TUESDAY, JANUARY 12
“Aren’t you coming in?” I ask.
Ephraim shakes his head. “Not today. I need to go across the river and inquire about a lumber order.”
There are only two ways to cross the Kennebec: by ferry in warmer months, or by foot once it’s frozen. It is nearly half a mile wide at points and deep enough that no one has ever touched the bottom. The current likely has something to do with that, however. The Kennebec is not the kind of river that you swim. Everything on the west side is considered Hallowell, and everything on the east, Fort Western, even though they are, in practicality, one village, split in half, spanning two miles in length. But each side has its homes and shops, its own community. Though it is treacherous, I almost prefer crossing the river on foot. The ferry takes too long.
“Be safe,” I tell him.
“Not to worry, the ice is thick enough. And I’ll only be gone an hour.
Meet me at the tavern for a pint when you’re done here.”
Ephraim kisses my forehead, then steps off the boardwalk toward the well-trod path that leads down the bank and across the frozen river. I watch him begin the crossing—sure-footed as always—then I turn back to the store.
Coleman is doing steady business today, so I wait for a group of loggers to finish buying their tools before I approach the counter.
“What might you be needing today, Mistress Ballard?” he asks. “Nothing. Unless you’ve come across something new to read?”
I hoist my basket onto the counter and pull back my cloak. My copy of Emmeline sits on top of two dozen neatly stacked candles. Their bottoms have been cut flat and their wicks trimmed.
“You’ve brought a new batch, I see.” Coleman reaches out his right hand and plucks a candle from the basket. He sniffs the dried wax, then picks at a fleck of lavender with his thumbnail. “These are fancy.”
“Just because something is useful doesn’t mean it can’t be pretty.”
Most families in the Hook make their own candles, but there is always a traveler or housewife or shopkeeper who finds themselves in a pinch, and Coleman’s is the first place they turn. He likes meeting the need, and I like the chance to barter. I come here at least twice a month in the hopes that he has gotten a new shipment of coffee, sugar, and chocolate from Boston, though the odds of those items having arrived since the river closed are slim. Most important, however, I am hoping to find something new to read. Having finished Emmeline, I am eager for another story.
Soon he turns his attention from the candles to the book.
“Any good?” Coleman asks, screwing up his eye to focus on the title. “I liked it better than most. And the author is English. You’ll approve of
that,” I say with a wink. “It’s about a woman on the fringes of high society who refuses the traditional roles assigned to her, finding her own way, a love of her own choosing, and therefore ends up both wealthy and happy in the end.”
“So it is a fantasy then?”
“Absolutely not. It is a possibility. Although, I must say, it felt rather… what’s the right word…gothic, perhaps. Filled with wild, remote locations and mysterious happenings. I think you would enjoy it.”
“Then I will trade ye book for book, Mistress Ballard,” he says, reaching under the counter and pulling out a novel that is rather worse for wear and missing half the cover. “Although, to be honest, my damned eye is
fading on me, and it won’t be long a’fore I canna read at all. I’ll have to hire a shop boy to keep the ledgers.”
I take his book and turn to the title page. “The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne by Ann Radcliffe,” I say. “You have read it?”
“What was the word ye just used? Gothic? If that’s what ye are looking for you will be satisfied. It’s a full-blown medieval Scottish feud.”
“Then it will suit my mood perfectly.” I tuck the book under my arm and begin unpacking the candles.
“Anything else while you’re here?”
“I’d love some coffee and sugar. But would settle for cornmeal and molasses.”
“None of the former, I’m afraid. Not until the river opens. But I can give you a bag of cornmeal and a pint of molasses. More’n enough on yer account to cover it.”
“How—”
“Mr. Sewell came in. Added money to your account and bought a pound of chocolate and half a pound of tea for ye as well. They’re wrapped and set aside for ye.”
Sometimes I am paid in coin before leaving a patient’s house. Sometimes with food or livestock or bartering later in the year. But just as often, a grateful husband will add to my account at Coleman’s or surprise me with a purchase left waiting for my arrival.
“Oh,” I say, “that was good of him.”
“To hear him talk, ’twas the other way around. He said his wife nearly died because of that laudanum and that you saved her.”
I don’t know what to say to this, so I don’t say anything at all.
“I know you think that half the town has turned against ye, Martha, what with all the trouble you’ve had. But there are just as many who’ll not hear an ill word against ye. Mr. Sewell counts himself in that number. And so do I.”
*
Cyrus is at Pollard’s Tavern when I arrive, and he waves me over to his table.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He slides a ledger across the table. Taps the line that shows a lumber order has been delivered and paid for.
“Chandler Robbins?” I read the name. “I take it he has another ship under construction?”
Cyrus nods. Shows the order details for seventy boards of white oak and two pine logs for the mast.
“His wife is expecting their first child soon,” I tell him, as though it matters, as though he cares.
