like to resume thy music?” I asked. “Teaching and performing?”

She wagged her head with a sorrowful look. “Rose, that ship has sailed.”

I supposed it had. “Does thee sometimes drink in public late at night?”

“Thee heard,” she finally said, gazing down again.

“I don’t know if I have.” I tucked my skirts under me and squatted next to the cot, bringing my face level with hers. “Tell me.”

“When the Canadian was killed.” She covered her mouth with her hand, blue eyes wide above it.

I waited. Silence was normally my friend. Not now. “And?”

“I was there.” At the creak of the jail area door, Prudence clamped her mouth shut.

Kevin strode in. “Heard you wanted to talk with me, Miss . . .” His voice trailed off when he spied me inside the cell with Prudence. To his credit, he didn’t glare at her, instead giving