I go straight to my workroom. My mind is on Rebecca Foster, but when I reach for the diary, I find a note sitting on top and recognize Cyrus’s loopy scrawl.
I know you want to talk, but I’ve gone to the Hook with Moses to get some tallow that Amos saved for us. Not sure when I’ll be back.
Here there is an ink blot, as though he let the quill rest against the paper while he thought of what to say next.
About Burgess: I guess you know he put his hands on Hannah. That’s why I hit him. But if he’s dead, I had nothing to do with it. I brought the girls home and went to bed. On my honor.
—C.
I have only the children that I have. But if I’ve learned anything about raising young men, it’s that some are liars and some are confessors. Cyrus is the latter. A confessor. In all the decades he’s lived under our roof, I’ve
never had a reason to doubt him. And I have none now. So I fold the note and set it to the side. Try to remember why I came in here.
I have lost my train of thought, cannot recall what I meant to find in the diary. This is the trouble faced by any woman who sets pen to paper in a busy household. I am never guaranteed the certainty of quiet, much less a solid length of time to chase my thoughts and bind them together. That is the luxury of men with libraries, butlers, and wives. Mothers find a different way to get their work done.
Ha! There it is! A glimmer. I grab hold of the tail end of the thought as it skitters by, then chase it so that it won’t evaporate.
I look at the diary entry again. Flip back through the pages.
Thursday, October 1—Clear except some showers. We had company this afternoon. Mr. Savage here, informs us that Mrs. Foster has sworn a rape on a number of men, among whom is Joseph North. Shocking indeed! I have been at home.
I tap the entry with the pad of one finger. Contrary to my choice of wording, it wasn’t the news itself that shocked me—I had attended Rebecca in the middle of August after the assault happened—rather that she had gone public with the accusation without first consulting me. Rape is a capital offense in the States, punishable by hanging. But in all my five decades, I have seen only one man dangle at the end of a rope for that crime. It is nearly impossible to prove, and, until lately, most men caught doing so were dispatched before the courts could be involved. The recent War of Independence and the subsequent ratification of the Constitution has put a basic framework of laws in place to deal with such transgressions. There is more of a deterrent now to keep an aggrieved father or brother from taking justice into his own hands.
I run my finger up the column to an entry from the day before, looking for insight into Rebecca’s motives for speaking publicly.
Wednesday, September 30—Clear except a light shower in the afternoon. I was called to Mr. Foster’s door and asked some questions. Later, Colonel North interrogated me concerning what conversation Mrs. Foster had with me regarding his conduct.
So perhaps not such strange timing after all? Rumor of the attack had begun to spread through the community, and North had likely gotten wind that people were talking. I flip the pages again, farther back, to August when all of this began.
Wednesday, August 19—Clear. Called at Mrs. Foster’s. She complained to me that on August tenth she had received great abuses from Joseph North and Joshua Burgess. After relating those abuses, she said that they could have done nothing worse unless they had killed her. She also said that North had abused her worse than any other person in the world had, but she believed it best to keep her troubles to herself as much as she could until her husband returned which she had hoped would be soon.Came home at 1:00 p.m. Feel fatigued.
Rebecca had kept her troubles to herself for almost two months after the attack, confiding only in me. It seemed wise at the time. I wanted
Rebecca to have protection when she stepped forward with her allegation, so she told no one else until Isaac returned from Boston. The accused were respected men, and Rebecca might have found herself victimized further if she went forward on her own. In hindsight, however, the best evidence Rebecca had of the attack was the damage done to her body. Had she filed a complaint the day I found her, looking like a battered wreck, no one would have doubted her claims. And good God, it had been awful. For nine days Rebecca was so ill and sore that she could barely care for her own children. She couldn’t bathe, was hardly able to eat. That is the woman that I found huddled in her home on August nineteenth. Yet, by waiting all those weeks until Isaac returned, her outward injuries healed, and doubt was given time to grow roots.
