The Frozen River E-Book

Ariel Lawhon

• Herausgeber: Swift Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 674

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

THE CAPTIVATING BESTSELLER BASED ON THE TRUE STORY OF HEROIC MIDWIFE MARTHA BALLARD In the cold of night, she tends to the women. In the light of day, she delivers them justice. 'Thrilling' Irish Times 'Lawhon works storytelling magic with a real-life heroine' People Magazine 'The narrator of Ariel Lawhon's The Frozen River is another stalwart heroine' The New York Times 'Historical fiction at its best!' 5 Star Reader Review 'These markings of ink and paper will one day be the only proof that I have existed in this world. That I lived and breathed' Maine, 1789: When the Kennebec River freezes, entombing a man in the ice, Martha Ballard is summoned to examine the body and determine cause of death. As a midwife and healer, she is privy to much of what goes on behind closed doors in Hallowell. Her diary is a record of every birth and death, crime and debacle that unfolds in the close-knit community. Months earlier, Martha documented the details of an alleged rape committed by two of the town's most respected gentlemen—one of whom has now been found dead in the ice. But when a local physician undermines her conclusion, declaring the death to be an accident, Martha is forced to investigate the shocking murder on her own. Over the course of one winter, as the trial nears, and whispers and prejudices mount, Martha doggedly pursues the truth. Her diary soon lands at the center of the scandal, implicating those she loves, and compelling Martha to decide where her own loyalties lie. Clever, layered, and subversive, Ariel Lawhon's newest offering introduces an unsung heroine who refused to accept anything less than justice at a time when women were considered best seen and not heard. The Frozen River is a thrilling, tense, and tender story about a remarkable woman who left an unparalleled legacy yet remains nearly forgotten to this day. Inspired by the life of Martha Ballard, a renowned 18th-century midwife who defied the legal system and wrote herself into history. For fans of OUTLANDER and WHERE THE CRAWDADS SING Readers love Ariel Lawhon 'The HYPE IS REAL ... I was absolutely drawn into Martha's world, the harshness of the life, the struggle of women to have a voice, the mystery created. I loved this book so much! It's in my books of the year' 'I give this book ALL THE STARS … One of the BEST HISTORICAL FICTION THRILLER BOOKS that I've read' 'Extremely ABSORBING and enjoyable read' 'RIVETING ... I would thoroughly recommend it to any historical fiction lovers, or those who enjoy stories based around strong women' 'This story is so POWERFUL, and it's astonishing how relevant Martha's FIGHT FOR JUSTICE still feels today ... If you're looking for a rich, layered story about justice, resilience, and a woman who refused to be silenced, The Frozen River is A MUST-READ' 'Highly recommended for fans of historical fiction with STRONG FEMALE LEADS, intricate plotting, and a BEATING HEART OF JUSTICE. A BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN, quietly fierce book that will stay with you long after the final page' 'Its SECRETS kept me UTTERLY HOOKED'

Leseprobe

Also by Ariel Lawhon

The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Flight of Dreams

I Was Anastasia

Code Name Hélène

When We Had Wings(co-written with Susan Meissner and Kristina McMorris)

My mother taught me that midwives are heroes.My sister let me witness the miracle.My husband sat beside me and held my hand.For these reasons, and ten thousand more, this novel is dedicated to them.

And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

—Rudyard Kipling, “The Female of the Species”

1

A Hanging

November 1789

Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long.

—William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

What’s Past Is Prologue

The body floats downstream. But it is late November, and the Kennebec River is starting to freeze, large chunks of ice swirling and tumbling through the water, collecting in mounds while clear, cold fingers of ice stretch out from either bank, reaching into the current, grabbing hold of all that passes by. Already weighted down by soaked clothing and heavy leather boots, the dead man bobs in the ebbing current, unseeing eyes staring at the waning crescent moon.

It is a miserable night with bitter wind and numbing frost, and the slower the river moves, the quicker it freezes, trapping him in its sluggish grip, as folds of his homespun linen shirt are thrown out like petals of a wilted brown tulip. Just an hour ago his hair was combed and pulled back, tied with a strip of lace. He’d taken the lace, of course, and it is possible—fate is such a fragile thing, after all—that he might still be alive if not for that choice. But it was insult on top of injury. Wars have been fought over less.

The dead man was in a hurry to leave this place, was in too much trouble already, and had he taken more care, been patient, he would have heard his assailants in the forest. Heard. Hidden. Held his breath. And waited for them to pass. But the dead man was reckless and impatient. Panting. He’d left tracks in the snow and was not hard to find. His hair came loose in the struggle, the bit of lace reclaimed and shoved in a pocket, and now that hair, brown as a muddy riverbank, is a tangled mess, part of it plastered to his forehead, part in his mouth, pulled there during a last startled gasp before he was thrown into the river.

His tangled, broken body is dragged along by the current for another quarter of a mile before the ice congeals and grinds to a halt with a tired moan, trapping him fifteen feet from the shore, face an inch below the surface, lips parted, eyes still widened in surprise.

The great freeze has come a month early to the town of Hallowell, Maine, and—the dead man could not know this, nor could anyone who lives here—the thaw will not arrive for many, many long months. They will call this the Year of the Long Winter. It will become legend, and he, no small part of it. For now, however, they sleep safe and warm in their beds, doors shut tight against an early, savage winter. But there—along the riverbank, if you look closely—something dark and agile moves in the moonlight. A fox. Tentative, she sets one paw onto the ice. Then another. She hesitates, for she knows how fickle the river can be, how it longs to swallow everything and pull it into the churning depths. But the ice holds, and the fox inches forward, toward the dead man. She creeps out to where he lies, entombed in the ice. The clever little beast looks at him, her head tilted to the side, but he does not return the gaze. She lifts her nose to the sky. Sniffs for danger. Inhales the pungent scent of frost and pine along the river and, farther away, the faintest whiff of woodsmoke. Satisfied, the fox begins to howl.

Clark Forge

Thursday, November 26

“You need not fear,” I tell Betsy Clark. “In all my years attending women in childbirth, I have never lost a mother.”

