WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 23
I unfold the note, then refold it as I sit on the bed in my rented attic room at the Silver Street Tavern in Vassalboro. I run my thumbnail along the crease, wearing it thin. Ephraim’s handwriting is neat and concise, perfectly spaced letters drawn with a steady hand. I marvel at their beauty, at the exactness of each elegant line and curve. My husband is numbered among those who believe that a man’s handwriting is a testament to his character.
The hearing starts in less than an hour, but Ephraim still isn’t here. I made the trip alone yesterday, choosing not to travel with the Fosters, so I could have time and space to think, and arrived at sunset, expecting to find my husband waiting for me. He wasn’t, so I skipped dinner and went to bed early, eager for a good night’s sleep.
My stomach rumbles but the thought of eating makes me nauseous. I put up my hair, pull on my best dress, lace my boots, and tuck the journal into a leather satchel before leaving the room. I descend all three flights of stairs carefully, minding where I set my feet in the dim stairwell. Instead of eating breakfast, I grab a soft, wrinkled apple from a bowl on one of the tables as I pass through the main hall, then take it to the stables behind the tavern where Brutus is housed. It isn’t much lighter in there than in the
stairwell, and I am forced to dodge piles of manure on my way to his stall. A quick glance in all directions reveals that there is no sign of Sterling.
“Where are you?” I mutter under my breath.
Brutus whickers when I appear in front of him, and sticks his head over the stall door. I hold out the apple on my palm and he picks it off with his teeth.
“Don’t bite anyone while I’m gone,” I say, then rub his nose fondly.
I stand there, eyes closed, for a moment longer. The smell of hay and horse and manure grounds me. It is a fortifying scent that reminds me of home.
“Yes. I’m dawdling,” I tell Brutus. “Sometimes a woman has to do a thing she fears.”
He stares at me, brown eyes unblinking. Unsympathetic. Then he snorts, sending a puff of warm air into my face.
“Fine, then. Be an ass.”
Unlike Hallowell, all court proceedings in Vassalboro take place at the Meeting House—a long rectangular one-story building that serves as church, courthouse, and community center. It sits directly across the street from the tavern, and once I step outside, I see that there is already a line of people waiting to get in. As in the Hook, court days always draw a crowd. Not wanting to lose an advantageous seat, I hustle across the muddy road and up the steps onto the boardwalk that connects all the shops and buildings on that side of the street. I slide in behind a group of whispering women and follow them into the Meeting House.
Half the benches are already filled, and I maneuver as close to the front as I can. Once I’ve chosen my spot, I tuck the satchel between my feet and wait. Because one of the defendants in the Foster case also happens to be a circuit court judge, this hearing has garnered a great deal of attention. That does not mean that it will be first on the docket, or that it will even be heard today. The Court of General Sessions has been known to run for up to three days. Though I suspect that won’t be the case this session, given that Christmas is looming.
I can see Joseph North sitting to the left of a long table at the front of the room where an older man in silk robes and a powdered white wig studies the docket. Because it is the winter meeting, his robe is red. Black is reserved for summer.
North does not look pleased to be seated with the other defendants, and they do not speak to one another or anyone else. He sits ramrod straight, cleanly shaved, and wearing his best coat.
The room continues to fill, and there is still no sign of Ephraim. But at precisely nine o’clock, the judge bangs his gavel on the table and the room falls silent. I crane my neck to look for Rebecca Foster and find her in the back corner, sitting beside her husband. Her eyes are closed, and her face is turned toward the window, as though drawing strength from the meager light that filters through. She looks beautiful and broken.
Across the aisle and five rows forward is Lidia North. She is wan and deflated. Thin as a rail. Pale as a ghost. Cheekbones sharper, clavicles jutting out above the lace collar of her blue dress. I think her headaches must be worse of late. Yet she is not deterred from supporting her husband.
“The Court of General Sessions is now open,” the clerk announces. “The honorable Obadiah Wood presiding.”
Honorable is a term used loosely in that Wood—a physician—is, like North himself, an untrained justice of the peace, recognized by the state of Massachusetts and the District of Maine but not a lawyer by trade. He fills a specific gap in the legal system and has a rudimentary understanding of the law at best. Most of these judges rule by common sense, but some by partiality.