If I could do it differently, I would have taken Rebecca by wagon straight to the magistrates in Vassalboro the day I found her. My own lack of action makes me feel complicit in the way things have transpired. And now I fear that nothing can be done for the wounds Rebecca carries on the inside.
Things have only gotten worse for my friend. Given what I learned this morning, I suspect that Rebecca feared a pregnancy in August.
Saturday, August 22—Clear. I was at Mrs. Foster’s. Left her as well as could be expected. Indians there.
Tuesday, August 25—Clear. I went to see Mrs. Foster…
I went to see Rebecca three times that week. I’d dressed her wounds, cooked her meals, and tended her children. And all the while, I tried to figure out what to do about the assault. Isaac was in Boston, seeking an intervention from the head of his congregation after being dismissed as minister in Hallowell over a series of theological differences.
Sally Pierce, as it turns out, could not serve as a witness for Rebecca. During the month of August she was tending her older sister and newborn
niece at Fort Western. Husband gone, help gone, Rebecca was alone and vulnerable. Easy prey. But why? That is the thing I haven’t yet been able to figure out. Why had North and Burgess committed such an egregious, violent crime? They couldn’t have believed she would keep it to herself. Or that they would get away with it.
I flip back to September 30, when I’d been called to the parsonage by Isaac to answer that round of brooding questions concerning what happened to his wife. And then, later that afternoon, to my conversation with North in which he asked for an accounting of every conversation I’d had with Isaac and Rebecca since August. I’d refused, of course. It was none of his business, and I wasn’t obligated to tell him anything. But now Joshua Burgess is dead, and though Rebecca seemed relieved to hear the news, it came without any kind of real justice. I can’t help but think of Isaac, locked away in his study, writing letters. Has he been plotting revenge as well as professional vindication? And should I expect less from a man whose wife was so horribly violated?
I set down my pen. Push the journal away. Fretting over these questions will do no good. It is time to speak with my husband.
*
In summer, the path down to the mill is worn and wide from years of Ballard feet walking back and forth. But in winter it is little more than a channel between snowbanks, packed hard by heavy-soled boots. It winds through the pasture, into the woods, and toward the creek. Pine and sumac grow along its sides, along with patches of pennyroyal. But the dark, mint- shaped leaves have long since dried and fallen, which is a pity because I nearly ran through my supply delivering the last Prescott girl. Concoction of pennyroyal helps calm excited nerves, and I find it useful when delivering a Prescott. Screamers every one of them. Two of the three girls are expecting in the spring, and I dread attending the births. They learned such hysterics from their mother.
The woods are quiet today, and I miss the melodic, tinkling sound of the waterwheel outside the mill. Locked in the ice, the wheel won’t turn again until the thaw, and that makes Ephraim’s job more difficult. The wheel helps power the long saws, but now it will be Ephraim and our sons heaving their way through every log. Now that the river has frozen, he and the boys will have to make their deliveries by land instead, an arduous, time-consuming task that will leave them all exhausted and testy.
Lucky me.
I run a fingertip over a bright red burst of sumac berries, reminded how I love this path in winter. The combination of verdant pine boughs and blazing berries is striking against the snow, a well-earned bit of showmanship for outlasting all the other plants and shrubs. I make a mental note to come back later and harvest the sumac. When ripe, the berries make an excellent lemon-tinged spice for meats and vegetables, and I think Dolly might like to add some to the roast we’ll be having for dinner tonight. But I won’t collect them all as the berries are also a favorite source of winter food for rabbits and foxes.
I pause mid-step on the path. The fox. I mustn’t forget to tell Ephraim about our unnerving visitor. Was it only a few hours ago? I feel as though a month of Sundays has passed since I arrived home.
This is what it means to age, I think. The days are long, but the years are short.
