FRIDAY, DECEMBER 18
Ephraim is dead.
That is the nagging fear that has plagued me over the last twelve days, and I have to drive it from my mind so it does not take root and fester. I feel his absence as though it were a missing limb, some vital part of me gone, and often find myself looking to the lane, watching for his return.
I must leave for Vassalboro on Tuesday, with or without him. I would prefer with, of course, but am growing less certain by the hour that he will make it home in time.
If he makes it home at all.
“No,” I say aloud, taking that thought captive as well.
In his absence, I keep myself busy. Cooking. Cleaning. Spinning flax and weaving linen. I tend to the neighbors and my patients when they call, making tinctures and syrups in my workroom. I manage our small farm and assign work for my children. Cyrus runs the mill. Hannah and Dolly milk the cows. Jonathan tends the livestock. Young Ephraim oversees the chickens and tends to the horses. He has a soft voice and gentle hands, and I have never seen a horse startle or rear in his presence. Still, he’s a bit young for the job, and I check on Brutus and Bucket once a day just to make sure all is well.
I slide between the heavy barn doors, a bucket of slops in each hand. It is time to feed the pigs, but Jonathan is nowhere to be found, which means he’s slipped off again without telling anyone.
The barn was built as a large square with a peaked roof and four separate quadrants on the inside, one each for the horses, cattle, goats, and pigs, with a cross-shaped walkway between the pens. It smells of old straw and fresh manure, of alfalfa, hay, and barley stacked in the upper loft. It smells of warm animals and wet sawdust. The horses whicker as I make my way between the stalls. Both dairy cows are pregnant, and they shift and low at the sound of my voice, while the bull stomps and snorts in his pen. He is restless, eager for another chance at the cows, but he’s done his job for the year and will have to wait until breeding season in June. The calves
—one male and one female—are bored and they nap, oblivious, as the goats bustle in their pen, bleating out their request for dinner.
“Hush,” I say. “It’s not your turn. Jonathan will see to you later.”
I lift one bucket and then the other over the pig pen rail and dump the contents into the trough, wincing at the wet, vomitous sound. I don’t stay to watch the fat pink animals root and snort their way through dinner. I have never been fond of messy eaters.
I am almost at the barn door when I hear the thing I’ve spent weeks listening for: the heavy clop of horse hooves on frozen ground.
“Ephraim,” I whisper and run out the door, an empty bucket swinging from each hand. They bounce against my calves as I hurry down the path, careful not to slip on the hard packed snow.
My smile evaporates the moment I round the bend and reach the front yard. Joseph North has dismounted his bay mare and is tying his reins to the gate post. His mongrel dog sits at his feet, looking at me as though I were a meal. He bares his teeth but doesn’t growl.
I drop the wooden buckets with a clatter and set my hands on my hips. “What do you want?”
“I’ve come to see the results of Ephraim’s survey. I stopped by the mill, but he wasn’t in.”
He may as well have said that he’s stopped by for tea. Or to bring payment on a late bill. But his eyes are pinched at the corners, calculating, and I know that he came to see if Ephraim has returned.
“That’s because he isn’t at the mill.” “Where is he, then?”
“Out.”
“Where?”
“I have never met a man who enjoys giving his wife an account of his every movement, Colonel. Ephraim goes where he pleases and returns when he will. As to the where and when, you’ll have to ask him yourself because I certainly don’t know.”
North takes in my disheveled appearance: the tatty work clothes, dirty hands, and the scarf tied around my hair.
“I see that I have caught you in the middle of your work,” he says. Perhaps it is my imagination, my dislike for the man, but I feel he emphasizes the word in a way that suggests only an unrefined woman would deign to perform physical labor. “Do tell Ephraim that I’m looking for him.”
I hope he might leave then, but his departure is interrupted by Cyrus. My son rounds the bend in the path, coming from the barn, with a fishing rod over one shoulder and a string of blueback trout in his hand. As always, he is grinning, nearly bursting with good cheer. Yet, if I had a knife in my hand at this very moment, I would joyfully drive it through North’s throat for the look of disgust that flashes across his face as he watches my son approach.