The young woman looks at me, eyes wide, sweat beading on her temples, and nods. But I do not think she believes me. They never do. Every laboring woman suspects that she is, in fact, moments away from death. This is normal. And it does not offend me. A woman is never more vulnerable than while in labor. Nor is she ever stronger. Like a wounded animal, cornered and desperate, she spends her travail alternately curled in upon herself or lashing out. It ought to kill a woman, this process of having her body turned inside out. By rights, no one should survive such a thing. And yet, miraculously, they do, time and again.

John Cowan—the young blacksmith apprenticed to Betsy’s husband—came to fetch me two hours ago, and I’d told him there was no time to dally. Betsy’s children come roaring into the world at uncommon speed, with volume to match. Shrieking banshees, all slippery and red-faced. But so small that—even full-term—their entire buttocks can fit in the palm of my hand. Wee little things. John took my instructions to heart, setting a pace so fast that my body still aches from our frantic ride through Hallowell.

But now, having barely arrived and situated myself, I find that the baby is already crowning. Betsy’s contractions are thirty seconds apart. This child—like her others—is in a hurry to greet its mother. Thankfully, she is built well for birthing.

“It’s time,” I tell her, setting a warm hand on each of her knees. I gently press them apart and help the young woman shimmy her nightgown higher over her bare belly. It is hard, clenched at the peak of a contraction, and Betsy grinds her teeth together, trying not to sob.

Labor renders every woman a novice. Every time is the first time, and the only expertise comes from those assembled to help. And so Betsy has gathered her women: mother, sisters, cousin, aunt. Birth is a communal act, and all of them spring into action as her resolve slips and she cries out in pain. They know what this means. Even those with no specific job find something to do. Boiling water. Tending the fire. Folding cloths. This is women’s work at its most elemental. Men have no place in this room, no right, and Betsy’s husband has retreated to his forge, impotent, to pour out his fear and frustration upon the anvil, to beat a piece of molten metal into submission.

Betsy’s women work in tandem, watching me, responding to every cue. I extend a hand, and a warm, wet cloth is set upon it. No sooner have I wiped the newest surge of blood and water away, than the cloth is plucked from my grip and replaced by one that is fresh. The youngest of Betsy’s kin—a cousin, no more than twelve—is charged with cleaning the soiled rags, keeping the kettle at a boil, and replenishing the wash bucket. She applies herself to the task without a flinch or complaint.

“There’s your baby,” I say, my hand upon the slick, warm head. “Bald as an egg. Just like the others.”

Betsy lifts her chin and speaks with a grimace as the contraction loosens its grip. “Does that mean it’s another girl?”

“It means nothing.” I keep my gaze steady and my hand gentle on the tiny head that is pushing into my palm.

“Charles wants a boy,” she pants.

Charles has no say, I think.

Another brutal wave descends upon Betsy, and her sisters move forward to lift her legs and hold them back.

“On my count, push,” I tell her. “One. Two. Three.” I watch the rise of Betsy’s contraction as it tents her abdomen. “Now.”

She holds her breath, bears down, and another inch of bald head is revealed, the tips of little ears cresting beyond the confines of her body. She doesn’t have a chance to catch her breath before the next wave rolls over her, and then they come, unrelenting, one on top of another, never loosening their grip upon her womb. Betsy pushes. Gasps for air. Pushes again. Again. And again. Someone wipes the sweat from her brow, the tears from her cheeks, but I never look away. Finally, the head pushes through.

I ease my hand forward, cupping a cheek and one small ear in my palm. “Only the shoulders now. Two more pushes ought to do it.”

Betsy, however, is ready to be done with this business, and she heaves with the last of her strength, forcing the child right into my hands, then flops back onto the bed as the baby is freed from her body with a whoosh, the only remaining connection a slick silver cord.

A tiny, outraged squall fills the room, but Betsy’s women neither cheer nor clap. They watch, silent, waiting for my pronouncement.

“Hello little one,” I whisper, then hold the baby up for Betsy to see. “You have another daughter.”

“Oh,” she says, crestfallen, and pushes onto her elbows to see the child.

There is work yet to be done, and I go about it with deliberation. I lay the little girl on the bed between her mother’s legs and snip the umbilical cord with my scissors. Once that primordial bond is cut, I tie it off with a piece of string. Then I plunge my hands into a wash bucket, clean them, and swipe my thumb across the roof of the baby’s mouth. No cleft palate. Another tiny miracle that I mentally log during any successful birth. I wipe the blood and waxy vernix from the writhing, slippery infant even as I keep an eye on Betsy for excess bleeding. Nothing seems out of the ordinary.

Betsy’s women pull back her hair, wash her face, make her sip lukewarm tea. They help her into a sitting position and a clean shift. They ready her to nurse.

“Look how pretty you are,” I say to the baby, then add, “Look how loved you are.”

And I pray to God that it is true.

Charles Clark is so desperate for a son—this is their third child in four years—that his determination might well kill his wife if he isn’t careful. As for Betsy, she is desperate to please her husband and will never tell him no.

All appears in order with mother and child, so I wrap her in clean, soft linen and hand her to Betsy. She puts the bundle to her breast and hisses as the baby latches onto her nipple. It makes her abdomen contract once more, ridding itself of the afterbirth. Even this is fascinating to me, and I inspect the remnants of labor for irregularities, making sure it is intact, that nothing has been left behind. It too is normal, and I discard the residue into the bucket at my feet.

“There’s one last thing,” I warn.

Betsy nods. She’s been through this before.

“Bear with me. It will be a few seconds. But it may hurt.”

“Go on, then.”

I knead Betsy’s abdomen, rolling the heel of my hand this way and that, helping it contract. The girl winces but doesn’t cry out, and then there is nothing left for her to do but nurse the child.

“What will you call her?” I ask.

“Mary.”

A name that means “bitter,” I think, but offer the young mother an approving smile because it is expected.

The women work in tandem to clean Betsy and wrap her groin in clean, dry cloths. These will be changed by the after nurses every hour for the next few days.

It is four thirty in the morning—still hours before dawn—and Betsy’s women slip away to clean the last of the mess, and then to find what sleep they can. They will come in shifts to care for Betsy and her children over the next week. It will be the only rest the young blacksmith’s wife will get.