Although perhaps that isn’t fair. Cyrus is far more interested in having a family than Jonathan. Which is the real tragedy of his circumstance. He is a good, strong, kind, intelligent man. But the simple fact of this world is that women look at him as though he’s stupid. Simply because he cannot speak. They fear it is an illness. That it’s catching. Some affliction that could be passed on to their children. So the girls of this town have always looked right through him. And he has built a wall around his heart in response.
“Every woman wants a man to whisper soft words in the darkness,” Ephraim told me once, when I was lamenting Cyrus’s lack of prospects. There was no malice in the statement, only heartbreak. And I have never forgotten it because it is true.
“Did you know that Chandler Robbins was one of the men who cut Joshua Burgess from the ice?” I ask.
If Cyrus heard me, he doesn’t bother to acknowledge the question. His eyes are latched onto someone behind me, and he follows them through the room. He sits a little straighter, eyes curious, when a set of footsteps comes to a stop behind me. When I turn, Sarah White is standing there with a coin purse in her hand and a smile on her face.
“Hello, Martha,” she says. “Cyrus.”
My son gives her a broad, pleased grin in response, and I think that his cheeks have turned a bit pink.
“May I?” Sarah asks, indicating the bench. “Of course.” I scoot aside to make room.
She sits, arranges her skirt, then holds out a small cloth purse. “Here.” “What is this?”
“Six shillings for your fee. And another twelve for the court’s fine. Exactly what I owe you. My Da’ said he’d not pay a cent of it. That it was my responsibility. So I’ve been doing odd jobs around town for those who’d have me. I earned every bit of it myself.”
The fining of unwed mothers is a cruel system, meant to humiliate women, and therefore dissuade them from carnal activity. But given that women do not conceive children on their own, and there is no law that fines men for their participation, it is the worst kind of hypocrisy as well. The minimum and maximum fines are set by law, but the amounts in between are up to the whim of each individual judge and can range from inconvenient on one end to crippling on the other. The law—grossly titled An Act for the Punishment of Fornication, and for the Maintenance of Bastard Children—states that any woman who commits fornication shall be fined no less than six shillings for the first offense and no more than three pounds. Every offense after that ranges between twelve shillings and six pounds. If a woman is unable to pay the fine, she is committed to the jail yard for a minimum of forty-eight hours, but the court can extend it to thirty days. Joseph North decides the cases in this county and is not typically known for his leniency. But for Sarah, he’d handed down the minimum fine
—no doubt because I had offered to pay it myself, that day, as Sarah had not a shilling to her name. It has taken her six months to earn the money.
“Sarah…”
“I insist. It’s my debt. And I want to pay it.” She drops the purse into my hand and closes my fingers around it.
There is something in her eyes—a kind of light—that I cannot argue with. Sarah is proud of herself for accomplishing this, and I’ll not take that from her. Cyrus senses it too, is leaning across the table on his forearms. I know that he wants to tell her something, that the words would come tumbling out if only he had the ability. Instead, he holds up one finger, then
opens the ledger and rips out a page from the back. He grabs ink and quill from his case, and we both watch as he scribbles a short note, then slides it across the table.
You are a good woman, Sarah White.
She takes the paper and smiles at it with a frustrated expression. “I’m sorry, Cyrus. I canna read.”
His gaze drops from hers. Falls to the table. He nods once, resigned.
Embarrassed.
“He says you’re a good woman.”
And this makes her laugh. “He might be the only one in the Hook who does.”
“Not the only one,” I say. “Not by a long shot.” And that’s when the idea occurs to me. “What are you doing on Saturday?”
“Nothing as far as I know.”
“You should come to the Frolic. It’s at the mill this time. We would love to have you.”
I look to Cyrus for confirmation, and he offers an eager nod. “I don’t know….”
“It’s just one evening.” “What about the baby?”
“Bring her. There won’t be any shortage of arms willing to rock her while you dance.” I can see her hesitate, look to the door for a way out. “Think about it? Please?”
Sarah gives me a half-hearted nod. “I will.” “Promise?”
She smiles again, but sadly this time. “For you, Martha, yes.”
She says goodbye, but my gaze is on Cyrus as she leaves. He tracks her across the room and doesn’t meet my eyes until she’s out the door.
Oh. How have I missed this?
“How long?” I ask.
He flips his hands up as though asking, What?
“How long have you been in love with her?”
Cyrus clenches his jaw. Shudders. Then he grabs the note, wads it in his fist, and walks to the great, crackling hearth. He throws his missive into the flames and leaves Pollard’s without another glance in my direction.
I blow out a long breath between pursed lips. “That long, I suppose.”
*
The air outside the tavern is clear, but the breeze coming off the river is cold enough to burn. I untie Brutus from the hitching post and lead him the short distance to where Sterling drinks from a trough. The ice has been broken, but sharp little chunks float on the surface.
“You’ll freeze your lips off,” I tell the horse, scratching his great barrel chest beneath the leather saddle strap.