Because this is only a hearing, there are no lawyers present, there is no jury, and no verdict will be handed down. The court meets simply to ascertain the validity of the accusation and to set formal charges for a future trial, should one be required.
Obadiah Wood looks at the docket before him and says, “The court will hear evidence in the case of the Commonwealth versus Henry Jackson. Mr. Jackson, a barber, is accused of malicious injury while shaving Jacob Retton two months past.”
Two men approach the long table and take turns arguing their case as the judge asks each of them a series of questions. The entire debate takes less than ten minutes, and Wood declares that Henry Jackson cut his client with a straight razor by accident, and no charges are filed, despite the fact that Jacob Retton will have a scar along his jaw for the rest of his life. Henry Jackson is ordered to pay a fine of twelve shillings in recompense.
And so it goes. He hears three cases of petty theft, two of slander, one divorce petition, one estate settlement, a breach of contract (said contract being a handshake), and five requests for the collection of debt. He orders a total of six fines, all of which are recorded by the clerk. It takes nearly two hours to clear these cases, and I am starting to feel stiff and numb from sitting so long. I regret not eating breakfast. I am wondering whether there will be an opportunity to slip out and find a privy to relieve myself.
“Next on the docket is the Commonwealth versus Joseph North and Joshua Burgess.”
I tense as North stands. But then Barnabas Lambard slips from his spot at the edge of the room and approaches the table. He’d been so still that I hadn’t seen him. He whispers something to Obadiah Wood then walks back to his seat. Barnabas does see me, however, and I cannot tell whether his expression is one of irritation or curiosity. I doubt he expected to find me here. If there is time afterward, I will apologize for not warning him about the body.
Obadiah Wood turns to the clerk and says, “Please strike Joshua Burgess from the court records. We have been notified that he is deceased. Also note that there may be a future inquiry as to cause of death.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Honor.” North takes a step forward and clears his throat. “I believe there has been a mistake. Benjamin Page, a physician in Hallowell, declared Joshua Burgess’s death an accidental drowning.”
I look to North, curious what he’s up to. Not five days ago he threatened Cyrus, insinuated that he’d been the one to kill Burgess. And now he’s pushing Dr. Page’s assessment again? It doesn’t make sense.
As though sensing my scrutiny, North’s eyes flick to mine—tighten— then return to the judge.
Oh. It’s a threat, I think. To me. He knows I don’t want Cyrus’s name brought up in court regarding a murder investigation. He’s reminding me that he has a card to play.
“Mr. Lambard?” Wood asks.
Barnabas steps forward once more but removes his hat this time and lays it against his thigh. “Yes, Your Honor?”
“You went to apprehend Mr. Burgess?” “I did. On the orders of this court.” “And what did you find?”
“That he is dead. I saw the body myself as it’s being stored until the ground thaws enough for burial.”
“And did it appear to you that the man had drowned?”
Barnabas shakes his head and two ringlets fall across his brow. “No, Your Honor, he—”
North clears his throat. “Again, Your Honor, if I may clarify?”
“If I want your clarification, I will ask for it. As you were saying, Mr.
Lambard?”
I have been curious about Barnabas from the moment I saw him scuffling outside Pollard’s Tavern with James Wall, and he continues to surprise me now.
“When I found the body of Mr. Burgess, I saw that he had countless injuries. So I asked to see the court records regarding his death. I was obliged by one Henry Sewell of Hallowell.” Here he glances at me and offers a nod so faint I barely catch it. “It is true that the official cause of death recorded is that of drowning.”
The crowd murmurs quietly and Barnabas lets them.
“But,” he says, after a moment, “the record also shows that there was a second, conflicting opinion as to cause of death—also recorded by a medical professional—that of murder. Specifically hanging. In my capacity, as an officer of the court, it is my opinion, given that Mr. Burgess is one of two men accused of a serious crime, this seems a matter worth looking into. In no small part because”—and here he does look apologetic—“during that same hearing, a man was accused of killing Mr. Burgess.”
“What man?” Wood asks. “Reverend Isaac Foster, sir.”
Stupid boy, I think, and when Barnabas glances at me, he can safely judge my thoughts by my expression alone. His eyebrows pinch together in concern before he turns back to Wood.