I remove my soiled apron and wash my hands again, then tie back the pieces of hair that have come loose before I sit on the edge of the bed and drink a cup of tea—now cold—that was brought to me when I arrived. For several moments I observe mother and child.

“Shall I let Charles know that all is well?” I ask.

“Yes,” Betsy says, “but don’t tell me if he’s angry.”

“He has no right to be angry. You’ve given him a beautiful child.”

“It means nothing, whether he has a right to his anger or not.”

I take a deep, calming breath before reassuring her. “Don’t worry about Charles. I’ll take care of him. You enjoy your daughter.”

The Clarks live in a small cabin adjacent to the only forge in three counties. It is a short walk, but I slide into my riding cloak anyway. The frigid air hits me like a slap, so startling after the near-oppressive heat inside the birthing room. It stings the inside of my nose with each inhale. The night is clear and crisp, the moon proud, and stars bright against an inky blanket of sky.

I don’t bother to knock on the forge door—Charles wouldn’t hear me with all the hammering anyway—but push it open without announcing myself. Betsy’s husband paces, muttering curses and prayers. He is utterly helpless and totally to blame for his wife’s recent agony.

Charles lifts his head when I enter his field of vision, and brings a cross peen hammer down on a rod of white-hot iron with such force that I can feel the vibrations through the hard-packed earth beneath me. The room smells of hot metal and baked mud. Of sweat and fear. Charles Clark stands straight, sets his hammer aside, and pushes a wet clump of hair away from his forehead. He’s starting to bald—I can see the receding patches at each temple—and it makes him appear older than his thirty years. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark beard. Piracy would have been a good option for Charles had he never taken an interest in the smith.

He braves a furtive glance at me, then looks away. “Does my wife live?” he asks, then clears his throat to hide whatever rush of emotion he feels.

“Yes. Of course. She is fine and healthy.”

I think this is the closest I will ever come to seeing the man tremble. Relief buckles through his body, and his knees sag, but then he pulls himself together and turns to face me.

“And the child?”

“She has very strong lungs.”

His expression doesn’t so much crumble, as collapse. I can see the muscle along his jaw work as he clenches, then grinds his teeth. Finally, he swallows hard and asks, “Has Betsy given her a name?”

“Mary.”

“I’d hoped for a son.”

“I know.”

“Because of the forge. I need help. I…” Charles catches himself, embarrassed. “I do love my daughters.”

“I never said otherwise.”

“It’s just that I need more hands. There’s so much work to do. And I wanted to teach him.”

I don’t bother to tell Charles that there is no him, and that infants are no help in a forge, regardless. That it would be a decade, at least, before a son—if he’d had one—could make even a small contribution to the family business.

“You have John Cowan for help. And you may yet have a son. Betsy is still young. As are you.”

Charles nods as though deciding on something important. “We will try harder again next time. I’ll make sure of it.”

Foolish man.

I step toward the glowing bricks and stretch out my hand until it rests on Charles’s forearm. It is muscled and scarred, warm from the fire. Any hair that once grew on it was long ago singed away.

“Not for several months,” I tell him. “At the very least. If you want a son, you must give her body time to heal. And even then, it is God, not you, who chooses what you will have. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“I’m not cruel,” he says.

Just demanding and ungrateful. I do not say this aloud, however. He is the kind of man who will hear the truth, but only when it is spoken indirectly.

“But Betsy needs more than that right now. She needs you to be gentle. And patient.”

He says nothing, so I give his arm a final squeeze and leave Charles to his work. Having done his job for the evening, John Cowan has retreated into his loft at the other end of the forge. The young man is big, built like an ox, and not much smarter. For now he is lost to a deep and rumbling sleep, oblivious to both the new life that has just entered this world, and the pounding of his master’s hammer. John’s days are filled with clanging metal, so why should his dreams be any different?

I return to the cabin, find an empty spot beside the hearth, and stretch out on the straw pallet that has been left for me. In a couple of hours, Betsy’s women will rise to cook a meal in celebration of this new life. The ritual is commonly observed in Hallowell. A child is born, and a meal is served. Sometimes, it is an elegant feast spread on a linen tablecloth, and at other times a sparse, cold offering thrown together in haste. Sometimes I sleep in a spare bed, and sometimes there is no place for me to sleep at all. I have spent more than one night sitting upright in a chair, jerking awake every time my head lolls. But tonight is typical of most births I attend. A modest home, a normal labor, a simple bed and—in the morning—a hearty breakfast.

I lie curled beneath my riding cloak, staring at the rough-hewn beams of the ceiling, listening to the sounds around me. Little snores and rustles and whispers as Betsy’s women bed down for the night. As my eyes grow heavy, the front door opens and Charles walks across the creaky floor toward the bedroom. I listen for the sound of anger, but only hear a man whisper softly to his wife.

*

It feels as though I have barely closed my eyes when I am woken by a large, calloused hand on my shoulder. Charles is there, a lantern in his other hand and urgency in his voice.

“Mistress Ballard,” he whispers. “You must get up.”

I look to the bedroom where I left mother and child, panicked that something has gone wrong in the night.

“They’re fine.” He points to the front door. “But someone has come to speak with you. Says it’s urgent.”

Perhaps an hour has passed, at most, since I fell asleep. It feels as though there are cobwebs in my head and cotton in my eyes, but I wrap my riding cloak a little tighter around my shoulders and follow Charles outside. The blast of cold air is sudden and merciless, and I gasp, then shudder.

Charles lifts the lantern, and I recognize the man sitting astride the horse. He is of middle age and middle height and minor attractiveness, but I can’t understand why he is here, and not halfway to Long Reach on a raft with my son.

James Wall looks to be the kind of exhausted that can only happen after being awake all night in the brutal cold. His eyes are red rimmed, hair disheveled, and face unshaved. He licks his chapped lips. “Pardon me, Martha, I don’t mean to intrude,” he says. “But you’re needed in town. Immediately.”

“I thought you and Jonathan left on the raft hours ago.”

“We did,” he says. “But there’s been an accident.”

Water Street

“What happened?” I ask James as soon as we’ve left the forge.

It took only a moment to check on Betsy and gather my medical bag while James saddled my horse. Brutus didn’t make it easy for him, however, and James rubs the sore spot on his shoulder where my horse tried to take a bite out of him.

