Page 157 of The Frozen River

This is the call and response that we have performed for many years now. As familiar to those in this room as a nursery rhyme. Few pay attention to us.

“An unwed woman has named the father of her child, and I bring it before the court so it may be recorded.”

“Name the woman,” he says. “Name the father.”

I have done this countless times, of course, but it feels different now. And though I hate to do it, I will not shirk my responsibilities.

“On Sunday, April eighteenth, Sally Pierce gave birth to a son.”

I may as well have dropped a large stone into a small pond for all the ripples this announcement makes. Everyone listens now. Even North is surprised.

“The daughter of William Pierce?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I did not realize she was with child.”

“You are not alone in that,” I tell him.

“And who is the father of this child?”

It is a long breath, and I draw it slowly. But I have only opened my mouth to answer when I feel a presence at my side.

“I am,” Jonathan says.

Quickly, softly, he reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze.

“And I have come to pay her court fee. Twenty shillings. Far and above anything required by law for a first offense. You will also find that I have posted our intent to marry outside the tavern.”

Jonathan pulls a coin purse from his pocket and drops it on the table before Henry Sewell. He watches as the confession and the fee are recorded, then signs his name beside both.

“Do you have any other business to attend, Mistress Ballard?” North asks.

I know that he is in pain. But I think being robbed of the chance to humiliate me before the court hurts him most.

“No,” I say. But then I cannot help myself, and I add, “Though I would be remiss if I did not inquire about your health. I’ve been told it’s taken a turn for the worse of late.”

He clenches his jaw. Glares at me. “Do not concern yourself with my welfare. I am on the mend.”

“A credit, no doubt, to being tended by a trained medical professional.”

I care not what his reaction might be, and I have turned, am halfway through the room when Jonathan catches up with me. North bangs his gavel, adjourning court, and the crowd rises, pushing back their benches. Muttering. Gossiping.

“I am not such a bad man as you might think,” Jonathan says, his mouth near my ear.

“I have never thought you a bad man.”

“Even now?”

“You did the right thing by Sally. And by your son.”

“That’s not what I mean. Sam said that you came to see him. That he told you of my part in that… business.”

I stop as the room swirls around us. Set my hand on his cheek. I feel the stubble beneath my hands. He has Ephraim’s eyes. A steely kind of blue. They are kind, but filled with a deep resolve.

“Ask your father about a man named Billy Crane,” I tell him. “And you will understand why I am not angry with you.”

Friday, April 30—Clear and warm. Joshua Burgess buried this morning. Have been to the Hook for court. Came home in the afternoon. Barnabas Lambard tarries for dinner. Moses Pollard as well. Jonathan brought Sally, along with their new son. I have been at home.