The oddness of my encounter with the fox still feels like a portent of some kind, a lingering in the air, like a fog that doesn’t burn away with the midday sun. Ephraim will neither laugh at me nor be alarmed. He will simply nod and think on it, the way he does with most things. If I give him enough time, he might even have an explanation. Some men think in a straight line, like an arrow off the string. They go to logic, to the easy conclusion, and avoid the waterways of the mind. But not Ephraim. His head is all rivers and streams, and with a mind like that a thought could run anywhere.
He will have an answer. He always does.
Our lumber mill is set into the bank of Mill Creek, on stone foundations right where the current is strongest. It is large. Larger than our barn, in fact. The first floor has ample space to store and dry a great deal of cut timber, plus additional workspace for Ephraim. The second floor comprises a loft that runs the length of the mill and looks over the space below. Ephraim has even built a convenient staircase to access it for when we host a large gathering. There are few things more awkward, after all, than sending ladies up a ladder in their skirts.
Several years ago, Ephraim counterbalanced a wide, sturdy deck against the building so that it stretches over the water. No more dragging the boards down to the creek and standing knee-deep in mud while they are bound. Now he sends them straight off the pier and into the current below. They make a terrible splash, but they right easily and begin their journey toward the Kennebec, and then on to Hallowell, Farmingdale, and farther south, through Bath, and on to the shipyards in Boston, then to parts unknown. I like to think that there are vessels sailing the Atlantic made of boards sawn by my husband and sons. I like to think that we have contributed something to the wider world.
On the other side of the mill, out of sight, is a large wooden mews, attached to the exterior wall and accessible only by an inside door. Ephraim built it to house Percy, a peregrine falcon he found as a fledgling five years ago, and I can hear the bird now, calling for his lunch.
My husband looks up and smiles when I slip through the door. “Hello, love,” he says.
Ephraim crosses the floor in three long strides and places a warm kiss in the dip between my eyebrows. In his youth he’d had black hair and eyes the color of a summer sky. A straight Welsh nose. Square jaw. His eyes and jaw are still as strong as the day I first met him. But his hair is streaked with silver, and his nose slightly crooked thanks to a dirty punch he received fourteen years ago.
After a momentary glance in which he inspects me for soundness of life and limb, he asks, “Have you finally come to tell me what in blazes happened this morning?”
“Did Moses not say anything when he came to get Cyrus?” “No. Why?”
“Then I suppose he had words with you about Hannah?”
Ephraim laughs. “No. He’s working up to it, though. It withers a lad, finding the courage for that conversation. But he’ll get there. Stayed and talked for a bit, though. And made sure to catch a glimpse of her before driving off.”
I think about the body of Joshua Burgess and the assistance that Moses rendered this morning. “And did he mention nothing else while he was here?”
He grins. “Only that you would have news for me when you returned. But when I pressed him, he insisted that you would want to give me the details yourself. So I can only conclude one thing.”
“Which is?”
“You have done something to earn that boy’s loyalty.” “I’ve done something?”
“Charmed him in some way, I suspect. You tend to do that.”
“I do no such thing! Most people dislike me, as a matter of fact.”
“They respect you. Perhaps occasionally fear you. It’s not the same thing.”
“And miles away from charm.” “I find you charming.”
“You are biased.” I laugh and am grateful for the lightness it brings to my chest. Good humor stretches out from the corners of Ephraim’s eyes in the form of crow’s feet, and I realize he has lightened my mood on purpose. I must have come into the mill with a storm cloud hanging above my head. “And Moses wants to court Hannah,” I add.
“That’s hardly news.”
“Well, he now sees me as the door he must go through.” “And here I thought I had the honor?”
I snort. “It seems that the young Pollard and I have bonded.” “Over what?”
“A body.”
Outside, the squawking grows louder in the falcon mews, accompanied by the heavy beat of large wings.
“Percy is hungry,” I say, looking to the far wall and the door that leads beyond.
“You can’t change subjects like that, love. I did hear mention of a body.”
“Well, your bird is loud and distracting. Feed him. Then I’ll tell you.”