He takes a shaky breath. “We left Dawin’s Wharf late last night when the ice started forming. Me and Sam and Jonathan. There was still an open channel down the middle of the river, about fifty feet wide. We thought we’d have enough time to get the boards to Long Reach, but the ice closed around us an hour ago. I’ve never seen anything like it, Mistress Ballard. It just swallowed the raft whole. One minute we were moving in the current, and the next we ground to a halt. Sam Dawin fell through trying to get to shore.”

“Was he swept under?”

“Almost. But he grabbed the edge when he went down. His toes just reached the bottom. You know how tall he is. Took some effort, but we got him out. Jonathan rode him straight to your house for help.”

“Then we’d best hurry back,” I say, digging my heels into Brutus’s side. He lurches forward into a canter, and it takes a moment for James to catch up.

“Beg your pardon, Mistress Ballard, but we ain’t going back to the mill. Amos Pollard sent me to fetch you to the tavern.”

“What does Amos have to do with this?”

“When Sam went under the ice, he saw a body.” He takes in my look of astonishment and explains, “A man. Dead and frozen. We cut him from the ice. Me and Amos and a few others. That’s why we’re headed to the tavern. Amos insisted that you see the body first. Before anyone else. Said you would have a particular interest.”

I have seen more than my fair share of dead bodies over the years, but never once would I classify attending them as an interest. A necessity at times, to be sure, but never something I enjoy.

The sky is turning from ink to pewter, and I tilt my head to study James’s profile. The careful set of his mouth. Eyebrows drawn together. Hands tight on the reins.

“What is it that you’re not telling me? Who did you cut out of the river?”

After a long pause he says, “It’s hard to say.”

“Meaning you don’t want to say?”

“Meaning that I can’t. I’m not sure anyone can right now.” He swallows. “There’s been a good bit of injury… particularly to his face, I mean.”

James Wall is a terrible liar. That skill will take another decade and a good bit more life experience to acquire. So I can see it there in the set of his jaw as he turns back to the road. Not a lie, perhaps, but certainly an omission.

“Fine then,” I answer, voice pleasant. “Who do you think was cut from the ice?”

The question startles him, and he answers before he has time to think about the consequences. “Joshua Burgess.”

Oh.

I am startled at the relief—no, the joy—I feel at hearing that name. What a strange miracle. I had hoped to see Burgess swing at the end of a rope for what he did, but dead is dead, and I’m not sad to hear the news. I still don’t understand why Amos sent for me, however, and I tell James so.

“There’s a lot of”—he pauses, unsure of the appropriate word—“damage… more than just his face, you see. Someone will have to declare cause of death. So it’s official, in case there is an inquiry.”

Injury. Damage. Different words, different meanings.

“And Amos Pollard doesn’t think Dr. Cony is up to the job?”

“The doctor is known to be good friends with Colonel North.”

My mind is quick, connecting dots he’s barely had the time to draw with his carefully worded answer. “Then it is Joshua Burgess they found? And someone has killed him?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, James’s mouth twists as he works up the courage to ask the question he’s been holding in reserve.

“Do you think Rebecca Foster is telling the truth? About Colonel North and Joshua Burgess?” He seems embarrassed by his own boldness, and his windblown cheeks redden further. “Do you think they raped her as she claims?”

Even now, months later, the image of Rebecca Foster is clear in my mind. I found the young woman alone, at home with her children, several days after the assault. Husband away, she had been an easy victim. I tended to the split lip, the black eye, the bruised cheekbone. I inspected the dark, purple bruises littered across her torso, arms and thighs, wrists and ankles. Searched for broken bones and cuts, finding little that I could mend. There is no mending the kind of damage they had done. I’ve seen such bruises before. I knew what they meant. So I bathed the young, pretty pastor’s wife and helped her into clean clothes. Wrapped her in a blanket. And then I sat down and let the girl weep into my bosom. I stroked her hair and muttered gentle sounds in her ear. Waited until Rebecca Foster wrung herself dry, then I took that horrible, heartrending confession so that she wouldn’t have to carry the burden alone.

Listening is a skill acquired by the doing. By many long years spent sitting at bedsides and in birthing rooms, waiting as women share the secret deeds that bring them to labor. I know these secrets come in waves. The first, horrible admission, and then the smaller, deeper acts that came before. A stolen glance. A secret, erotic touch. Moments of passion and lost control. But sometimes—the worst times—it is a story like the one Rebecca spread before me in that broken, disjointed way four months ago. Sometimes, my job is to sit and listen to the tales of brutality and ravishment. Of women who find themselves confessing sins they did not commit. Or even believe could happen to them. Acts they had fought against. So I had remained still and quiet with Rebecca that afternoon. Encouraging her with the occasional understanding nod of my head, instead of words. No. I couldn’t speak. Not then. I knew that the sound of my voice would scare the girl into silence. And whatever else happened afterward, I was certain of two things: Rebecca needed to tell me everything, and I needed to know who must bear the punishment for what had been done to her.

“Yes,” I tell James, finally, as I clear the hard knot of rage from my throat. “Rebecca is telling the truth, and I believe every word of what she says. I saw the damage they did to her. But I had hoped Joshua Burgess would hang for it.”

James looks at me, mouth set in a grim line. “Don’t be so sure he didn’t.”

Pollard’s Tavern

Something is on fire. I can smell it, a quarter mile from town, and I fear, for a moment, that destruction has followed death into Hallowell this morning. But when we round the bend, I see that it is only the tavern heaving thick smoke from both stacked-stone chimneys. Wet wood never burns well, and the smoke settles like a fog, perfuming the air, thick and pungent, making my nose sting.

Pollard’s Tavern is a dark hulk against the pre-dawn sky. It sits squarely at the crossroads of Water and Winthrop Streets, a stone’s throw from both Coleman’s Store and the Kennebec River. The building itself, a two-story rectangle designed in the simple post-and-beam fashion, changes its purpose depending on the public function performed within: tavern, courthouse, lodge, meeting hall—or, in this case, mortuary.

