Monday, February 1. A snowstorm… Thursday, February 4. It snowed… Saturday, February 6. A very cold day…
Sunday, February 7. Clear and excessive cold… Monday, February 8. Terrible, cold, and windy…
“God, I hate winter,” I say, closing the journal and massaging my temples with the tips of my fingers. It is both a prayer and a curse, and I don’t feel guilty for either. For nearly two weeks there has been little but cold and snow and a long, brooding oppression.
So, when the letter arrived this morning, summoning me to the Fosters’, I was not annoyed. The fact that it came from a lawyer also piqued my interest.
Dear Mistress Ballard,
If it presents no challenge, would you be kind enough to meet me at the parsonage for tea this afternoon. 1:00 sharp.
Respectfully,
Seth Parker, Esquire
“Tell your father that Mr. Parker has summoned me to the Fosters’,” I say, passing through the kitchen.
Hannah looks to the window where the snow is still piled high, then back to me as though I said I was going to jump off the barn roof. “It’s horrid out there.”
“Staying here won’t make it any less so.”
*
Rebecca Foster is six months pregnant and finally showing. With her first child it took longer, but with each subsequent child, her body has revealed the secret earlier. I marvel at how this varies woman to woman. Some blossom in the early months, and others wait until the final weeks.
Rebecca does not often leave her house now, and without Sally Pierce to help, the parsonage feels dusty and cluttered. It feels—perhaps not unjustifiably—as if its mistress has given up. Rebecca has made tea for those assembled, however, and there is fresh bread with butter and jam to go with it.
The two young Foster boys—blond like their mother—wander into the sitting room for a piece, then skip out with sticky fingers. I watch them go, wondering if they can sense the heaviness in the room or if they are oblivious to adult concerns.
“Thank you for coming, Mistress Ballard,” Seth Parker tells me. “I hope it wasn’t too difficult getting here.”
“I managed well enough.”
Esquire Parker is one of a handful of lawyers in Hallowell, but like most men in the area, he dabbles in both river trade and farming. There isn’t much need for lawyering in this part of the world, so he isn’t often called upon in that capacity. But now that the hearings are complete and charges— albeit minimal—have been filed, the Fosters need someone to represent them at trial.
“I have already taken Rebecca’s deposition,” he says, pointing to a small stack of papers on the little table in front of him. Beside it rests another blank stack, along with ink pot and quill. “If you will tell me everything you remember, I will write it down. You have only to make your mark at the end.”
“I can write it myself,” I say, voice clipped with irritation. “And sign my name as well.”
“Ah. That’s right. You keep a daybook.”
“Yes. For many years now. I am quite comfortable with a pen.”
“Very well then.” He slides paper and quill across the table so they rest in front of me. “This will be submitted as evidence to the court in Pownalboro.”
As I situate myself in front of the paper, Isaac Foster makes his way into the room.
“Mistress Ballard,” he greets me, then kisses the top of his wife’s head. He stands before the fire, warming his rump. It is winter after all, and none of us are ever truly warm unless butted up to an open flame.
Isaac pours a cup of tea as I begin my deposition. “Henry Sewall visited us yesterday,” he tells Seth.
“Is that so?”
“He brought a letter.”
I look up sharply, pen hovering over the paper. “Why?”
“A preacher by the name of Cobb has been offered my position. I am told he will start sometime in May. And he requires a permanent home as part of his salary. We have until the end of April to find new accommodations.”
“But Rebecca is due to deliver at the end of April,” I argue.
There is a note in Isaac’s voice that I cannot identify. “A fact not taken into consideration.”
“Where will you go?”
Seth Parker leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Nowhere yet. I am filing an appeal citing conflict of interest given that Joseph North is the head of the church committee.”
“And failing that?” I ask.
Rebecca pushes against her stomach, wincing. “To Fort Western most likely. To rented rooms.”
“There has to be another option,” I say.
“I can assure you that I am exploring every option on their behalf, Mistress Ballard. But if you truly want to help, the best thing you can do is finish your deposition.”