Cyrus Ballard is thirty-three years old, and he will never marry or have children of his own. He will never work away from the mill or go to sea— though it is his greatest desire. He will never explore the vast wilds of this untamed continent. Cyrus is thirty-three years old, and he is mute. He was robbed of speech at the age of twelve, and the loss has marked his life in irreparable ways.
There is no flaw in his intellect, or physical ability. He is tall and strong and handsome. He can read and write, and can communicate with his hands
when necessary. It is a form of speech we have adopted, motions instead of words. But outside of our family, he is often pitied. Thought dimwitted. An illiterate population cares little for a man with beautiful handwriting, and— without speech, he cannot make them understand.
“Hello, Cyrus,” North says. He glances back and forth between us, then grins. “Has your father returned from his surveying trip?”
Cyrus crosses his arms over his chest and glowers. He doesn’t like North any more than the rest of us. After a moment he moves to stand beside me, protective.
“Why don’t you take the fish inside,” I tell him. “They’ll want cleaning.”
He nods toward the string, where a cut runs down the belly of each fish, to prove he’s done it already.
“There is some talk about you in the village,” North says.
Cyrus’s hazel eyes pinch in suspicion. He is unable to take the bait, to ask what this talk might be.
“Apparently you got into a fight with Joshua Burgess the night he died.
That is fascinating timing, don’t you think?” “What are you implying?” I ask.
“Only that your son thrashes a man in front of fifty people and several hours later that man turns up dead. I find it curious. Perhaps that officer from the court will, too. I hear he’s been sniffing around.”
“Should that happen, you will, no doubt, refer him to your own judgment of accidental drowning.”
“A judgment made without benefit of all the facts.” Joseph North smiles. “I cannot help but wonder if you knew of the fight when you testified before me, Mistress Ballard.”
I owe this man nothing. Not answers. Not explanations. Not respect.
And I give him none of it as I stand there, waiting for him to leave.
But he isn’t done. “I want to know what Rebecca Foster told you. If I am to defend myself, I must understand the charges.”
“The charges seem simple enough to me.”
A small muscle twitches along his jaw. “The details are vital to my defense.”
“Your defense is not my concern, Colonel. I am going to Vassalboro to testify on Rebecca’s behalf, not yours.”
“I am judge of this county. By law you cannot keep that information from me.”
“It is my duty before the law to give my testimony to the court. As you well know. You will hear it, along with everyone else, next week, before the judge in Vassalboro.”
“Perhaps.”
He might as well have said, If. If your husband is present. If your husband is still alive. If. But perception means a great deal to Joseph North, and he cannot break character in his role as the wrongfully accused. Perhaps. A more civilized, urbane, less threatening word. Still, there are oceans of meaning in those two syllables.
“No need to be concerned, Colonel. I am confident the hearing will proceed as planned.”
He strides back to his mare. Gathers the reins. I watch him swing onto his horse, then turn her in a small circle. “You might consider all the ways your confidence is misplaced,” he says.
As if on cue, Cicero growls.
“If I were you, I’d feed that thing before he bites someone.”
“No point feeding a dog when it can take its own dinner by the throat,” he says, then drives his boots into the mare’s side. Joseph North canters down the drive, mongrel dog at his heels.
*
Friday, December 18—Cloudy and some snow. Colonel North was here. He examined me regarding what
conversation Mrs. Foster had with me concerning his
conduct toward her last August. I have been at home.
*
Saturday, December 19—Clear part of the day. Today is 35 years since my marriage. Mr. Ballard has not returned from his surveying. I have been at home.
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 20
Killing chickens is a bloody, awful mess. The task usually falls to Ephraim or Jonathan, but both are gone. So today Cyrus and I have undertaken the job of butchering and we usher three ornery cocks to the yard.
These are the last of our extra roosters from the spring. Mean things that torment us with beak and spur every time we go to collect the eggs. They are small and spindly, and I’m tired of them. It’s no great sadness to see them put in the oven to roast.
“I hate the axe,” I tell Cyrus. “We should use Revenge.” He gives me a questioning glance.
“Your father’s blade. Down at the mill. That awful, hooked thing.
Revenge. That’s what we call it. Fetch it if you would.”
It takes him only a few moments to go there and back. But the blade is in his hand when he returns. We silently debate which of us will do the job. He points at me. Holds his fist as though he’s grasping something, and I agree because there is no good way out of this work. I’ll face spurs or blade one way or the other. Better to be in control of the thing that cuts.