“Mr. North,” Wood asks, “was any proof of this offered to your court?” He stands, and I can see that he is choosing his words carefully. “A young woman who used to work for the Fosters claims that she overheard Mrs. Foster say that her husband killed the man. But that point was also argued in my courtroom, so I had my clerk record the accusation but took no further action as it seemed to be a concern best left to another court.”
North offers a pinched smile. “Given the circumstances.”
“Well, at least we can agree on that.” Wood snorts, then whacks the table with his gavel. “The clerk will note that the question of Joshua Burgess’s cause of death remains undecided and will be held over until the next session. As will any consideration of involvement by Reverend Foster or anyone else. We will move forward to the issue at hand. The case against Joseph North as it relates to the accusation of injury to Mistress Foster’s person. All parties please come forward.”
Rebecca moves to the front of the room, fingers knotted together at her waist, head held high. Isaac follows, a hand set protectively in the small of her back. She looks at Isaac, alarmed, when he pulls away from her side and approaches the table.
“I have a request to make before we begin,” he says.
Wood looks at Rebecca, then at Isaac. “I presume you are Mr. Foster?” “I am.”
“Have no fear, Mr. Foster, the court will not concern itself today with the accusation made against you.”
“That is not what I would like to address. Although, given that neither my wife nor I were in Judge North’s court last month, and we did not have the chance to defend ourselves, I would like the record to show that I formally deny the accusation. I had no part in that man’s death.”
“Very well then, the clerk will record your statement.”
Isaac Foster is just past thirty and is drifting from plain to homely, yet he still has the voice of an orator and it resonates through the room. “On the same day those scurrilous accusations were made against me, Joseph North filed fornication charges against my wife. I would like them dropped.”
“That is highly unusual,” Wood says. “Why were charges filed?”
Isaac opens his mouth to answer, but North, clearly nervous, interrupts. “Mistress Foster’s young housekeeper brought that charge, not me. She claims that Mistress Foster is pregnant by a man not her husband.”
“And would this be the same young woman, no longer in her employ, who also accused her husband of murder?” Wood asks.
“Ah.” He clears his throat. “Yes. It would.”
There is ice in Obadiah Wood’s tone as he asks, “And you thought it appropriate to file these charges in a case in which you are the defendant?”
The courtroom is hushed, all eyes turned to the front of the room where this latest twist is unfolding.
North lifts his chin. “I thought to do my job.”
“In this case you overstep. I order that all fornication charges against Rebecca Foster be dropped immediately.” He turns to the clerk. “Cite a conflict of interest as the explanation.”
In the Court of General Sessions, the lone judge has great leeway in these matters. The Court of Common Pleas, however, requires a majority ruling, so I am grateful that it is one man, and not three, hearing this case today.
“May I continue? Or are there other breeches of conduct you would like to inform us of?” Obadiah Wood folds his hands on the table and looks squarely at North.
“By all means, let’s get this over with,” North tells him.
I brave a glance at Lidia who, eyes locked on her husband, seems to be flushed now. But she has the good sense to keep whatever she is feeling to herself, and refrains from making any outburst.
Wood once again scans the docket, then looks up at the gathered crowd. “The charge states that on the night of August tenth, Joseph North and Joshua Burgess broke into the home of Isaac Foster and injured the wife of
said Mr. Foster.” He looks to Rebecca. “Is that the charge you are bringing before this court?”
Rebecca stands before the table, and when she speaks her voice does not waver. “No. It is not.”
I am not alone in drawing in a hard gasp. Oh God, what is she doing? I think.
Obadiah Wood looks at his docket and then back up at Rebecca. “My notes indicate a physical injury. If not that, what is your charge?”
“Physical injures did occur,” she says, and there, on the last syllable, I can hear the first break in her voice. “But they were because of a rape. That is my charge, Your Honor. On the night of August tenth, those men broke into my house and”—she clears her throat, swallows hard—“they raped me.”
Wood tightens his brow. “That is a very serious charge. Do you have any evidence?”
“They left evidence enough right here.” Rebecca sets a trembling hand to her belly and pulls the fabric tight so that the small, round protrusion is evident.
“Are you also charging that you are with child as a result of this assault?”