Ephraim grins, then strides across the floor to where a large bucket sits beside the woodstove. He plucks out a wriggling blueback trout with his bare hand and opens the door that accesses the mews. Percy hops across the floor and plucks the thing right out of Ephraim’s fingers. He’s a handsome bird, with pointed wings and a long tail. His feathers are a blue gray above and a speckled brown beneath. Percy puffs his white breast and turns his head so that the black mustache-like markings on his face are visible. He always looks French to me. And pompous.
Task accomplished, Ephraim shuts the door, turns to me again, and crosses his arms over his chest, waiting.
I try to ignore the sound of ripping flesh coming from the mews. Where to start? And how to explain everything? I take a deep breath and let my shoulders settle. Stretch my neck side to side, then begin the best way I know how.
“You know that while I was with Betsy Clark, Jonathan’s raft got trapped in the ice at Bumberhook Point, and that Sam Dawin fell through while they were trying to get to shore?”
He nods. “I helped Jonathan get him into the girls’ bed.”
“Did you know that he saw a body when he went under? Or that Jonathan sent James Wall to get men from the Hook to cut it from the ice?”
“I did not.” Ephraim’s jaw twitches. “Who is the dead man?” “I never said it was a man.”
“Then who’s dead?” “I’m getting to that.” “Rather slowly, I’d say.”
“Hush. I’m trying to sort out the details, so they’ll make sense.”
The small woodstove spreads what little warmth it can through the mill, and I drift closer, palms outstretched, before continuing.
“Amos Pollard sent James to collect me from the Clarks’. They’d gotten the body out. Taken it to the tavern. Amos wanted me to inspect him before Dr. Cony was summoned.”
“Him? So it was a man? Like I said.”
“Well, you assumed. But that’s beside the point. Women get murdered too, you know?”
“Murdered?”
“I’ll get to that as well if you won’t interrupt.”
“Go on then, tell me what man has been murdered in Hallowell,” Ephraim says. It’s not so much the news he’s enjoying, but our banter, and I note the flash of humor in his eyes.
I pause, giving import to the name before I speak it. “Joshua Burgess.”
Ephraim looks as shocked as he is capable of. His eyes widen for a moment and his nostrils flare. Beyond that he is as impassive as a stump. “Ah,” he says. “Well, that complicates things.”
“He’d been beaten and hanged, Ephraim. Someone killed him before
they threw him in the river.”
“Well.” He scratches his scalp, contemplating. “There are a number of men in this town who would want to hang him.”
This is the hardest thing I must ask him today, but Ephraim and I are not in the habit of shrinking away from difficult subjects. “Is our son one of them?”
And there it is, the stillness that overcomes my husband when he is afraid. “Which son? And what do you mean?”
“Have you not spoken with your daughters this morning?”
His eyes narrow. “Only a quick good morning when Dolly brought my breakfast.”
“And she said nothing of Hannah?”
“Hannah is coming up an awful lot just now. And no. Dolly did not mention her sister. Why?”
“Because Burgess hurt her at the Frolic last night.” Ephraim stiffens and takes one threatening step forward, and I hold out a hand, palm flat to stop him from combusting. “Everything is fine. Cyrus handled it. Thrashed him soundly from what I hear, but the fact remains that Joshua Burgess tried to force Hannah to dance, and he had to be evicted from the Frolic. Dozens of people witnessed it. And when news of Burgess’s death spreads, so will that fact.”
“And you think they’ll come for Cyrus?” “Him or Isaac Foster.”
“There’s another man who would benefit directly from Burgess’s death.”
“Yes. The fewer people who take the stand in Vassalboro, the better for Joseph North.”
Ephraim nods slowly, letting that idea take root. “When did James Wall arrive at the Clarks’?”
I shrug. “About five o’clock.”
“Is it possible that North already knew?”
“Perhaps. There was smoke rising from his chimney when I arrived in the Hook. Someone could have told him. Or he could have heard the commotion. Seen them bringing the body to the tavern.”
Again, Ephraim nods. “Or he could have been there when Burgess went into the river. Could have done it himself.”