Cyrus grabs the first bird. He holds it upside down for several moments, letting the blood rush to its head. When its eyes close and its wings stop flapping, I know the cock has fallen asleep. Cyrus holds its head in his other hand and secures his grip on the feet. I hate killing things. But I
hate these roosters more. And this is the most humane way to dispatch them. So I cut the fowl’s throat with a quick, C-shaped motion and it’s done. Cyrus hangs the bird by its feet at the fence so that the blood will drain. It goes quickly enough after that. One after the other. Once we’re done, he goes to clean the blade and put it back at the mill.
I will have Hannah and Dolly dress and cook the birds once they’re plucked. There’s no clean way to finish the job, but it’s better done outside than in the kitchen where the feathers and blood will get everywhere. I scald the birds in hot water to loosen the feathers, and then I set up my stool and carving stump in the yard and get to work. Soon, there is a pile of black and white feathers in the bucket at my feet. I have gutted the last rooster when once more the sound of horse hooves echoes down the lane. But there are two sets this time, and I do not even bother to get my hopes up.
When I lift my head, I see that North is back. And he’s brought his wife with him. Halfway down the drive he holds out his hand and motions to Lidia.
“Wait here,” he tells her, then kicks his mare into a trot.
Lidia North does as she is told and pulls her small gray horse to a stop. She’s covered in a green riding cloak, and all I can see is her pale face peeking out beneath the hood. She looks unwell, and her hands are tucked into a muff to stay warm.
Dammit, I think, but go to meet North at the gate, hands sticky with blood.
“Colonel.”
He’s dressed in riding clothes and packed for a journey. Headed to Vassalboro early, no doubt. The cur is at his heels, eyeing me in that ravenous, predatory way.
“Ephraim?” he asks, not bothering to dismount or offer a greeting. “On his way.”
He snorts, unconvinced. “I would give you one piece of advice. When you stand before the judges,” North says, voice just low enough that his wife cannot hear, his arm sweeping wide to indicate the house, the barn, the
mill, “remember who I am. After all, your family depends a great deal upon my generosity.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I am reminding you,” he says, “that, as an agent of the Kennebec Proprietors, it is my duty to confirm that you have met all the conditions required to obtain the deed on this property.”
“Don’t worry. I remember exactly who you are,” I say. “Rebecca Foster told me.”
I have been so consumed with the chickens that I didn’t realize how miserably cold it is out here. The sun has passed its zenith and is sliding toward the horizon, dragging the last of the day’s meager heat with it, and a breeze has come in from the east, whipping shards of ice into the air. It stings my cheeks and makes my eyes water.
Joseph North’s voice is every bit as cold as the air when he replies, “Clearly there is more than one idiot living in this house.”
I gasp at the insult. I could scream with fury. But I’m not the one who makes the sudden screeching sound. It comes so quick and so loud that I jump. Spin around. See nothing. But then there is a rush of air and the flapping of wings as an enormous bird dives toward us. It does a lazy circle around the house, swoops between me and North, then glides to the garden gate, gripping the wooden board so tightly that its talons gash open the weathered cedar.
Cicero yips and growls, but he too sees those lethal talons and keeps his distance. North pulls his horse backward in alarm, but I feel only a wild rush of relief.
“Percy,” I whisper.
There are only three falconers in the territory of Maine, and only one in Hallowell. Ephraim is the only one who practices mounted falconry. So, when I say the bird’s name, Joseph North loses all bluster and turns his horse away.
“I thought you wanted to speak with my husband?” I call after him. “As you can see, he is home now.”
“It’s getting late,” North says, gravel in his throat. “I’ve no time left to dither.”
On horseback, at a brisk walk, it will take four hours to reach Vassalboro. There is no chance he and Lidia can make it before nightfall. Which means they must find shelter along the way, or ride after dark.
“Pity,” I say, loud enough that Lidia can hear. “I am certain my husband would love to speak with you about your visits this week.”
“Cicero, come!” North snaps. He neither looks at me nor bids me farewell. The mongrel trots after him, skinny rump wagging with each step. North has met up with his wife, halfway to the tree line, when I see another horse and rider emerge. My heart soars for one brief second until I realize that it is not my husband.
