In hindsight, I should have bought a fat, lazy horse who likes apples, sugar cubes, and sleeping in the sun. Instead, I purchased Brutus—a six-year-old buckskin stallion, every bit as charming as his name—from one of the Boston militiamen who camped in Hallowell last year. The man could no longer ride thanks to a broken leg, and I only thought to ask how he had been injured after I’d handed over payment. Brutus had thrown the man a week before I bought him, and he has thrown me three times since: twice into a briar patch and once in the river.
“I swear to God Almighty,” I mutter under my breath as we canter away from the barn, “if you pitch me onto the frozen ground, I will have you turned into glue within a fortnight.”
Brutus whickers in response, and from the way his muscles roil beneath my calves I fear he is going to bolt or buck. I give a warning tug at the bit, and he snorts in contempt, then settles beneath me. I answer with a low growl, and we both accept the draw.
I suppose I can’t blame him. If I’d been pulled away from a meal, I’d be angry too. But Brutus has a single job—to get me where I need to go— and I will not be ordered about by the whims of a horse who is in fact little more than an adolescent. I’ve dealt with the likes of him before.
Still, our mission this afternoon is not a happy one. And I hate being the bearer of bad news. Although, in this case, bad might be the wrong word. Disturbing. Tawdry. Barbaric. Crass. Any of those options might fit seeing as how it isn’t exactly bad news I have come to deliver. I felt nothing
but relief when I saw Joshua Burgess on that table earlier today. Rebecca Foster might feel differently, however, and I steel myself for whatever her reaction may be.
The home of Isaac and Rebecca Foster is a simple stone cottage set back from Water Street on a narrow, rhododendron-lined drive. Behind it lies a small barn and a garden. They do not own any of this, however. The parsonage—and all the outbuildings—belong to the town and are leased to them for a pittance as part of Isaac’s salary as pastor. The fact that he was dismissed from his position five months ago makes their continued residence a point of contention among their detractors.
A tall young woman with hazel eyes and a lovely, plump figure answers on the third knock and invites me inside.
“Good morning, Sally. Is Rebecca home?”
“Aye, Mistress Ballard. I’ll tell her you’re here.” She turns on her heel and swishes away, leaving me to hang my riding cloak on the hook beside the door.
The girl is back in less than a minute, and I marvel at the way she can avoid eye contact even when looking directly at me. Somehow her gaze seems to float over my shoulder, as though searching for something in the distance.
“This way, Mistress Ballard. She’s having tea in the parlor.”
Given that the parsonage has only a handful of rooms, parlor is a loose term for the only extra sitting area in the home. But it does have a cozy fireplace, a window, and a door of its own. Sally ushers me in, then slips away to continue feeding the Foster boys their lunch. I can hear them in the kitchen, squabbling over the last piece of toast.
Rebecca is not the sort of woman who is comfortable having domestic help, but it is one of the things required of her as the minister’s wife. Sally came with the parsonage and is the latest Pierce daughter to fill the position. Two of her sisters had the honor previously. The girl is tolerated, but not exactly welcome. In no small part because she is known to hover around corners and report what she hears back to her mother. Bonnie Pierce prides
herself on knowing all that happens in Hallowell. Every town has a gossip, and in ours the title belongs to her.
Rebecca sits in a rocking chair by the fire, a blanket across her lap and a steaming cup of tea in her hands. A long thick golden braid hangs over one shoulder. When I walk in, she takes the pile of knitting from her lap and moves it to a basket beside the hearth.
I kiss her lightly on the brow and take the opposite rocking chair. “It is good to see you.”
“And you.” Rebecca tips her head to the side and listens as the faint, retreating footsteps of Sally Pierce and her children move upstairs, followed by a burst of laughter. “I am so thankful that girl is only here a few hours each morning.”
“Most women would be glad of the help,” I say with a teasing smile.
“I shouldn’t be so unkind.” She sighs. “Sally will repeat what I’ve said. If not to Isaac himself, then certainly to her mother. Half the town already considers me an ingrate.”
I hesitate, unwilling to lie. The truth is that half of Hallowell thinks far worse of her than that. “They will understand you soon enough,” I tell her, “and you will have your apologies then.”
We are only talking in circles, but a shadow falls over Rebecca’s face, and I wish that I were here under different circumstances. But still, pleasantries must be observed.
“Would you like some tea?” Rebecca leans forward toward a small table between the rocking chairs. A tea service is laid out in the middle, and steam rises from the pot.
“That would be lovely.” “I’ll go get another cup.”
Rebecca glides elegantly from the room, so different from the way she moved three months ago when I found her in this very parlor a few days after Joshua Burgess and Joseph North attacked her. I shake the image from my mind and stand so that I can warm my hands in front of the fire. There is a small tin on the mantle, and I pick it up, admiring the tea roses painted on each side. The lid is off, and a bitter scent rises from inside. I sniff, then
draw back with a scowl as the acrid odor floods my nostrils. The disagreeable, turpentine-like smell is unmistakable: savine. A second whiff reveals something cleaner and sweet, almost floral, with a hint of camphor. Tansy.
I set the tin back and return to my chair, then lift the teapot to my nose just to make sure. Black tea, plain and simple.
“It’s a bit weak,” Rebecca says from the doorway with a note of apology in her voice. “I don’t seem to have the stomach for anything strong these days.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
We sit in companionable silence while Rebecca prepares the tea. One sugar cube. A splash of milk. Two quick stirs with the spoon. The warmth feels good against my cold fingers when Rebecca hands me the cup. Formalities completed, we can move on to the real purpose of this visit.
She looks at me over the rim of her cup, hesitant. “You were in the Hook early today.”
I nod. “I was called to the tavern on business, and I have a bit of news that concerns you.”
