SUNDAY, JANUARY 3
My family stopped attending public worship in July when Isaac Foster was removed as preacher. It was our only available form of protest, and while I do not regret the decision, it does feel strange to sit at home on a Sunday morning. But it is not unpleasant to rest before the fire, a warm cup of tea in hand, and read the Book of Common Prayer.
“He has shown the strength of His arm,” I whisper, the nail of my right index finger running along the last verse of today’s liturgy. “He has cast down the mighty from their thrones and has lifted up the lowly.”
I close my eyes, pray that it might be so, and close the book. No sooner have I set it back on the shelf than I hear a gentle knock at the door. Hannah sticks her head outside, then looks back at me and says, “Mistress Parker is here.”
“Is her husband with her?” I haven’t seen Seth since the morning he and the others cut Joshua Burgess from the ice. He’d been one of the first to flee during my inspection of the body.
Hannah shakes her head. “She’s alone.” “Didn’t you invite her in?”
“She asked to speak with you at the gate.” “Is she ill?”
Hannah shrugs. “Not to look at.”
Strange, I think, and pull my shawl off the peg, wondering at this need for privacy as I slip out the door. Mrs. Parker stands inside the garden gate, wringing her hands.
“Ellen.” I look her over head to foot. “Are you unwell?” “In a manner of speaking.”
There is no wind, and the snow has a thin crust of ice on top where it has melted during the day and frozen again at night. My boots make an unpleasant crunching noise as I move across the yard.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I need to borrow a horse.”
I know for a fact that her husband has two fine steeds tied up in their barn. “Why?”
Ellen Parker is a shy woman, the kind who drifts to the back of a crowded room, who blushes whenever too many people look at her at once. The cold has turned the tip of her nose red, but I think that the pink tinge on her cheeks is embarrassment.
“She’s back,” Ellen whispers. “Who?”
“Her.” Ellen’s eyes widen, and she purses her lips as though this should be obvious. “The Negro woman. I need to see her.”
“Oh.”
I heard her husband, Seth, mention this, at the tavern, when I inspected Joshua Burgess a month ago, but I’d forgotten in all the turmoil that followed. “Do you not want your husband to know?”
“Seth wouldn’t approve. And if I take one of your horses, he’ll not ask where I’ve gone.”
“Where does he think you are now?”
“Here. With you. He saw me walk off. And he’ll see me walk home.
I’m not lying. Not much at least,” she whispers.
Under different circumstances I might point out that a lie of omission is no different from any other kind, but I have no issue with lending her the horse.
“You can take Bucket. He’s old and slow but he’ll get you there.” “Thank you. I only need him for a few hours.”
“Of course. But it’s a hard ride through the woods. Are you sure there isn’t something I can do for you here?”
“Yes,” she says without explanation.
“I’ll send Young Ephraim to the barn, then.”
Ellen thanks me again, and I go to find my son and give him instructions for the horse. Ten minutes later I stand at the door and watch my neighbor ride away—not down the lane and toward the main road, but into the north pasture, toward the path that winds three miles through the woods to Burnt Hill.
Four times a year a Negro woman known only as Doctor comes to Hallowell. She arrives unannounced and might remain for a single week or months on end. No one ever knows. But her arrival is always whispered about, and the news spreads from house to house like a fine mist drifting beneath the door. Doctor is one of the only people I know whose medical expertise exceeds my own. Some have argued that she has the gift of healing. Others, of course—Seth Parker among them—call her a witch. It’s an unimaginative accusation and one that I am frankly tired of hearing. Witchcraft. As though there is no other explanation for a woman who excels at her work.
Doctor speaks with a warm French accent and often describes herself as an accoucheuse. A midwife, same as me. Yet she is so much more. Doctor is a mystery to many in the Hook, and therefore they fear her. Yet I’ve never seen anyone who does not watch the woman with a kind of bewildered awe.
As of last week, there are one thousand, one hundred, ninety-nine residents in Hallowell. Families number one hundred eighty-four, and, of those, twelve are black. All free. There are no slaves in Hallowell, the Supreme Judicial Court having effectively abolished the practice in Massachusetts nine years ago by their ruling in the Mum Bett Case. The census counts everyone in the Hook except Doctor because she has asked those who live here to make sure the census takers don’t know she moves
among us. Doctor has sworn never to return should her presence be revealed, and we are more than happy to keep her secret given how many of us rely on her services.
When I can no longer hear Bucket snort and stomp through the woods, I return inside and go to my workroom. I mix the ink and dip my pen:
Sunday, January 3—Clear. I have been at home. Mrs. Parker borrowed our horse to go and see the Negro woman doctor….
