SUNDAY, JANUARY 10
I lean against the edge of a worktable down at the mill watching my husband eat breakfast. Ephraim sits beside the woodstove, tin plate on his lap, and takes large but precise mouthfuls of scrambled egg and fried potato. The bacon is long gone. He ate that first.
“Thank you,” he says. “I was about to start gnawing on my ankle.” “Not much meat there. Next time consider your arse.”
“Can’t reach it,” he says, bending to the side and chomping the air with his teeth.
I laugh. It is good to be married to a man with a gift for levity. “I am glad you haven’t dried up and gone to seed,” I tell him. “So many men your age do.”
“Not many of them have a wife that looks like you. I have incentive.”
I slide off the table and cross the old, weathered floorboards, then take the plate from his hands and set it on the stove before straddling his lap and wrapping my arms around his neck.
“There is no need to lie, husband. We both know that I am not pretty. I never have been.”
He says nothing for a moment, just studies me as though seeing my face for the first time. Then he makes one of those indistinguishable male
noises. Half grunt, half sigh. He runs a finger down the bridge of my nose, over my lips, up one cheekbone, and down my chin. He brushes a few loose strands of hair away from my eyes and says, “When you were young, your eyes were dark. Chestnut like your hair. And do you know what the Bard says about chestnut eyes?”
“Nothing, I’m sure.”
“An excellent color: your chestnut was ever the only color.” “I do believe you just made that up.”
“In fact, I did not. It’s from As You Like It. But that’s not the point I’m trying to make. Your eyes used to be dark, but now they have lightened. Golden, like acorns.”
I snort. “And I suppose the Bard would have something to say about acorns as well? No doubt from The Taming of the Shrew.”
“He had much to say about acorns—he was a man well acquainted with nature, was Shakespeare. But my favorite line is also from As You Like It, though, unlike Celia, I did not find you ‘under a tree, dropped like an acorn.’ It was a field, the first time I saw you, and from what I remember, there wasn’t an oak in sight. But my point is that something about you had to mellow with age, given that your temperament wouldn’t budge an inch. It was left to your eyes to soften, and they are lovelier now than ever. So no, Mrs. Ballard, you might not be pretty, but I’ll be damned if you are not the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
“You are biased.” “I am proud.”
It has been a few years since we made love in the mill, but given his honeyed words, I think this might be a good time to resurrect the habit. I scoot closer, hips rising, just as we hear a sound at the door.
A man almost laughs but saves himself at the last second by clearing his throat, followed by an “Ahem.”
Barnabas Lambard—shaved and dressed in his Sunday best—leans against the doorframe with the kind of precocious grin best suited to a twelve-year-old boy. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says.
“That makes two of us,” Ephraim mutters, as he gently lifts me from his lap so that he can stand.
“That is Barnabas Lambard,” I remind him.
Ephraim squints. “You are the officer of the court from Vassalboro.” “Yes.”
I am pleased to see him and not afraid to show it, so I grace him with a smile. Ephraim notes this act of rare approval, takes the man in curiously.
“My wife says you’re the one who told Obadiah Wood that Burgess was murdered.”
Barnabas looks at me with an expression that falls somewhere between intrigue and annoyance. “I am. Though she could have warned me up front that the man was dead. Came as a shock. As she intended, I’m sure.”
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask.
“There are two reasons, actually, and that’s one of them.” He crosses the floor and extends his hand to Ephraim, introducing himself formally. “Barnabas Lambard. I am pleased to officially meet you, sir.”
Oh.
I look him over again. There’s a fresh shaving nick on his jaw, and his shirt collar has been pressed. The look that passes between Ephraim and me is so quick Barnabas shouldn’t catch it, but he does, then his eyes narrow as his own gaze shifts between us.
Clever boy.
“Why would a dead man bring you back to Hallowell?” Ephraim asks. “Because an inquiry has been opened into his cause of death. Judge
Wood has questions regarding the circumstances and the manner of his demise and has instructed the Sessions to take up the matter on the twenty- ninth when they convene here in the Hook.” He turns back to me. “I thought you might want to know that there is growing interest among the other two judges about the accusation made against Mr. Foster.”