“I am.”
After a moment, Wood turns to North. “What have you to say to these charges?”
All of the bluster is gone from his voice. “I deny everything this woman has said. I was not at her home that evening, and I did not do the things she accuses me of.”
Wood. “Then where were you?”
“I had dinner at my home with one Major Henry Warren of the Boston militia. His regiment is in Fort Halifax now, but he will happily attest to this fact if given the chance. After dinner he left, and my wife and I went to bed.”
“Mistress North?” Wood asks.
She stands, and when she speaks her voice is small. “It is as he says.
My husband was at home that evening.”
North does not look at Rebecca, but he does soften his voice. “I do not question whether someone accosted Mistress Foster, but none of what she claims happened by my hand. I have been falsely accused.”
“A grievous assault may have been perpetrated against your person, Mistress Foster”—Wood points a finger in warning at North, who is about to interrupt again—“but I do find myself in the difficult position of being unable to verify your claims. Without a witness to this assault, we cannot prove that it happened. And to charge a man with a capital crime without any evidence is a difficult thing.”
Isaac Foster begins to tremble. It starts in his voice and moves to his outstretched arm, pointing at North. It is the least composed that I have ever seen him. He is angry. Sweating. His spectacles slide down his nose, and he shoves them back in place. “He. Witnessed. This. He did it!”
Wood looks pained as he reminds Isaac that North is a defendant, not a witness, and that he has denied the accusations regardless.
“Please.” Rebecca steps closer to the judge. “I do have a witness. She is in this courtroom. She can testify that I speak the truth.”
I feel my stomach twist with a sudden rush of adrenaline, and my heart takes flight within my chest, beating hard against my ribs.
“I protest this witness!” North says, stepping forward again. “She does not—”
Obadiah Wood’s voice is loud, clipped on the syllables. He is losing patience. “It is not your turn to speak, Mr. North. You will have your chance. Step back.”
North does as he’s told, but I can see the growing bubble of frustration in his chest, the way it puffs in and out with each breath. He is accustomed to having total control of a courtroom.
“Who is this witness?” Wood asks.
“Me,” I say, standing. The entire room swings their heads in my direction. “I can verify everything that Rebecca Foster has just told the court.”
“Please step forward, Mistress…?” “Ballard.”
Judge Wood waves his arm, indicating that I should approach the table. “I object,” Joseph North says, abandoning all sense of propriety. “The
law of coverture prevents any woman—even one as esteemed as Mistress Ballard—from testifying in court without the presence of her father or husband.”
“And what concern is this of yours, Colonel?”
“Great concern! Every word of it. The law remains firm on the parameters of what testimony she can give.”
I weave my way through the crowd, satchel in hand, ignoring North, and speak directly to Wood. “I am a midwife, and the laws of Massachusetts and the District of Maine allow me to give testimony in court apart from any covering, whether it be husband or father. I do so in Joseph North’s courtroom several times a year, and he has never once objected.”
North shakes his head, lifts a hand, finger pointed for emphasis, and comes to stand before the table himself. “The laws of Massachusetts state that a midwife may give testimony in matters of paternity. It gives her no such allowance in legal hearings such as this.”
“One could argue that this is a matter of paternity,” I say. “That is an accusation that can never be proved!”
For the first time today, Obadiah Wood appears uncertain. He looks at North. Then back to me. But he does not speak or offer comment on North’s objection. The longer the silence continues, the straighter North stands.
I tighten my grip on the satchel. “Please, Your Honor, my father died many years ago and my husband—”
“Is here!” Ephraim shouts from the back of the courtroom, right by the door. “I am here!”
It takes Ephraim a moment to reach the front. The Meeting House is so full—there is standing room only at this point—that he must squeeze between dozens of spectators to reach my side. When he does, he smells of horse, sweat, and wind, and I know that he has ridden hard to be here in time. He gives my hand one comforting squeeze.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers in my ear. “I will explain later.”
Ephraim turns to the judge and smiles. He knows Obadiah Wood, but he announces himself for the benefit of those watching. “I am Ephraim Ballard, Martha’s husband, and I apologize for the delay.” He levels an unforgiving glare at North. “I was unavoidably detained.”