The possibility has occurred to me as well. “We aren’t the only ones who will wonder about that.”
“Accusing and proving are different things. A cause of death would have to be declared. Evidence brought forth.”
A sly grin creeps across my face. “Which is, no doubt, why Amos Pollard summoned me this morning. Tomorrow is the last Friday of the month. The Court of General Sessions is meeting.”
“In his tavern no less. Clever bastard.”
“And, having examined Joshua Burgess, I can declare cause of death.”
Ephraim closes the short distance between us. He pulls me against his chest and buries his face in my neck. I can feel him draw in a long breath
through his nose, take in my scent, and then a wave of warm air brushes across my skin as he exhales. As is his habit, Ephraim slides his hand into the mound of hair at the base of my skull and pulls out a single curl. He winds it around his finger then lets it spring free. He does this several times as he ponders the situation.
“It seems you’ve had quite a morning.” “And you’ve not even heard the half of it.” He chuckles into my skin. “Dare I ask?”
“Oh, nothing quite so dramatic as a half-drowned man and a dead body.
But I did see a fox when I got home.” “I thought I heard one barking.” “The fox was black, not red.”
“A silver fox, then. Those are rare indeed. Some call them ghost foxes.” “Well, she didn’t look like much of a ghost to me. She was quite real. And she was on the rise leading to the south pasture. Near the live oak.” I pause, feeling foolish, but Ephraim presses a hand to the small of my back, urging me to continue. “The thing is, there were two trappers at Coleman’s this morning when I stopped in. They were talking about that fox. And there
she is, waiting for me when I get home? You must admit that’s odd.” He doesn’t comment one way or another.
“They know that fox is here,” I tell him. “They’re hunting it.”
“It’s called poaching when it’s on private land. I’ll keep an eye out for them. They’ll be back, no doubt.”
“They’d run that risk? You can shoot a poacher on sight.”
“One silver fox is worth forty beaver skins, love. And trappers aren’t known for keeping to a strict moral code.”
“There’s something different about this one.” “How so?”
“I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was here for me.” “Why?”
“Because of the way she looked at me. I was debating whether to come speak with you or go check on Sam. She kept looking at me, then back to the house. Like Sam was more important.” I glance up to see if he’s
laughing. But he isn’t. Those bright blue eyes meet my gaze, and there is no teasing tilt to his mouth.
“I’ve never seen a silver fox, you know. Alive, that is. But if one came to you, it’s worth noting. Foxes don’t come to people naturally. And if you asked the Wabanaki, they would tell you that it is a sign.”
“Of what?”
Ephraim keeps his hand on my back but turns his face to the window. Only a rectangle of forest and snowbank can be seen through it, but he peers out intensely. “The native people believe that the fox presents itself only in times of great uncertainty. That it acts as a guide.”
“And what about you? Do you believe that?”
“I believe,” he says, carefully, “that you have had a strange morning.
And that you should not discount anything.”
*
Indians there.
I gasp and sit up straight on my stool, as though I’ve been bitten. And perhaps I have, but only by a thought. Little details connect themselves, reaching for one another, forming a theory in my mind.
It is well known within Hallowell that Rebecca Foster often keeps company with the Wabanaki—she has since childhood, encouraged by her parents at the parochial school they ran in Massachusetts. They’d kept progressive ideals of educating the native population, of building a partnership between the two cultures, and Rebecca has maintained the practice of opening her door to them since moving to this community with her husband a few years ago. It is not uncommon to see them at the parsonage. But, as with most things concerning Rebecca Foster, her neighbors are split in opinion regarding this habit. There seems to be little about her that does not cause division in Hallowell.
“What are you doing?” Ephraim whispers. He stands at the door to my workroom, shirtless, barefoot, wearing only trousers that are unlaced and hang low on his hips.
Until three minutes ago I’d been sitting at the dressing table in our bedroom, brushing my hair, when I’d suddenly grabbed the candle and left the room. I came in here to flip back pages in the diary.