These occurrences are hardly irregular. Last September the tavern served as barracks when the Boston militia marched through Hallowell—the Hook, as locals call our village. They camped here a fortnight, drinking grog and sleeping on the floor, until they could join their regiment in Pittston. The tavern smelled of manure and unwashed male for weeks afterward. Then, exactly nine months after that, I delivered Sarah White’s daughter—a rather inconvenient but decidedly permanent reminder of the Boston militia. Still unmarried, the girl has become a favorite topic of gossip among the women, and—unfortunately—of interest among the men. For my part, I pity the girl—pretty faces and misfortune often go hand in hand—but I don’t like her any less. Sarah has been a friend to my daughters for many years, and I of all people understand the myriad, unfair ways that women find themselves in childbirth.

“Does anyone else know about the body?” I ask.

“Not that I’m aware.”

“How many men did it take to cut him out?”

“Seven. All of them chosen by Amos.”

That’s a stroke of luck, I think.

A quick glance up and down Water Street reveals that the residents of Hallowell are certainly up, if not about. Curtains are thrown open in homes—revealing the warm light of lanterns within—and children gather wood beneath eaves heavy with snow. More than one industrious housewife is sweeping her front steps even as she stifles a yawn. It is only a matter of time before news of the morning’s events makes it to Colonel North—I can see smoke rising from his chimney five houses down—and then across the river to Fort Western and Dr. Cony. I will be lucky if I can examine the body before they interrupt my work or take over altogether.

James helps me down from my perch astride Brutus as best he can—he is a good five inches shorter than I am—and ties both sets of reins to the hitching post. He unbuckles my medical bag from the saddle as I shrug out of my riding cloak and pull off the kid gloves that Ephraim gave me for Christmas. I tuck them through the slits on either side of my riding skirt and into the pockets affixed beneath, then settle my expression into one of trained indifference.

James holds the door open and motions me forward with one thick arm. “After you.”

Careful not to make eye contact with anyone on the street, careful to appear as though this is simply an early, casual visit, I climb the front steps and cross the threshold. There is an instant uproar. Men spring to their feet and begin shouting. Gesticulating. Pointing toward a door at the back of the tavern. Three of them hold mugs of hard cider. None of them think to greet me. One of them is already drunk. Chandler Robbins sways in his chair with the stupid look of a man who has gone hard and fast into his cups.

“Hush,” I snap, setting my fists against my hips. They fall silent as I scan the room, looking each of the seven men directly in the eyes. “An explanation, if you don’t mind.”

Moses Pollard—a young man of twenty—breaks away from the group and lifts his chin. He is broad shouldered and narrow waisted and has the look of a man who will only grow stronger as he ages. But when he speaks, it is with the soft, kind lilt of his Scottish mother.

“Thank ye for coming, Mistress Ballard,” he says. “He’s in the back. The man, I mean. The one we cut from the ice.” Moses gives me a crooked half smile—also inherited from his mother—but his words are weighted with apology when he adds, “We dinna want to lay him out on one of the tables, ye ken, seeing as we’d be eating off them soon. Apart from issues of cleanliness, my Ma said it would scare off the breakfast crowd to have a dead man staring at them while they eat their porridge.”

Amos Pollard drops one heavy arm across his son’s shoulders and coughs up a sound that could be either grunt or laughter. His voice—so different from Moses’s green, springy cadence—has the guttural baritone of a first-generation German settler. “My vife said she vould wring my neck if I let zem.”

The tables in question number about ten, and all—except one where the men have been sitting—are wiped clean with benches tucked beneath and lanterns glowing warmly on top. Each can seat eight and, after decades of use, are worn smooth from plates and elbows. As with most things at Pollard’s Tavern—the owners included—the room is solid and rectangular. Open fireplaces—each large enough to roast a spring bull—sit at either end of the room, giving it the look of a Great Hall in an old English manor. The floor is flagstone and swept clean. It smells of candle wax, wood polish, and last night’s meal—stew and potatoes, from what I can judge.

The older Pollard is a sturdy man with a square jaw and enormous hands. He runs the tavern as though it were a small city and he the mayor, but his wife, Abigail, is the real heart of the place, beloved in the Hook for her generosity, good humor, and cooking skills. I’m certain that she is keeping her distance from the grim business at hand. Abigail is the sort of woman who can kill, pluck, dress, and roast five geese before lunch but can’t stomach the sight of human blood. I have met only a handful of such women in my life, and typically I have no patience for squeamishness, but for Abigail I make an exception because with her it is endearing.

“How can I help?” Moses asks, stepping away from his father.

He’s trying to make a good impression. I’ve seen the way he looks at my daughter Hannah, and I suspect that he’s begun to entertain the idea of courting her.

“I’m not sure. I need to see him first.”

Amos pops the fingers on his colossal left hand one by one, and I wince at the hard cracking sound. He may as well be snapping tree branches. “It isn’t pretty, Martha,” he says.

I look him square in the eye and tell him, “Little about my work is.”

Amos leads me toward the back room, but as I pass Moses, I give him a sly smile of approval. The more I get to know the boy, the more I like him. He might look as if he’d been spit right out of his father’s mouth, but he has his mother’s heart and way with people.

I carry my medical bag in the crook of one arm and my riding cloak in the other. The men trail behind, feeling important to be included but keeping in a tight pack. They take turns muttering inanities while trudging across the floor.

“I’d wager the Kennebec is frozen all the way to Bath, or near enough.”

“Aye, likely a dozen or more boats locked in till spring.”

“My knee is swelt from the cold. Canna straighten it enough to ride.”

“Did you hear that Negro woman is back in the Hook?”

That last comment grabs my attention, and I flick a quick glance over my shoulder to look at Seth Parker—meaning to catch his eye, ask if the woman seemed well—but he is looking at the storeroom door and doesn’t seem to notice that he’s spoken the question aloud. These men may have done the hard work of pulling a body from the river, but their uneasiness crackles in the air as they move closer to it. When the storeroom door gives way with an eerie whine, they draw back collectively.

Good grief. I shake my head. Men and death: either culprits or cowards.

A rectangle of light from the main room illuminates the floor and the lower half of a table where the man lies, but the form itself is a dark heap of bent limbs and twisted, frozen clothing.

“A lantern, please,” I say, looking over my shoulder at Moses. “Two would be better.”