Conversation predictably drifts to the weather as my gentle scratchings continue. The storms. The snow. The ice that rises higher along the banks of the Kennebec. The terrible state of every road leading in and out of the Hook. Why are men so obsessed with roads? I will never understand. It is inane background noise to each deliberate word that I etch onto the paper.
Several minutes later, I set the quill down and flex my hand. “And how is your wife, Mr. Parker? Is she well?”
“Ellen? Aye. Right as rain I’d say. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Do pass along my greetings.” Whatever ailment caused Ellen to seek out Doctor has either resolved itself or remained hidden from her husband’s knowledge.
I hand the paper to Mr. Parker and watch as he considers my neat, concise handwriting. After a moment he gives me an approving nod. “Thank you again for coming, Mistress Ballard.”
“Of course. But since I’m here, I’d like to examine Rebecca. Make sure all is well with her and the child.”
Child.
That’s the point when Rebecca flinches, her mouth tightening at the corners. She turns away from her husband and heaves out of the chair, passing him on the way to their bedroom without a word.
*
Rebecca lies on her bed, in a cotton shift, as I move my fingers over her swollen belly, prodding here and there.
“I am sorry about the letter,” I tell her.
“As am I.”
“But the trial—”
“Will do no good.” Rebecca looks at me, those brown eyes certain. “You saw what happened at the last hearing. Even if they find him guilty it will be for attempting a crime, not committing one. There is nothing left for us in the Hook. Isaac is the one fighting to stay. I’d rather start over. Somewhere new. Where no one knows what happened to me.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she interrupts.
“You know I’m right. You just like me too much to admit it.”
Oh, the burning that tears induce. Sometimes worse than fire. “You are right,” I whisper. “I hate that you are right.”
One of the greatest skills that I have as a midwife is to sit in silence. I cannot count the number of times that I have wordlessly held a hand as grief explodes in a room. The only antidote to this kind of despair is to create a bulwark of immovable calm. To sit and be. To pray and offer comfort. To watch the shadows cut tracks along the wall as the sun slowly moves across the sky. To say nothing when there are no words that can console. And it is in this laden silence that I feel the child in Rebecca’s womb move. A thumping, strong and steady. I remain where I am, fingers spread wide across her belly, concentrating on the rhythmic taps that rise from her body—that shifting, squirming proof of life.
I wait a full six heartbeats before whispering, “How long since it quickened?”
“Not long. A month or so.” “You didn’t tell me.”
“I hoped it would stop.” Rebecca turns away. Looks at the wall. “I still
do.”
*
A few moments later, I stand outside the parsonage, breathing cold air through my nose to calm my mind and still the rage. It isn’t fair. This is
what runs through my mind over and over like a dog chasing its tail. It isn’t
fair.
Vengeance might be the Lord’s, but hasn’t He appointed men to be the arbiters of justice? Where is it for a woman like Rebecca? And who can bring a judge to justice? As I trot up the narrow channel of packed snow on Water Street astride Brutus, a thought occurs to me—so quickly that I do not have time to reject it: if Joseph North cannot be hanged for raping Rebecca Foster, perhaps he can be hanged for killing Joshua Burgess?
*
Saturday, February 13—Clear and cold. The ice builds at Fort Western. I was summoned to appear this day at the house of Isaac Foster to give evidence to what I know concerning the cause there to be tried. Came home in the early evening. Mrs. Densmore here to cut me a gown of green silk. She tells me that the wife of James Bridge was delivered at the first hour this morning of a dead born son who is to be interred this evening. Doctor Page was the operator.
I am not angry that Clarissa Stone didn’t call for me. There are other midwives, and she could have sent for any of them. But Peggy? After what Page did to Clarissa’s child? There is no excuse for her pride. She had all the information she needed.
I can count on one hand the number of men I have ever truly hated in my entire life. But Benjamin Page is near the top of that list. Billy Crane takes first place. Followed closely by Joseph North. But since Page’s arrival in Hallowell, he has been nothing but a pestilence. God, I’d strangle him with my bare hands if I could
