Page 125 of The Frozen River

There is only a small section of bark left on the pole, and I watch my husband strip it methodically away. The blade makes a whooshing sound as it reveals the pale wood beneath. I watch him for a moment, thinking.

“The jury acquitted every man tried of rape that day,” I say after a moment. “But they fined a woman into poverty for spreading lies about a judge’s daughter.”

The pole is bare now, and Ephraim sets down his draw blade. Takes off the leather apron. “I believe it would have been different with Rebecca. She’s pregnant. That’s harder for a jury to ignore.”

“If they’d had the chance to see her, listen to her,” I say.

“I’m sure that’s what North realized in January when she gave her testimony. He expected them to bring charges of rape against him that day. He knew that a jury would believe Rebecca, so he ran off to Boston and hired a fancy lawyer.”

“And escaped doing his time in the jail yard,” I add.

“But he didn’t miss his chance for a bit of revenge when he had our son brought in on murder charges.”

“You think North was behind his arrest?”

Ephraim nods. “I do. During the inquiry, Judge Parker pointed out that Burgess’s death was very convenient for North. I think he sat in that courtroom believing he’d be charged with rape and suspecting that murder charges would follow. So he bolted. And then he found a way to have Cyrus charged instead. I aim to prove it too.”

“How?”

“I’m going to have Paul ask around about this lawyer, Henry Knowland, while I’m in Boston.”

Paul. He always says it so casually, as if the man he’s speaking of isn’t Paul Revere. Yes, an old friend, but also a national hero. The silver ink dish he gifted me is but a small part of the favor he owes my husband. If anyone can help Ephraim get to the bottom of what North was planning with his lawyer in Boston for those two months, it is Paul.

“Eat your dinner,” I tell him. “It’s getting cold.”

Ephraim goes to the plate and nods in approval. He stabs a potato with his fork and pops it in his mouth.

“When do you leave?” I ask.

“First thing in the morning.”

“And how long will you be gone?”

“Ten days. Perhaps a fortnight, depending on how difficult it is to get information about Knowland and make my case before the Kennebec Proprietors.”

In the week since North’s trial, Ephraim has been collecting writ-ten testimony from friends and neighbors who will swear to the fact that we have lived on this property since assuming the lease. He will take all of that—along with the letters I found in Burgess’s saddlebag—to Boston. But it means he is leaving again, and though the matter needs to be settled—and quickly—I don’t like the idea of him being gone.

Percy watches us from his perch in the loft, his noble head swiveling this way and that. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that he talks to Ephraim sometimes. In his own way. Every so often, I can hear his squawk and screech from the house if the air is still. Sometimes I think I can hear Ephraim answer.

“The ice is moving in the river,” I say, “and not a moment too soon. I am done with this winter.”

He looks at me cautiously. “Perhaps it is not yet done with us.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“The waterwheel. It hasn’t budged. You will know winter has gone for good when it turns again and brings its music back.”

Percy flaps his wings as if in agreement.

I glare at the bird. “He took another chicken yesterday.” Ephraim crooks an eyebrow. “You’re the one who gave him a taste for the things. What did you expect?”

“I expect him to be a gentleman about it and take only what’s offered.”

“Percy is no gentleman, Martha. He’s a wild beast. Don’t mistake him for anything else.”

“A beast perhaps, but a tame one.”

Ephraim studies his bird with a quiet thoughtfulness. “There is no such thing.”