Page 156 of The Frozen River

“You married her early.”

“It was the right thing to do. I had to protect her. They would fine her in court. You know that. They’d call her a fornicator and the baby a bastard. And if anyone ever found out about Burgess, they would never look at May the same way again. Or the child. I don’t care what they think of me, Mistress Ballard, but I’ll not let them disparage her. She did nothing wrong.”

“I know that. And I don’t blame you, Sam.” I take a step closer to him. “I have said it before, but I mean it. May is lucky to have you.”

“So you’ll not tell?”

“Only my husband. We keep no secrets between us.” We stand there watching the ice move in the river, and something else occurs to me. “Sam?”

“Yes?”

“You said we. ‘We caught him and beat him and strung him from a tree.’ ” That bit of doubt is back now, scratching at the back of my mind, and I have to know for sure. “Did you take Cyrus with you that night?”

He shakes his head. Laughs at the absurdity of such an idea. “No. I took Jonathan.”

POLLARD’S TAVERN FRIDAY, APRIL 30

The Court of General Sessions meets on this last Friday of the month. It is the first warm day of spring. The sun is shining, the river is open, and what little snow remains in the Hook is hard packed and dirty, heaped in the shadows and piled at the edge of the road. Mostly there is mud.

Mud on boots and clothes and caked into horseshoes and spread across the floor of the tavern. Abigail Pollard has given up trying to keep the place clean and—judging by the scowl on her face—is tempted to toss her broom into the hearth and let it burn. Instead, she chucks it into the corner and retreats to her table. When she sees me watching, she laughs, then lifts her mug and takes a long gulp of cider.

I had not expected to find Joseph North on the bench. I had not expected to see him in public for some time, to be honest. But there he is at the table, wearing his robe and wig, sitting on a cushion, gavel in hand. If I’m being honest, he looks more than a little peaked. His skin is pale, and there is a film of sweat across his upper lip.

I’ve come here to do the thing required of me by my profession, and I had thought I’d be giving my testimony to Obadiah Wood. It was my understanding that he would be traveling down from Vassalboro until Judge North recovered from the strange illness that has kept him abed these last ten days. Much has been made of this in the Hook. Rumors flitting this way and that as happens in small towns such as ours. I’ve heard several versions myself.

Consumption is generally agreed upon.

The croup has also been mentioned, though no one has seen him cough.

Indigestion. Humors. The ague. All of these options have taken their turn around the rumor mill.

Dropsy.

Gout.

Piles.

The putrid sore throat. Scurvy. Diarrhea.

It is boils, however, that most assume to be the cause of his affliction. Why else would he have spent ten straight days laid up in bed and now be forced to use a cushion whenever he sits? It is the logical conclusion, and one I would have taken to myself under other circumstances.

I can only assume that Dr. Page was paid handsomely for his silence because dismemberment has not once been mentioned by anyone in the Hook.

I know that North sees me at the back of the room waiting to give my testimony. I know that he sees Ephraim as well, but I get the sense that North will not make a show of me today. Or perhaps ever again.

Today’s court business is typical. Petty local issues. Things of no major import to life or law. Just a great deal of ruffled feathers after a long, grueling winter. And I doubt there would have been but a handful of cases called if today had not been the day they buried Joshua Burgess. It’s the first day the ground has been soft enough to dig a grave big enough and Amos insisted it was time to get Burgess out of his shed. In the end, the same seven men who cut Burgess from the ice committed him to the ground. It seemed fitting. And seeing as how there is no church, he couldn’t be buried in the church yard—not that anyone would have wanted him to be. They chose the woods instead. Just a hole. No words were said. But Amos Pollard did insist upon a stone cairn.

“Last zing ve need is a leg bone getting dragged down the middle of Vater Street if ze dogs get to him,” Amos had said.

No one argued.

The whole fiasco drew a crowd, however. And of course, the crowd then wandered back to Pollard’s. Then proceeded to get drunk. Now everyone has a complaint, and I am ready to be home.

“Martha Ballard?” Joseph North calls my name from the front of the room. “You have business to attend?”

I stand. Make my way forward. “I have evidence to give in a legal cause.”

“What manner?” he asks.