“Good or bad? I can’t tell by the tone of your voice.”
“Both, actually.” I turn to the parlor door, noting that Rebecca left it half open. Sally and the boys are still occupied. I can hear footsteps in the room above and the creak of a rocking chair. “Where is Isaac?”
“In his study. Writing another letter to the Congregational Church leaders in Boston to contest his dismissal.”
“Even after the last two failed to reinstate him?”
A wry smile bends the corner of her mouth. “My husband is an eternal optimist.”
I would have said pigheaded had I been the one to describe him. Isaac is currently suing Hallowell for two hundred dollars. His contract with the town as preacher was for five years. And he claims that his firing violated that contract and that he is due the remainder of the money promised. To say that things have grown contentious as a result would be an understatement. He refuses to leave the town, much less the parsonage,
until the lawsuit has been resolved. Isaac Foster is a man of books. Of belief. Of rules and fairness. And—for a moment—I consider calling him in to hear this news but decide against it. Rebecca should not have to weigh his reaction when expressing her own.
Despite what happened in August, there is still something in her soft brown eyes—a cheerfulness and curiosity—that reminds me of the daughters I lost so many years ago. It’s what drew me to Rebecca in the first place. Every interaction with her since has made me wonder what my daughters would be doing now had they survived that long, horrid summer.
She cups her tea in both hands and holds it to her lips, letting the steam curl around her cheeks, before taking a sip. “So what is this news you have for me?”
Instead of answering Rebecca’s question, I once again look to the door, listen for a beat, then ask one of my own. “Do you happen to know where Isaac was last night?”
“I don’t. In his study, I suppose. But I wasn’t feeling well, and I went to bed early. Why?”
I can remember a time, when my sons were younger, when they loved throwing stones over the bridge into the river. They loved the splash and the noise. Being boys, they loved the disturbance that it caused. I study Rebecca’s face and take no pleasure in upsetting the still waters of her soul.
“Joshua Burgess is dead. They found his body in the river this morning.”
Rebecca shakes her head, as though unable to comprehend. “Was he…?
Did…?” Whatever questions she means to ask won’t form.
“It was not an accident. He didn’t drown,” I tell her. “He was hanged.”
Rebecca goes completely still, except for her hands, which begin a frantic trembling. I watch the amber liquid slosh back and forth in her delicate teacup—this way and that—and I pluck it from her hands before she can dump the contents into her lap. I wait for her to speak.
The reason I believe her account of what happened in August has as much to do with our longstanding friendship as it does with the small, traumatizing details that make up the bedrock of her story.
“Joshua Burgess has a rasp to his voice. You’ve heard it?” she finally asks, then looks at me. But her eyes are glassy and unfocused, and it is clear that she is elsewhere, in the past.
An image of that white, waxy windpipe flashes across my mind. “Yes.
He did. But not anymore.”
Rebecca squeezes her eyes shut, blocking out some memory of her own. When she speaks again, her voice wavers. “He ripped off the lace hem of my shift before he started. He tied his hair back. Why do I remember that so clearly?”
“He’s dead now, Rebecca, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. He can’t ever hurt you again.”
“North can.”
I want to deny this. But we both know there are endless ways that Joseph North can continue to wound Rebecca without ever touching her again. Not the least is through his continued denials and subtle attacks on her character and reputation. That has been going on for two months now.
“I’m not going to let that happen. I’m going to Vassalboro next month. I will be right there with you in court. And I will give my testimony. Everyone will know what he did. And you will have your justice.”
When I found Rebecca, after the attack, it took her almost two hours to explain why her face and arms were battered with fading angry bruises, and why her lip had been split. But she has no such hesitation now. Her words come fast and breathless.
“I’m glad Burgess is dead.” “I am too.”
“And I hope Isaac did kill him.”
It’s my turn to be startled, and a glug of warm tea splashes over the rim of my cup, across my thumb, and into the cuff of my sleeve. “Sshh. You can’t say that.”
“Am I not allowed to want vengeance?”
“Of course. But his body is still at the tavern. There will be an investigation. And can you imagine what will happen if Isaac is accused? Besides, you do have your vengeance, at least one half of it anyway.”
“No,” she says. “I will never be free of what they did to me.”
I cannot argue this. Nor do I try. Instead, I reach for her hand, and we finish our tea in silence, watching the hypnotic dance of flames in the fireplace. Later, when the shadows have shifted and the coals settle in the hearth, I set down my empty cup, kiss Rebecca on the brow once more, and whisper my goodbyes.
Only when I reach the parlor door does she speak again. “Martha?”
I look over my shoulder. “Yes?” “I haven’t bled since July.”
My lips form an O of surprise and I return to her side, placing my hands on each of her shoulders. I can feel the little knobs of bone beneath each palm. “Are you telling me that you are with child?”
“I’ve had the boys. I know what it feels like.” “Is there any chance at all it could be Isaac’s?”
Rebecca shakes her head. “We haven’t gone to bed since before he went to Boston. And he hasn’t touched me since. There is no way it can be his.”
“When was the last time you bled?” “The end of July. After Isaac left.”
Four months. Long enough for a child to take root. “Have you told him?”
“No. But I think he’s guessed.”
“I am so sorry,” I whisper, pulling Rebecca to my chest. Only this time there is no weeping, no anguish. There is only a vacant stillness. A void where the spirit of my friend once resided. I pull away and lower one hand to Rebecca’s belly. The small, firm mound is easy to find. I press gently, this way and that, just to make sure, but there is no doubt. Rebecca Foster is a slender woman. Soon there will be no hiding it at all.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispers. Her eyes, wide and brown, the color of tea. They are swimming with tears.
“You don’t have to. Not today.”