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Ballard,” Wood says, then motions to me. “Please, tell the court what you know of the events that happened on August tenth.”
“I called on Mistress Foster on the nineteenth of August and found her badly injured. I am a midwife. I have been attending women for over thirty years. I know the damage done by rape, and Rebecca’s injuries were some of the worst I have ever seen.”
“She is lying,” North growls.
“Is that your only defense?” Wood snaps at him. “That any woman who contradicts you is a liar? Continue, Mistress Ballard.”
“The injuries from her assault were witnessed with my own eyes. She had multiple bruises and cuts. A split lip. I dressed her wounds and helped her bathe and listened to the details of what happened to her. She hasn’t changed a word from that day to this.”
Obadiah Wood scratches at his jaw. “How can the court be certain that you and Mistress Foster have not conspired to wrongly accuse Colonel North?”
I swallow a sigh. I will never understand why men think that women work so hard to destroy them. In my experience it is usually the opposite.
“I can prove it,” I tell him. “If you will allow me?” “By all means.”
I pull the diary from my satchel, take it to the table, then set it before the judge and turn back to the entry on August nineteenth. I scoot the book closer for him to read.
“There,” I say. “I recorded Rebecca’s accusation in my daybook on the night she told me. You will note that I’ve made many months’ worth of entries since and that I could not have gone backward to fill it in. What Rebecca claims is true. In every word and detail.”
Obadiah Wood dismisses us so he can read the diary entries and deliberate. Based on how many people trickle out of the Meeting House, it feels as though the entire town of Vassalboro is present.
As Ephraim and I make our way to the door, I see Lidia North out of the corner of my eye. She is waving, trying to get my attention as she angles through the crowd.
Once she gets within a few feet of us, Lidia calls out, “Martha! Can we speak? I am out of tonic.”
But by then we have reached the crush of people surging out the door, and Lidia is shifted away, her voice lost in the buzzing crowd. I don’t look to Ephraim to see if he noticed her. For right now, it is easier to pretend I didn’t hear. Once outside, I walk with Ephraim as he leads Sterling to the stables to be fed and groomed.
“You got my message?” he asks, searching for an empty stall. “I nearly lost an arm in the process, but yes.”
“Percy wouldn’t hurt you.”
“I’m glad you’re certain of that. I had to feed him a plucked chicken just to make sure.”
Once Ephraim has handed the reins to the gap-toothed stable boy and given him a shilling to tend the horse, I throw my arms around him.
“I was so worried you wouldn’t make it.”
“I almost didn’t.” He pulls me closer. Breathes in the scent of my skin. “The bog is wretched this time of year. We were nearly swallowed twice. If North assigns that lease, I’ll call him a murderer. No one could survive there.”
“Well, he certainly wanted to murder you just now,” I say. “Let him try.”
“I would rather that he not, if you don’t mind. I’ve lived without you long enough these last weeks.”
Ephraim leads me back to the tavern, and we eat an uneasy lunch at a small corner table. The stew is flavorless and the bread dry. I long for our town and our tavern and the cooking of Abigail Pollard. We pick at our food
until a man comes to stand beside me and clears his throat. I look up into an apologetic face.
“Mistress Ballard,” he says, then nods to Ephraim. “Mr. Ballard.”
“This is Barnabas Lambard,” I explain to my husband. “Officer of the court. Much has happened while you were away.”
Ephraim watches the boy but says nothing
Barnabas takes off his hat. “I did not know the Fosters were your friends,” he tells me.
“You couldn’t have.”
“I certainly didn’t intend to make their situation worse. I can see that I have, though. And that troubles me. I only reported what I found in Hallowell.” He clears his throat, and the accusation is gentle. “What you sent me to find.”
I do not look at my husband, though I can feel his curious gaze on my profile. “The fault is mine. I should have told you that Burgess was dead, but I was afraid you would leave without investigating. I stand by my assessment that he was murdered. But it was not by Isaac Foster.”
“You know this for certain?”
I hesitate, but only for a moment. “Though I am old enough to be certain of little, I do know that Isaac is a bookish man, not a brutish one. And it was he who insisted that this case go through the courts. It makes no sense that he would take justice into his own hands before the process even got started.”
“Well, I hope you are right.” He returns the hat to his head. “I’d best be getting back.”