“I went to see Rebecca Foster this morning. I wanted her to hear the news about Joshua Burgess from me.”
He leans against the doorframe but says nothing.
“And when I got home, something was bothering me about Burgess and the Foster case, so I went back through my entries to try and remember details. Those two things are braided together. I’m certain of it.”
Ephraim comes to stand beside me. He reaches out and runs his hand through my hair. “A braid has three strands, love.”
“Which means I’m missing one.”
“Or maybe you are tired, reaching for meaning where there is none?”
“I don’t think I’m wrong in this. Here.” I poke my finger at the diary entry.
Ephraim reads it aloud. “Saturday, August twenty-second. Clear. I was at Mrs. Foster’s. Left her well as could be expected. Indians there.” He peers at me in the dim light. “Indians?”
“You know that Rebecca has befriended them.”
“Aye. That’s no secret. Indians are there often, I would guess.”
“But you also know that there are many in Hallowell who hate her for it. They think it unbecoming a woman of her station. And an insult given all that happened during the French and Indian War.”
He nods, uncertain where I’m headed with this.
“Who do you know that is better with herbs than I am?” “No one. Except…”
“The Wabanaki.” I can see that I’ve lost him completely now. “I found a tin that smelled of savine and tansy in Rebecca’s parlor. It was empty.”
Still that steady gaze, but no questions.
“Tansy brings the menses. But savine induces labor. It’s hard to find and harder to harvest. The concoction must be prepared carefully and administered in specific doses.”
Now he is curious. “Have you ever used this?”
“Only when a woman has gone past her time. And even then, only twice. It makes for a painful labor and, if you are not careful, can cause uncontrolled bleeding.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Rebecca Foster is pregnant. She told me this morning. The child isn’t Isaac’s.”
Ephraim looks at the entry again, does the math. “Twelve days after she was raped Rebecca took savine to end a possible pregnancy. You think the Wabanaki gave her the herbs?”
“It’s only a guess.”
He shrugs. “It’s not a bad one.”
*
It is nearing midnight. I can feel it, the way my muscles seem to hang limp on my bones. The way my eyes have gone dry and my neck aches. But I’ve resumed my place at the dressing table regardless, running the boar-bristle brush through my hair. I do this every night, two hundred strokes. Brushing, brushing until my hair crackles with static electricity. I love the way my scalp tingles, the way my hair slips smooth through my fingers afterward. It is the only way to tame my curls.
Ephraim is stretched out in bed, watching me. After a moment he sighs. He wears nothing now, waiting for me to come to bed. I turn around, match him leer for leer.
“I’m glad you chose me,” he says. “As I recall, you did the choosing.”
“No. I did the courting. But it wouldn’t have mattered a bit if you hadn’t wanted me in return. Any man worth his salt knows it’s a woman who does the choosing. And anyone who thinks differently is a fool.”
A small mirror, chipped and distorted with age, sits on the table. I turn back to it—laughing as I see his grin in the reflection—and move a section of hair above my right ear to inspect a thick streak of silver hidden beneath
the part. I lift it, coiling the hair around my finger, marveling at this single patch of silver.
Ephraim shifts on the bed, and I hear the soft pad of feet on the floorboards.
“I like it,” he says lifting the streak from my hand. He slides it through his fingers.
“It is one thing to be old,” I tell him, “and another to feel old. That makes me feel old.”
“Well, it makes me feel like a king.” He smiles at my curious look. “Only a fool would be upset to find a vein of silver running through his beloved territory.”
Well, is it any surprise that we had nine children? Not to me. Not with a man who whispers such things in my ear as he stands an inch away, warm and naked.
Ephraim drops my hair and reaches for my hand. “Come to bed, love.” Some things change in thirty-five years of marriage—the silver hair,
the softness of my belly, the lines around my eyes—but some things do not, and I am still eager for the warmth of my husband’s touch. I go with him gladly and smile as he blows out the candle.
