TUESDAY, DECEMBER 15
I am not the only woman who has come to Coleman’s in hope of finding something today. There are two women at the counter waiting to be served and three more at the back when I step in, wicker basket tucked in the crook of one arm. I pause just inside the doorway to shrug out of my riding cloak and shake the snow from my hair.
The stack of pelts beside the counter hasn’t grown any taller, but I don’t like the bright, bushy red tail sticking out from the center. I am scowling when I turn and come face-to-face with Sarah White. The young woman takes one look at my expression, bursts into tears, and tries to push her way past.
“Wait,” I say, dropping my basket with a thump. I grab Sarah’s arm. “What’s wrong?”
“I should have known better. Come early or late, Mother said, but not while the Ladies are out.”
Ladies. A pejorative if I’ve ever heard one.
I lead her to the side. “Tell me what happened.”
“Them,” Sarah says, nodding to where three women huddle in the far corner, backs to the room. “Made it clear I wasn’t welcome here.”
“It isn’t their store.”
She sniffs and wipes two fat tears off each cheek with the cuff of her sleeve. “They sure act like it is.”
If Sarah White had been born in another town, to different parents, she would have married early and well. Her face alone would have assured that. But her figure would have likely caused a duel. As it stands, she lives in the Hook, and her parents were ill equipped to protect such a lovely girl. A dalliance with a member of the Boston militia last year has left her with a bastard daughter and a ruined reputation.
“Did you find what you need?” I ask. She shakes her head.
“Well, you’d best do it then. It isn’t often you get out without the baby, and your mother won’t like to see you come home empty-handed.”
“But—”
“Let them answer to me,” I say, nudging Sarah back into the shop.
I grab my basket and move to the back where Coleman keeps the sewing supplies. The three women sift through bolts of fabric spread along a table. They whisper amongst themselves, laughing, and I listen as one of them speaks in a tone bubbling with glee.
“Can you believe how brazen Sarah is? Flouncing around without that baby.”
I look through the slats in the shelf to find Clarissa Stone running her hand along a bolt of soft blue cotton. Her face is angled toward the companion on her right, mouth twisted into a vicious smile.
“It’s indecent,” Rachel Blossom agrees.
Peggy Bridge chimes in then, unable to resist a bit of gossip, and a disapproving tsk. “There are hours for her to shop. Her mother should have taught her.”
“Oh, her mother clearly didn’t teach her anything,” Clarissa says, and I am opening my mouth to excoriate them all when she adds, “Did you hear about Sam Dawin?”
I step back to make sure they don’t see me. “What about him?”
“He and May were married in Henry Sewall’s living room on Sunday.
They went to housekeeping immediately. Her mother is furious.”
Clarissa receives exactly the response she intended. Hmms and tsks and heads that shake in judgment.
“Doesn’t it seem odd?” she asks. “They only posted their notice of intent six weeks ago.”
Peggy, not one to be left out, adds, “I heard they made quite a public show of affection. My husband saw Sam kiss May right on the street!”
This last word is said with such an air of scandal that she may as well have implied they ran naked through town after church.
Clarissa nods, pronouncing her verdict with certainty. “May is pregnant.” The others gasp, but it’s only for show, and she looks gratified when she adds, “Why else would they marry so quickly?”
It is an appalling display of hypocrisy, and I will not tolerate it a moment longer. I step out from behind the shelf, startling them. They spin around, horrified to find that their ugly conversation has been overheard. And by me no less. Varying expressions of shame, anger, and suspicion dart across their faces.
Both Clarissa and Peggy are heavily pregnant. Clarissa to such a degree that it looks as though she might already be past due. I let my gaze linger over their swollen bellies, let them grow uncomfortable beneath my gaze.
“Perhaps they married quickly because they are in love? Or because Sam nearly died a couple of weeks ago and that certainly makes a man think there is no time to waste.” I move closer. Lower my voice. “There is nothing wrong with a man wanting to share a bed with his wife right from the start. What is wrong, however, is gossiping about your neighbors in such a cruel way. And not just Sam Dawin—a good man by anyone’s standards—but Sarah White? That is rich. Even for the likes of you three.
“As I recall,” I add, twisting the knife, “you delivered your first child four months after your wedding, Peggy. It was six months for you, Rachel.” I look to Clarissa Stone and shake my head. “But you’re the one who should be most ashamed of your pious outrage. It took a year and a bitter paternity suit before Paul would make an honest woman out of you.”
I don’t have to remind them how I know this, how I attended each of them in childbirth and that—in Clarissa’s case—I received testimony as to the paternity of her child, which I later gave in court when she sued for maintenance.
“Not one of you has the right to speak,” I say. “And if you had a lick of integrity, you would go apologize to Sarah this instant.”
Only Rachel Blossom has the decency to blush. The others shift and glare before turning their noses to the ceiling and brushing past me.
“I am sorry,” Rachel whispers as she turns her face to the floor and follows after them, but, like her friends, she does not say a word to Sarah on her way out.
I watch them go, imagining how they must be cursing me under their breath as they hustle back to their homes. They have left the bolts of fabric in disarray, so I fold and straighten them into neat rows on the table. A bolt of pale green silk catches my attention, and I pluck it from the pile. Run my thumb along the nubby weave. Check the price tag. Put it back. Pick it up again. Back and forth, five times, until I make up my mind and tuck it under one arm. I do need a new dress, after all.