“It’s a wonder he doesn’t bite you.” Ephraim lays a calming hand on my shoulder, knowing I will jump at his voice.
“How do you do that?” In all the years we have been married, I have yet to hear the man sneak up behind me.
He shrugs, taking Brutus’s reins from my hands and inspecting the saddle and harness as though they’re in danger of immediate failure. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust my ability with a horse, but rather he isn’t willing to let me on one unless he’s judged it fit to ride—certainly not one as willful as Brutus.
“You’re late. You said you’d be an hour. It’s been two.”
“I picked up three more lumber orders at the fort. Then I had a bit of a chat with James Wall.”
I lift an eyebrow.
“Did you know he’s building a distillery?” “I’d heard.”
“He’s leased a stretch of land along Farwell Brook. It’s not big enough to use for mill trading. But it’s cold and spring fed and just right if you’re the kind of man intent on making whiskey. He pays the lease with what he earns from us.”
“Us?”
“What Jonathan and Cyrus and I pay him to help us get the boards downriver.”
“Ah. That explains a lot.”
It’s Ephraim’s turn to give me the questioning glance.
“They never made their last delivery, did they? Got stuck in the river instead. And James had nothing with which to pay when the note came due.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Ephraim says, then studies my face. “He was only ten dollars short. But that’s because North required payment in full. For the entire loan.”
“What’s James going to do about it?”
“I offered to cover the difference. Part of me feels responsible. But he refused. Says he won’t go into debt again. He plans on selling his horse to pay the note.”
“The Pacer?”
“Aye. Says he can cover what he owes North, then buy a nag to replace
it.”
I’ve never understood James’s obsession with that particular breed, but
I’m sad to think of him losing the horse. And all because he went to the wrong man for a loan.
“Anyway,” Ephraim shrugs. “That’s what took me so long.” “Well, you missed something interesting as a result.”
“And what would that be?”
I pull the coin purse out of my pocket and hand it to him. “What’s this?”
“My fee for delivering Sarah White. And the court fine. Eighteen shillings, paid in full. She brought it to me herself.”
“That must have taken her—”
“Months. It isn’t fair, Ephraim. There has to be a better way.” “And?”
“And what?”
He laughs. “I know you well enough to know when there’s an and.”
Ephraim sets a hand on either side of my waist and helps me into the saddle. Then he swings a leg over Sterling’s back and settles into his own. We turn for home just as the sky begins to darken.
“I do have an idea,” I say, trying to sort out my thoughts so they’ll make sense. “Or two.”
“I’m listening.”
“Sarah can’t afford another turn before the court. It will be jail time if she has another child out of wedlock.”
“Are you saying she’s not going to change her ways?”
“I am saying that the father of her child gladly took advantage of her body but left town long before the results of his lust brought her before the court. There is no justice in that.”
“Sarah brought him to bed willingly enough. Or at least she’s never said different. She’s hardly innocent in the matter.”
“Innocent? No. But she also has no legal recourse. The man is gone, and she cannot collect maintenance for her child.”
“Her parents haven’t turned her out.”
“But they aren’t supporting her either. She needs a real way to make a living. Not odd jobs that pay a shilling here and there.”
“So what do you intend to do for her?” “Exactly what you did for me.”
It takes him a moment to figure out what I mean. “You’ll teach her to read?”
“If she’s to have any real chance in this world, that’s where she has to start.”
After a quarter mile we turn aside from the wide Kennebec, where Mill Brook meets the river. Farther on, Water Street narrows and becomes little more than a glorified cattle trail that passes through Vassalboro and follows the Kennebec up its banks, eventually disappearing one hundred fifty miles north, as does the river itself, into its source, Moosehead Lake.
“And this second idea of yours?”
“If she can’t find a job, then perhaps I can help her find a husband.” “I suppose you have a man in mind?”
“I do.”
“And you think it ought to be Jonathan?”
I open my mouth, stunned, ready to argue, but Ephraim mistakes my meaning and interrupts.
“I know it bothers you that he’s taken no interest in courtship.” “He’s twenty-six. He ought to be courting someone.”
“That’s the standard you have for him? Just someone? And Sarah would be your choice?”
“Sarah would be a great catch for any man, Jonathan or otherwise. But no, I hadn’t thought of pairing them together.”
“Who then?” “Cyrus.”
This does surprise him. “And what made you think of that?”
“You’d have thought the same if you saw the way he looked at her just now. I suspect he’s been carrying a torch for that girl for some time.”
I tell him about the note. How he threw it in the fire and stormed off.
Ephraim rides in silence for a while. “He won’t appreciate you meddling, Martha.”
“I’m not going to meddle.” He snorts.
“I am simply going to create an opportunity.” “For whom? Yourself?”
“For Cyrus.”
“He can’t speak, and Sarah can’t read.” I smile at my husband. “Yet.”