It is only a moment before he returns, a lantern in each hand. The men step aside to let him through, and he sets one at each end of the table. The sudden warm light provides my first good look at the corpse.

Two things are obvious immediately.

It is—without question—Joshua Burgess.

And he has been hanged.

It isn’t just the body that is now revealed but the entirety of the storeroom as well. Foodstuffs are stacked against the wall, piled in corners, and strung from the rafters. The contrast of ham hocks dangling from the ceiling and the body sprawled on the table sends a shiver along my spine. It is enough to make one of the men behind me gag.

I ignore the retreating footsteps, the uneasy shuffling, the sudden hush as I step closer to the table. I ignore everything but the slowing of my pulse and the stilling of my mind—a learned form of concentration in which I push aside all commotion and fear and chaos. I take a long breath through my nose, noting scents of lamp oil, onions, and salt—but no blood, no rot, no vomit—and set my medical bag and riding cape on the floor. Then I undo the buttons at each wrist and roll up my sleeves—first the right, then the left—to my elbows. Inside my bag is a clean, tightly rolled linen apron. It is stained from long use and soft from wear. I pull it out and slide it over my head, then tie it behind my back. I do all of this as I make a curious, roving assessment of the body.

“Moses?”

He steps to my side. “Aye?”

“I’ll need a wash basin with hot water and clean rags.”

He blinks once, confused, then opens his mouth to speak, but I can see him wrestle with the question. He doesn’t want to be disrespectful, but he thinks the orders unnecessary. In the end he can utter only a single word before I cut him off. “But—”

“Yes. I know he’s dead.”

“So why bother cleaning him?”

It is a ruthless question cloaked in simplicity. It marks where his loyalties lie in the scandal that has ripped our community in half. Why clean the body of a criminal? A rapist?

Various grunts and murmurings of assent come from the doorway behind us. Apparently the men chosen by Amos Pollard for this morning’s grisly task are all sympathetic to Rebecca Foster.

“I’m not cleaning him. I am examining him,” I say, matter-of-factly. “And I do it because it is my job.”

A glance over my shoulder proves that the hearth fires are growing, but still, it will be some time before their proffered heat reaches the storeroom. The cold feels damp and malignant, as though it could seep into my clothing. Into my bones. So I rub my hands back and forth across my apron, letting the friction of skin and linen create what little warmth it can.

I decide to put Moses to the test when he returns a few moments later with a small wash basin and a pile of clean rags. It’s my right as a mother, after all, and if he intends to marry my daughter, he can’t show less mettle than Hannah in a situation like this. I need part of him to be tough as leather, fearless like his father. Having his mother’s weak stomach will never do.

“Do you still want to help?” I ask, tilting my chin to the side and giving Moses a look of challenge.

His only sign of uncertainty is a single, hard swallow. “Aye.”

“Then you can assist me.”

His eyes are wary, but he nods. It is enough to please me though, and I reward him with a full, bright smile. The sight seems to fortify Moses, and he stands a little straighter. My husband is fond of saying that I am not generous with my smiles, that they must be earned, but I think that is unfair. There is usually just so little to smile about.

“What can I do?” he asks.

“There are scissors in my bag. Find them please.”

He locates them easily, then stations himself behind me and to the side, ready for additional instructions.

Chunks of ice still cling to Joshua Burgess’s hair and torso but have begun to soften and drip, splashing on the stone floor at my feet. I pull the hair from his mouth and lay it back, exposing the oblong strawberry birthmark at his temple. There can be no questioning the identity of the body now. Burgess is the only man in the Hook with such a mark.

Sections of his shirtwaist and trouser legs were cut away when the men of Hallowell hacked at the ice. But it is his neck, snapped and leaning at an unnatural angle, that draws my gaze. There are rope burns below his jaw, and a ghastly white protrusion—windpipe, most likely—from a vertical split in his neck.

But where is the rope?

“Moses?” I ask.

“Aye?”

“You went with the others this morning?”

“Aye.”

“Was there a rope around his neck when he came out of the ice?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Ask the others please.”

He turns on his heel and leaves the storeroom, quiet as a cat.

In my nearly five and a half decades of life, I have seen only one other hanged man, and he’d looked quite different from this—but then again, in that case, the drop hadn’t done its job. Performed properly, a hanging breaks the neck and offers a quick—albeit gruesome—death. When done wrong, it is a slow suffocation that causes the face to turn purple and the tongue and eyes to protrude. Joshua Burgess’s eyes are open and wide, but the look on his face is one of surprise, not strangulation. His lip is split, however, and several teeth are broken.

But still, there should be a rope. Whether dangling from gallows, trees, or bridges, hanged men must be cut down. The term deadweight comes to mind as I run my thumb over the abraded skin at his throat.

“No one saw a rope,” Moses says, back again.

Then the killer took it with him.

This troubles me, but I set it aside for now.

Burgess is not married. He lives—No,he lived—on a small homestead, on a third-tier lot, three miles down Winthrop Street. These lots—the smallest, least desirable, and farthest from the river—are typically assigned to single men or former militia with scant means and few connections. Since coming to Hallowell, Burgess has made no secret of the fact that he wants a lot with river frontage so he can join the mill trade. Those lots are hard to come by, however, and, according to Ephraim, have all been leased.

But the fact remains that Burgess does have a homestead, and on it are any number of animals that must be tended now that he is dead. I mention this to Moses as I run my fingers along Burgess’s scalp, looking for wounds that might be hidden in his long, dirty hair.

“I’ll go tell Da’,” he says, “see if he can send someone to collect them.”

Moses is back by the time I’ve determined that Burgess has no lacerations on his scalp.

“He sent three men to move the animals to the neighbors. They’re also going to collect any valuables in the house and bring them here for safekeeping until his family can be found.”

I thank him, then steady myself for the next part of the examination. “Scissors,” I say, extending my hand to Moses.

He sets them in my palm, then shifts closer. The metal is colder than the air, but the weight grounds me to the task at hand. I cut away what is left of Burgess’s shirt and take a half step backward to make sense of what I see. As a student of human anatomy, I am always amazed at the variations it can take. Tall. Short. Round. Straight. Fat. Thin. Burgess is not a big man. Average size, or less, and the kind of wiry that runs to skinny in winter. Yet he is possibly the hairiest man I have ever seen. As is typical this time of year, he’s grown a beard, but his chest, arms, and back are carpeted with dark, coarse hair as well. None of it can hide the countless gruesome bruises, or the obvious broken ribs, arm, and fingers. At first glance it looks as though someone has taken a boot to Burgess’s entire face and torso. When I cut away his trousers, I see that the damage includes his groin as well.