I look up to find Sarah White standing in front of me.
“Thank you,” she says. “You didn’t have to defend me. I made my choices. But I’m glad you did nonetheless.”
“It was the truth. And they needed to hear it.” Sarah looks so sad as she’s turning away that I reach for her hand. I want to ease her embarrassment, to reassure her that not everyone in the Hook considers her an outcast. “Their opinion of you doesn’t matter, Sarah.”
“It isn’t just them, Martha. It’s everyone. It’s hard to stare down an entire town,” she says, then goes to pay for the items in her basket.
I watch as Sarah leaves, her chin tucked against the collar of her dress to avoid the cold blast of wind. It pains me to think of her so alone and ostracized in this community. It will be harder for her to find a husband now that she’s already borne a child, but she is not without hope, and I resolve to help find her a man who will love her as she is.
I turn back to the sewing supplies and ask, “Where are the needles?”
“Behind you, and to the left. Second shelf from the bottom. Green jar,” Coleman calls out from the front of the store.
“You heard that?”
“I’m mostly blind, Mistress Ballard, but me ears work fine.”
Sure enough, the needles are right where he said, and I take a packet from the jar, then sort through another beside it for buttons, before bringing everything to the front.
I set the basket at my feet and lean against the counter.
“I’m afraid to ask just how well your ears were working a few moments ago.”
“Ye weren’t taking great pains to keep yer voice down. And they deserved it regardless.”
“Perhaps, but it wasn’t very kind of me.”
“And what they were accusing Sam Dawin of? That was kind?” he asks.
“Hardly. Although it is human nature, I suppose.” “Hypocrisy?”
“Well, yes. They feel better about themselves whenever anyone else is caught doing the same.”
“But neither Sam nor May have been caught in anything.” “Which is why I didn’t hold my tongue.”
“And I like ye all the better for it,” he says. Coleman turns back to his chessboard. “Now how can I help ye this morning?”
I slide the packet of needles across the counter, along with a small pile of buttons, and the silk.
“Will that be all?”
There are a dozen things that I would like to have: a new cast iron kettle for the kitchen, a set of blue glass bottles for my work room. But, as I do each time I step through these doors, I remind myself of what I need.
“Nothing. Unless you’ve heard where they took James Wall?”
“I hear he’s been confined to the jail yard at Fort Western until his debt has been paid.”
“So he posted bond then?”
Coleman nods. “Yesterday.”
Being confined to the “jail yard” and being in jail are two entirely different things. The latter is as it sounds. Arrest and confinement for a set period of time. The former, however, is a loose arrangement in which those waiting trial, or those who have been arrested for unpaid debts, are able to post bail, and then go about their work during the day—within a set area— but must return to the jail house by dark. Sunrise to sunset. The bounds of their freedom include a distance of one mile on either side of the river, from Mill Brook to the bend in Water Street. In the rare instance when a home or business falls outside of that boundary, it is included as well.
Coleman studies me for a moment and I get the feeling he’s deciding whether or not to tell me something else. There’s a bit of food stuck between his teeth, and he picks at it with his tongue for a moment, then says. “That new doctor of yours has created quite a stir.”
“He’s not mine,” I protest.
“Most folks seem to be glad he’s here. Having another real doctor is a boon to this town, they say. And he’s got money.” At this he offers a crooked grin. “So I don’t hate him.”
“Money?”
“Oh, aye. His young wife arrived on Friday. Bought up half the store so she can set up house.” He gives me a knowing look. “She is very pregnant. Only a few months left, I’d say.”
“They’re renting rooms?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “A house. Across the river. They’ve leased the old McMaster place right near the Chandlery.”
“Well that explains a lot,” I mutter.
“Be careful with him, Martha. He’s made it plain that he doesn’t care for you. Thinks you’re a meddler.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“Perhaps. But he’s recruiting to his side. And that will hurt you in the end. What with the Burgess fiasco. And Grace Sewell’s delivery.”
“You know about that?”
“He’s made sure that everyone knows. Says that you insisted he give that girl a near-lethal dose of laudanum. Adamantly opposed, he was. But he deferred given that you know the girl. Wanted to make nice with the local midwife after the dustup in court. Him being a genial fellow and all.”
“That foul little bastard! I did no such—”
Coleman sets his hand on mine. “I know. But that’s what you’re dealing with, and you ought to be aware.”
I groan and rest my elbows on the counter. Drop my head to my hands. “Damn that Burgess. If he wasn’t already dead I’d kill him myself for all the trouble he’s caused.”
“As I hear it, he’s still causing trouble.”
When I look up, he’s trying to wrestle a grin into submission. “Barnabas Lambard?”
“Got quite a fright, ’e did, when Amos pulled back that tarp. Demanded to know what happened. So Amos told him everything. And then that officer marched right to Henry Sewell’s office and looked at the court records. From what I hear, he seems to agree with your assessment.”
“I am beginning to like that boy.”
“Well, ’e don’t like you over much right now.”
“He doesn’t have to like me as long as he keeps asking the right questions.”
“You might regret saying that one day.” Coleman laughs. “That boy don’t seem the sort to stop.”
I place everything into my basket and hoist it over my arm. “Thank you. For the goods and gossip.”
“Always,” he says, and once more reaches out his old, weathered hand and grabs mine. “Be careful, Martha. Sentiment has turned against Rebecca Foster. It’s turning against you as well.”