Ephraim watches him go, and I can see all the questions building in his eyes. Once Barnabas has pushed through the door, he turns to me. “What was all that about?”
“I think young Mr. Lambard is trying to remain on my good side.” “And why exactly would he be concerned with that?”
“Probably because he’s smitten with your daughter.” “I doubt Moses will be pleased to hear that.”
“I doubt Moses will care. Barnabas isn’t after Hannah.”
Ephraim does the math. Frowns. “No. She’s too young.” “Explain that to Dolly.”
“I’d rather you explain what’s happened while I’ve been gone. And quickly.”
I open my mouth to do just that when we hear the sound of shouting in the streets. The judge is ready.
The spectators make room for Ephraim and me as we enter the Meeting House again. We find better seats toward the front this time. Wood waits until those involved are present.
“The case brought before the court today is difficult,” Obadiah Wood begins. “Mistress Foster gave compelling testimony, and Mistress Ballard gave proof that she was accosted in August as she says.”
Oh God, no, I think.
I can feel it coming, the “but” that will serve as justification for denying justice. I can feel it coming the way I sense a storm or an argument. Like lightning in the air. It rises in my blood, and I squeeze Ephraim’s hand so hard that he hisses in protest.
“The difficulty is,” Wood continues, “that the Court of General Sessions was established to settle petty matters, and there is nothing petty about the charges we heard today. I am thus referring this case to the Court of Common Pleas for additional advice.” The room erupts but Wood bangs his gavel seven times. “The court will reconvene in Hallowell with a full bench on January twenty-ninth.”
*
“What a coward! What a guttersnipe! What a foul, stinking codpiece!” I slam the door to my room at the tavern after Ephraim steps inside. I throw my satchel to the floor. Pace. “He just absolved himself of responsibility.”
Ephraim lowers himself to the bed with a tired groan and pulls off his boots. “He sits on the Court of Common Pleas for Kennebec County. That means he’ll be hearing the case again.”
“He could have brought charges today! He could have sent it straight to the Supreme Judicial Court!”
Ephraim’s voice is warm and soft. “The man was being shrewd, Martha. He knows that any serious charges brought by a lower court would likely be tossed out unless they go through the Court of Common Pleas first. But a majority verdict from the Sessions will be heard. What seems like cowardice might in fact be the only hope Rebecca has.”
I can feel the anger rolling toward me like a fog, and I begin to tremble.
My eyes burn.
Ephraim Ballard has long made a study of me. He can feel my moods shift like the wind. He pulls me down to sit beside him so that I can lay my head on his shoulder.
“It isn’t fair!” “No. It isn’t.”
And then I cry. Mostly for Rebecca and the tiny, unwanted beating heart deep within her womb. But also for myself. And our daughters. And for every other woman who lives, suffers, and dies by the mercurial whims of men. Three minutes later, when I have wrung myself dry, I lean over and pull the journal out of my satchel.
“What are you doing?” “The only thing I can.”
I take up my pen and, with a trembling hand, mix my ink. My rage makes my handwriting almost illegible.
Wednesday, December 23—A cloudy day. I went to Vassalboro as evidence in the Cause between the Commonwealth and Joseph North, Esquire. The charge was that North, on the night of August tenth, broke into the house of Isaac Foster and ravished his wife. My testimony was that Mrs. Foster on the nineteenth of August,
complained to me that she had received great abuses from
North and was gravely injured. The judge determined the Cause is to be laid before the Sessions next January.
*
When I bring dinner to the room several hours later, Ephraim laughs at me. “What?”
He nods toward the jug of cider on the wood tray and the two mugs beside it. “Didn’t they have any ale? You know I don’t drink that stuff.”
I look at the jug, and it takes a moment to remember what he’s talking about. “That was a long time ago. And besides. My father was upset.”
“He tried to kill me.”
“Maim. Possibly paralyze. But I don’t think he wanted you dead. Or at least not permanently.”
Ephraim rolls his eyes. “I don’t think a temporary death is what he had in mind when he threw the jug at my head.”
The laugh surprises me. It is good medicine after weeks of angst, after such a disappointing day. “Perhaps he did want to kill you. Just a little. But I think we can both agree you deserved it.”