And that is when the remaining witnesses in the doorway depart en masse, gagging, cursing, and sweating. It would seem that—accusations of rape aside—few men can stomach the sight of another man’s crushed genitals.

I look to Moses for signs of distress, but he stands quietly, a muscle twitching along his clenched jaw. He breathes through his nose, and his eyes are unfocused. But at least he hasn’t fled. Or vomited.

“Deserved it, he did,” Moses finally whispers. “If it had been my sister he’d hurt, I’d have killed him too. And I wouldna feel bad for it.”

I wash away the blood and dirt from the exposed, frozen, twisted body. I let the exclamations and comments out in the tavern fade away. I ignore the men as they say their farewells. I don’t startle when a door bangs, or a dog barks, or a man curses. Nor do I cease my meticulous inspection of each bruise and cut and gash as a pair of even footsteps tread across the flagstones behind me. My focus remains entirely on the body, on my work, rendering careful inspection.

After several seconds I can feel Moses shift uncomfortably beside me. “Mistress Ballard…,” he says, voice rising on the last syllable.

“Joshua Burgess was beaten, hanged, and thrown in the river.” I nod, wipe my hands on my apron, and step back from the table, pleased with my conclusion. But when I turn toward Moses, I find that he is looking to the storeroom door. He spoke my name in warning, not in question.

“I think I’ll be the one to determine that.”

A young gentleman stands in the doorway wearing a good coat and a smug grin. He holds a leather satchel in one hand and a new felt hat in the other. He is freshly shaven and handsome in the meticulously groomed way that has always irritated me.

“Who are you?” I demand.

“Dr. Benjamin Page.”

“Where is Dr. Cony?”

“Away. In Boston. I am here in his stead.”

“I don’t think—”

“I assure you, Mistress…?”

“Ballard.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mistress Ballard.” He dips his head, but his voice is dismissive. “I assure you that, as a licensed physician and a recent graduate of Harvard Medical School, I am more than capable of undertaking this examination.”

My grip tightens, but I force myself to loosen my fingers and drop my hands so that they hang my side. “No need, Doctor Page. For I have already completed the assessment.”

He steps forward with a fake smile. “As interesting as your amateur observations might be, I’m sure you won’t mind if I take it from here.”

Dr. Coleman’s Store

“I have to run an errand,” I tell James Wall as we stand outside the tavern. “But would you mind doing something for me in the meantime?”

“What’s that?”

“Keep an eye on Dr. Page. I don’t trust him.”

“Aye, Mistress Ballard. I’ll stay until he’s gone,” James says.

The young, new doctor must only verify my findings, then the men of Hallowell can put Joshua Burgess in the ground to rot. But the ground is frozen, and nothing short of a hatchet will break it in this cold. Regardless, there likely isn’t a man in three counties willing to do the job. Which leaves them with a dilemma: what to do with the mangled corpse on their hands? For now, they will have to wrap him in linen, then oiled canvas, and store him in the shed behind the tavern until better arrangements can be made.

It did not escape my attention that Chandler Robbins—in his drunken stupor—had suggested pitching Burgess back into the river. They’d cut a hole, after all, he said. No one had paid Chandler much mind, however, and then they’d all dispersed and gone their separate ways.

I leave James looking more tired than ever and go in search of something that only Samuel Coleman can supply.

Thankfully all I must do is cross the street and turn left.

The sign above the door reads Coleman’s General, and it creaks in the breeze like an old gate on rusted hinges. I worry for a moment that the store is not yet open, but no sooner do I set my hand on the knob than I have to jump back as two trappers—bearded and foul smelling—stomp out.

“Din’t give us much for them furs, did ’e?” one grumbles to the other.

I hold my breath as they pass. I doubt either of them has bathed in a month.

“Get that silver fox and ’e will. Them’s worth twenty dollars easy. More if’n you can keep the head attached when ye skin it.”

“Ain’t no silver fox in these woods,” the second man argues. He steps off the boardwalk and turns left, toward Pollard’s Tavern. “Them’s rare as virgins in a brothel.”

“And just as expensive. But I saw one, anyways. A pretty little vixen. Upriver. Yesterday. Near that mill run by the Welshman.”

I watch as they shuffle across the street, shedding bits of mud and refuse as they go. Soon their voices fade to a hard grumble, and they reach the other side. No doubt to spend whatever coin they’ve just made at the tavern.

The Welshman they speak of is my husband, and the mill belongs to us. But in the eleven years that we have lived there, I have never seen a silver fox. It bothers me that these men think they can kill something on our property and take it just because they want it.

I pull the door open and step into the general store. The little bell rings above my head, and my eyes settle on the pile of new furs stacked beside the counter. Seven in total, mostly beaver, though that’s a stoat near the middle, and there is a single blazing red fox pelt on top. I am struck by sudden concern for the silver fox’s mate.

Coleman’s General was built before we moved to Hallowell, and Ephraim cannot set foot in the place without muttering about how it wasn’t framed square. The roof leaks were fixed last year, however, and the townsfolk no longer need to worry about puddles in the dry goods aisle. For my part, I find the place cheerful. The windows are plentiful, the floorboards creak, and the place smells of lamp oil and dried apples. Coleman is getting older, however, and the store is starting to show signs of neglect. Cobwebs in the corners. Dust piled on every windowsill. It’s a lot for one man to manage on his own.

“Good morning, Mistress Ballard,” he calls out from his perch at the till.

“To you as well,” I answer, then move to join him at the counter.

The store is empty except for the two of us, and he sits on a wooden stool, playing a game of chess by himself, spinning the board around as he takes turns between black and white. I’ve always thought checkers would be easier if the goal were to outsmart oneself, but he insists on the game of kings.

Once he’s taken the white Rook with the black Bishop, he looks up from the board. The iris of his good eye has grown milky in recent years, turning the once soft blue into a muddled kind of gray. It is less disturbing, however, than the sunken void where his other eye used to be. The man refuses to wear a patch.