Moses Pollard is riding his father’s favorite stud and wearing his Sunday best. He has a bouquet of bright red sumac berries in one hand and a silly grin on his face.
“Oh good grief,” I whisper.
Percy tightens his grip on the garden gate, and I hear the scratch of talon against wood. The jesses dangle from his feet, all twelve inches swaying back and forth as he watches the young man approach.
Moses has noticed the bird as well, and he pulls up ten feet from the gate. His horse prances uneasily.
“Did you pass Ephraim on the drive?” I ask. “No.”
Moses dismounts, holding the bouquet awkwardly in one hand as he gathers the reins in the other. He clears his throat, uncertain how to proceed now that he knows Hannah’s father is not at home. It is obvious he has not prepared for this possibility.
Percy, however, is growing impatient and squawks loudly, bobbing his head.
“He’s hungry,” I explain.
For a moment Moses’s eyes grow round with alarm, and I realize he’s taken it to mean I might set the bird on him.
“Hannah!” I call, then tighten my lips to stop from laughing when Moses pales. Oh, how faint grows the heart of man when he plucks it—still beating—from his chest and lays it at the foot of a woman. When my daughter appears in the doorway I say, “You have company. And please send Cyrus out with one of those roosters. Percy is hungry.”
Hannah’s cheeks bloom with happy color when she sees Moses. She smiles at him, he returns the gesture, and I know that all is lost. There will be a wedding within the year.
“Is Father home?” she asks, looking at the bird.
“I don’t know. But I have to get Percy to his mews.”
Hannah ducks inside and returns a moment later with Cyrus, who is holding a plucked bird by the neck.
He smiles and dangles it above the ground. There is a teasing glint in those hazel eyes that suggests he might lob the bird right at Moses just to see what happens. Hannah is his little sister after all. He can’t make it easy for her suitor.
Under different circumstances I might let him toy with Moses. “Toss it in front of the gate,” I tell Cyrus. “Before he comes at you.”
The chicken lands with a wet flop exactly where Cyrus intends. I back away when Percy launches off the gate and starts to savage his lunch right there on the path.
“Moses, why don’t you go inside with Cyrus and Hannah and have some tea? I’ll get Percy put away in the mill and will join you shortly.”
“Of course, Mistress Ballard,” he says, tying the reins and easing through the gate. He keeps a wide berth, careful not to watch the carnage, then follows the others into the house. He would come calling on an afternoon in which it is impossible to keep any sense of decorum. At least they will have a story to tell their children one day. Carefully, I ease to the side and wash the blood from my hands.
I am not ashamed to admit that I wait too long to collect Percy. I am hoping Ephraim will come down the drive at any moment and relieve me of the duty. But he does not come, and there is no sound of hooves anywhere in the woods. It grows quieter and colder by the moment.
“I am going to speak with your master about this,” I say, pulling the shawl off my shoulders. It isn’t enough protection, I know that, but it’s better than nothing, and I wrap it around my left forearm. Percy could crush my arm with one ferocious squeeze of those talons. He could rip through flesh and bone. But surely Ephraim’s training isn’t for naught? This is what I tell myself as I hold my breath, close my eyes, turn my face away, and extend my left forearm at a right angle from my side. No sooner does it come to a halt than a wall of air and beating wings hits my face.
*
I ease the door to Percy’s mews open with my foot. He did not, in fact, wound me. Most likely because I did exactly as I have seen Ephraim do a thousand times. Once Percy was stable on my arm, I looped the fingers of my right hand between his legs—just above his talons—then lifted him off my arm. After that it was only a matter of securing the jesses and walking, arm extended, down to the mill.
Still no sign of Ephraim. Every minute that passes makes the stone in the pit of my stomach grow heavier. All the terrible fears I have kept at bay for the last two weeks crash against one another, growing louder and louder. But I cannot entertain any of them now. I must prepare for my trip to Vassalboro on Tuesday. And I must play hostess to the young man who has come to court my daughter.
In hindsight, I tell myself, that is why I missed the obvious. There was too much happening at once. But I see it, finally, when I lean forward to put the bird in his mews.
Ephraim has tied a message around Percy’s leg:
I’ll meet you at the courthouse. Bring the book.
