Page 103 of The Frozen River

I pull each of the envelopes from the bag, squinting curiously at the broken wax seals and the return addresses written above them.

The first reads: Colonel Joseph North, Hallowell, District of Maine.

The second reads: The Kennebec Proprietors, Boston, Massachusetts.

But it is the third that has me pinching my brows together in confusion.

“What in Satan’s hell?” I mutter, running the pad of my thumb over the familiar, elegant handwriting.

It reads: Ephraim Ballard, Hallowell, District of Maine.

I am turning the flap to open this last letter when I hear the loud thud of a door being slammed, then a mumbled curse, and the heavy clomp of footsteps stomping toward the shed. I shove everything back in the saddlebag and blow out the lantern. If light can explode, then darkness can swallow, and I am consumed in an instant.

“Damn fool of a boy,” growls the rough, guttural voice of Amos Pollard, followed by what I can only guess is a string of German profanity. “Arschgeige! Arsch bit Ohren! Dünnbrettbohrer! Kotzbrocken!”

And then there is the loud creak of the latch being lifted, followed by the thump of it dropping into place across the door. Before I can call out or warn him that I am inside, Amos Pollard has stomped away, still cursing under his breath.

I ease my way to the front of the shed and push against the door with my shoulder. It does not budge. I am locked inside.

“You are a fool, Martha Ballard,” I say, and my voice sounds hollow in the darkness. “Of all the professions you could have chosen, you found the one—the only damned one—that would get you locked up with a dead man in the middle of the night.”

Thirty Years Ago

OXFORD, MASSACHUSETTS FEBRUARY 28, 1760

“I don’t know a thing about delivering babies,” I told the boy.

He couldn’t have been ten years old, but still, he looked at me as though I was a simpleton. “You got one on your hip. And another inside the house. You must know somethin’ ’bout it.”

“That’s different from delivering someone else’s,” I said. “And besides, are you sure she meant me?”

The boy groaned. Rolled his eyes. “You Mistress Ballard, ain’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’s who she meant. Said she wants your help and wants you to come quick.” Impatient, he shifted from foot to foot. “Well? You coming?”

I looked to where my husband sat at the table, watching Cyrus eat a bowl of mush. He was three and a half and handy with a spoon, but, when left unattended, liked to finger-paint with his meals.

The look I sent to Ephraim plainly said, Rescue me, but he didn’t.

“You should go,” he said. “I will stay with the children.”

“But—”

“Go.”

“I could be gone a long time. They—”

“Will be fine, seeing as how I’ve been a parent as long as you have. Go help Elspeth.”

The woman in question—one Elspeth Horne—was a terrifying old midwife. Wizened and angry but fiercely competent in the birthing room. That’s why I’d sought her out when I had Cyrus, and then later, Lucy. But I could not fathom why she’d sent the boy for me.

Ephraim rose from the table and reached for Lucy. She dove into his arms with a wild giggle, and he plopped her on his shoulder like a sack of grain. “Go.”

There was nothing left to argue. Lucy was weaned, after all, and I couldn’t use that as an excuse. So I kissed Ephraim, grabbed my coat, slipped on my gloves, and followed the boy at a brisk walk down the path and onto the snow-packed road toward Oxford. The tavern where we were headed was only a mile away, and we made easy work of the distance, what with my long stride and his quick steps. All the boy would tell me was that the woman laboring had been staying at the tavern for a week, and that he’d been sent to fetch me. He didn’t know her name or how long she’d been in labor.

When we arrived, he darted to the stairs, looked back, and waved for me to follow. Up, up we went, all the way to the attic room, and every step I mounted left me feeling more of an idiot for being there in the first place. By the time we reached the short, slanted door, I’d convinced myself to turn around and go home. But the boy threw it open without knocking, ran to the old woman seated by the bed, and kissed her on the cheek.