“It’s early yet. What brings ye to the Hook?” he asks.

“A birth and a death, among other things.”

He smiles, and—what with his multiple deformities—the effect should be grotesque. But it is charming instead. “Souls passing in the night, I take it? Who’s come and gone?”

“Charles and Betsy Clark have another daughter,” I tell him, smiling at his raised eyebrow, then add, “And someone has killed Joshua Burgess.”

“Ah. That’s who they found in the river, then.”

“How did you hear?”

“Half the town has heard by now.”

“Only half?”

“The rest are late sleepers.”

This is why I’ve taken the time to visit Samuel Coleman before heading home. Nothing happens in the Hook without his knowledge. He is known in town as Dr. Coleman, though no one has ever seen him practice medicine. Nor would any trust him to do so given that he possesses only the one eye and a total of six fingers: two on his left and four on his right. Theories abound as to how he lost them, ranging from reasonable (war injuries) to ridiculous (torture by pirates). For his part, Coleman lets those in the Hook think whatever they wish and never bothers to confirm or deny any of their speculations. In fact, when he chooses to speak at all it is usually to grouse about the French claim that their literature is superior to that of their English counterparts. Whatever he holds against the French is a grudge he means to keep to himself. It is his ability to listen, however, that makes him valuable to me.

“But are they saying anything about who might have done it?”

“I’d imagine there are several men who have cause. Isaac Foster comes to mind immediately. Not to mention Joseph North. And dozens more who were known to dislike him. I’ve not heard a specific name if that’s what you’re asking.” He winks. “But the shop ain’t been open an hour yet, so give me time.”

“You’ll tell me though?”

He nods.

Several years ago, Coleman and I formed a trade agreement of sorts. Mostly we barter books and information, but occasionally household goods as well. He holds back any reading material that comes through, and I keep him stocked in candles. The gossip is free.

“I’ll check back in a few days,” I tell him.

“Is there anything else you need while you’re here?”

“Just one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“What do you know about this new doctor who’s come to town?”

Ballard’s Mill

It is late morning by the time I return home, and the winter sun is hidden behind a veil of drab clouds. The light feels weak and sickly, as though sifted through old cheesecloth. I ride Brutus through the woods and into the clearing, where I pause at a fork in the drive. Right will take me down to the mill, where I can hear the heavy whack-whack of my husband’s axe. But left will take me up the rise to the house where my girls are caring for Sam Dawin.

I am debating which path to take when I see the silver fox.

There, on the slope that leads to the south pasture, clear against the snow, is a lithe creature, almost entirely black, with piercing amber eyes. She is stunning. Vicious and proud. And I’d sooner shoot one of those trappers myself than let them turn her into a fur stole. Brutus twitches beneath me, curious and on edge, however. He is no fan of tooth or claw. But the little beast neither moves nor makes a sound.

After a long, lazy yawn in which her pink tongue unfurls into an S, she turns her pointed head to look up the hill toward the house. Then back to me. And back to the drive. Three times she does this, slow and certain. Back and forth. Then—out of nowhere—she yaps at me, sending Brutus into a wild jerk. It is a howling, barking noise. But not like a dog. Nor a wolf. Not the mean yip and snarl of a coyote. It is a sharp-toothed and feral sound. Caterwauling, my husband would say.

Finally, the fox sniffs the air, sits back on her haunches, and licks one tufted paw, as though satisfied.

She wants me to go to the house, I think, and am so startled by the realization that I gasp. The fox lifts her head at the sound, meets my gaze again, then springs to her feet and trots toward the woods.

“Stay safe, little one,” I tell her, and urge Brutus up the hill.

Our youngest son, Ephraim—a boy just turned eleven and named for his father—meets me at the garden gate. He reaches for the reins as I dismount Brutus.

“Be careful with him,” I say, unbuckling my medical bag from the saddle. “He is in rare form today.”

“No matter. He likes me.” He shrugs, confident he will come to no harm, then flashes a smile that reveals he has lost his final baby tooth.

“Still”—I bend to kiss the top of his head, then gently nip the side of one ear—“he bites.”

Young Ephraim giggles, and I ruffle his shaggy hair as he turns toward the barn to care for my horse.

It is hard to have an oldest child, but harder still to have a youngest. Soon he too will have a beard like Cyrus and an Adam’s apple like Jonathan. Soon he will spend half his nights away, and that will be the end of childhood in our home. I am fifty-four years old, and that boy is my last. This knowledge is both a relief and a sadness—I have brought nine children into this world, after all, and only six are still living. Like all mothers, I have long since mastered the art of nursing joy at one breast and grief at the other.

I stand at the door watching his loping, childish gait a moment longer, then I go into the house to check on Sam Dawin.

“How is our patient?” I ask my daughters as soon as I’m through the door. Warm air and the scent of freshly baked bread rush toward me, vanquishing the chill I’ve felt since leaving home in the middle of the night.

“How did you know about him?” Dolly looks up, and I can see curiosity burning in her eyes. They are the same bright blue as her father’s.

“Word travels fast.”

At twenty and seventeen Hannah and Dolly are women, not girls—all hips and curves—racing toward their own lives and away from home. It won’t be long before they outgrow me, before they outgrow their willingness to be only daughters and sisters. Soon the inevitable will happen: they’ll want to be someone’s wife. Someone’s mother.

“Well?” I ask. “How is he?”

“Awake—” Dolly says.

“And hungry,” Hannah adds.

“And eager to go home. But we made him stay.”

Sam Dawin is not a small man, nor does he seem the type to take instructions from anyone, much less young women half his size. Curious, I lift an eyebrow.

Hannah stands by the fire, running flax fibers through thumb and forefinger and onto a drop spindle that swings gently near her feet. The heavy spindle twists the fibers into a line of newly formed linen thread that, when long enough, she wraps around the bobbin at its base. Given the eight spools of thread that sit neatly on the hearth, it’s clear she has been at this work all morning. A smile bobbles on her lips. Unlike her younger sister, Hannah has my eyes—wild and brown, like a dust storm. No wonder Moses Pollard has fallen under her spell.

“I hid his britches,” she explains.