Page 13 of The Frozen River

“Well, his face was there, an inch or so below the surface of the ice, staring right at me when they pulled me out. I couldn’t see much under the water—just a tangled form of some kind. But out of the river it was obvious enough.”

“And did you recognize him then?”

“I’ve seen Burgess often enough to know his face.”

“He was hanged, Sam.”

He swallows hard. “Who…”

“I can think of a few people who’d like to see him dead.”

He studies me for a moment before asking the obvious question. “Like Joseph North?”

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “That will be hard to prove without the rope. I asked at the tavern, but no one saw a rope when they cut him from the ice. Was there anything in the water? Anything at all that you remember?”

“No.” Whatever appetite Sam Dawin might have had evaporates. He drops his spoon back into the bowl and pushes the tray away. “I am grateful for your kindness, Mistress Ballard. I truly am. But I’d like to go see May now. She’s probably worried half to death.”

When Jonathan returns from telling May Kimble about the accident, I step outside to speak with him. He has just pulled the wagon up to the garden gate and stepped down from the seat when he sees me.

“I’ve come to take Sam home,” he says.

“What happened last night?”

Like half my children, Jonathan has his father’s eyes, and I see the flash of terror in that deep, clear blue. But only for a moment. Only until he shutters the expression and locks me out.

“He fell through the ice.”

“I mean at the Frolic. With Cyrus?”

It’s been a full day, at least, since Jonathan has slept, and everything about how he pushes through the gate says he’s not in the mood to talk, but he knows I won’t let him pass without an answer of some sort. “Burgess wasn’t invited. But he came and caused a scene, and we handled it.”

“Well Burgess is dead now, and I’m going to need a better answer than that.”

My son is twenty-six years old—a man grown, bearded, and strong—but I am his mother, and I know every expression his face can form. The way he avoids showing emotion by breaking eye contact. The way he sets his jaw when troubled. And cries only in private. I know it all. And in the end, exhausted though he may be, Jonathan’s will is no match for mine.

“He touched Hannah.”

“I know. She told me.” He relaxes a bit then, and I ask, “Everyone saw the fight?”

“Was impossible not to. Happened in the middle of the dance floor and the music stopped and everyone crowded round. But he was alive when we kicked him out. You can ask anyone that was there.”

“People will ask. You know that, right? So you have to tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing else to tell.”

It’s not that I don’t believe Jonathan; I just have the sense he’s giving me only half the story. But pressing him further will do no good. He needs to get Sam home. He needs a hot meal and a warm bed and a full night’s sleep. And perhaps, after those things, he’ll be more forthcoming with the details.

Sam Dawin rescues him by stepping out the front door. He is dressed and haggard, but he politely tips his hat in farewell. “Thank ye again, Mistress Ballard. I am in your family’s debt.”

I pat his cheek. “Nonsense. I am glad you’re safe. Please give my regards to May.”

Once Sam and Jonathan leave, I go back inside and retreat to my workroom. It sits off the kitchen, and the sun slants through the windows, illuminating the rows of dried herbs that hang from the ceiling. Shelves filled with bottles and little linen sacks—each carefully labeled—line one wall. There are boxes and baskets everywhere. A long workbench littered with other concoctions from my garden in various stages of fermentation and dehydration. A mortar and pestle. Rolls of twine. Bits and bobs. Corks. A scale. And there, on the hearth, a small kettle for boiling roots. There is a rectangular wooden box with leather hinges—long since brittle and cracked with age—sitting in the middle of the worktable. Sharp, slender knives; and smooth, round stones. This is my apothecary, my sanctuary, and it smells of lavender and woodsmoke, basil and vetiver. Mint. Catnip. Lemon-grass. Situated, just so, on the side of the house—thanks to good planning on Ephraim’s part—it catches light from sunrise to sunset.

I make my way to a small wooden desk before the eastern window and settle onto the stool that Ephraim built to accommodate my unusual height. Barefoot, I can almost look my husband in the eye. And though there are many things he loves about me, this is foremost.

What a strange beginning to this new day, I think, then take a long breath through my nose, letting the fragrant herbs settle me. I am certain there will be no retreat from whatever comes next. But at least I have a few moments’ peace to record my thoughts on everything that has happened in the last few hours. A large leather-bound journal sits at the corner of my desk, and I pull it closer.

Three times a year my husband orders cakes of ink from a stationery shop in Boston. They come two to a box, pressed into small, round disks, with the word Larkin stamped on top. It costs Ephraim five shillings for the ink and one for the postage, but he pays it gladly even though he says Ebenezer Larkin has a foul mouth and a fondness for whores. This is how Ephraim shows his devotion, making sure that I always have something with which to write. On our wedding night, many years ago, he gave me the first leather journal, identical to the one on my desk now. He said it was a place to keep my thoughts together in one place, and his only request was that I not let it sit empty. I have filled a dozen of them since. The books themselves are easier to come by than the ink, and it isn’t uncommon for Ephraim to return from a trip to Boston with a new volume filled with blank, stiff pages. I find them on my stool, often with a pressed flower tucked between the pages. Those flowers—now dried—remain exactly where he placed them, while the books themselves reside on a shelf across the room.