“The kind of questions that would behoove him to secure a lawyer?” “Perhaps.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
“Now that the two of you have made amends…” Ephraim’s voice is dry as toast. He looks young Barnabas over with renewed interest. “You must have ridden half the night to arrive so early?”
“I came in yesterday. Stayed at the tavern.” His next words are chosen carefully, and he isn’t afraid to meet Ephraim’s eyes when he says them. “I didn’t want to arrive smelling like the road.”
“And why is that?”
They stand a foot apart, eyes locked on each other. Ephraim has him beat in height, but I think the boy might be a near match in terms of nerve. Without looking away, he takes off his hat and holds it in front of him. He grins, big and wide. Not the least embarrassed.
“That would bring me to the second reason. I thought I might say hello to your daughter.”
Ephraim has guessed this purpose, of course. I did tell him about Barnabas’s first visit and the interest Dolly took in him. But no man is ever really prepared when a boy comes knocking, and Ephraim—good father though he is—cannot keep the growl out of his voice when he answers.
“Hello? That’s all you want to say?”
“I’ve heard it’s a good place to start on a first meeting.”
There’s a bit of triumph in Ephraim’s eyes. “First meeting? And do you even know her name, given that you’ve never spoken to her?”
“Dolly. Short for Dorothy, or so I’ve been told. A family name, I’d guess?” He looks to me in question.
“After my mother,” I tell him.
“She is too young for courting,” Ephraim says.
In fact, Dolly will be eighteen next month. A mere two months younger than I was when Ephraim first came to court me. He knows I’m thinking this, of course, so he stubbornly refuses to meet my gaze.
Again, Barnabas flashes that impish smile, a hint of confidence without hubris. If I am not careful, I will end up being quite fond of this boy. It is a rare man who can handle my husband.
“Well, I’m young too, which is good. But I never said a word about courting. I only said I’d like to say hello.”
“And yet you’ve still not explained why.”
He shrugs. “I like the way she looks. At me, I mean. Twice I caught her eye, and she didn’t blush or giggle. There doesn’t seem to be a silly thing about your daughter. From what little I have seen, she reminds me of Mistress Ballard. Clever, both of them. Same as my own mother.”
It’s a good speech, but Ephraim won’t give in quickly. He lets Barnabas stand there a moment—long enough for a twinge of uncertainty to creep into the boy’s muddy eyes—before he finally lifts his hand and holds it out. “Ephraim Ballard.”
“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” I say, wiping my hands on my apron. “Would you like some breakfast? I believe Dolly is cleaning up the last of it now.”
“I would like that very much.”
I wait until Ephraim and Barnabas have gone up the path toward the house and then I pull the mill door closed. Outside, in his mews, Percy squawks his displeasure at our departure, but I pay him no mind. He’s had his breakfast already, and soon Ephraim will let him out to fly.
I follow the men up the path, watching as they make their way between the snowbanks, noting how they walk. Ephraim like a bull—sure and strong
—and Barnabas like a stag—young and ready. There is much, I think, that you can tell about a man by the way he walks. Nothing timid on the path before me, though, so I catch up and try to prepare myself for what will come next.
Dolly is waiting at the door. She leans against the frame just as she did the last time Barnabas Lambard came through the garden gate, one hand on her hip and her face flushed with curiosity. She must have seen him ride up, must have been hoping that we would come back to the house.
I poke Ephraim in the ribs and whisper, “Understand my father a bit better now, perhaps?”
He answers with an irritated grunt.
Dolly’s cheeks are bright, and her hair is brushed, falling down her back in rivers of loose brown curls, but the prettiest thing about her are those eyes. Same as her father’s. It may as well be midsummer for all the
blue beneath her heavy lashes. And when she smiles at Barnabas, I can hear Ephraim’s teeth grind together. I tug at his hand and pull him back a half step.
“Remember, love,” I laugh, “it’s a woman who does the choosing. You said so yourself.”
“And I’m a fool for ever mentioning it to you.”
Dolly lets Barnabas into the house, and we follow, neither of us quite ready to see our youngest daughter so easily felled by Cupid’s arrow.
