Page 22 of The Frozen River

“And what about you? Do you believe that?”

“I believe,” he says, carefully, “that you have had a strange morning. And that you should not discount anything.”

Indians there.

I gasp and sit up straight on my stool, as though I’ve been bitten. And perhaps I have, but only by a thought. Little details connect themselves, reaching for one another, forming a theory in my mind.

It is well known within Hallowell that Rebecca Foster often keeps company with the Wabanaki—she has since childhood, encouraged by her parents at the parochial school they ran in Massachusetts. They’d kept progressive ideals of educating the native population, of building a partnership between the two cultures, and Rebecca has maintained the practice of opening her door to them since moving to this community with her husband a few years ago. It is not uncommon to see them at the parsonage. But, as with most things concerning Rebecca Foster, her neighbors are split in opinion regarding this habit. There seems to be little about her that does not cause division in Hallowell.

“What are you doing?” Ephraim whispers. He stands at the door to my workroom, shirtless, barefoot, wearing only trousers that are unlaced and hang low on his hips.

Until three minutes ago I’d been sitting at the dressing table in our bedroom, brushing my hair, when I’d suddenly grabbed the candle and left the room. I came in here to flip back pages in the diary.

“I went to see Rebecca Foster this morning. I wanted her to hear the news about Joshua Burgess from me.”

He leans against the doorframe but says nothing.

“And when I got home, something was bothering me about Burgess and the Foster case, so I went back through my entries to try and remember details. Those two things are braided together. I’m certain of it.”

Ephraim comes to stand beside me. He reaches out and runs his hand through my hair. “A braid has three strands, love.”

“Which means I’m missing one.”

“Or maybe you are tired, reaching for meaning where there is none?”

“I don’t think I’m wrong in this. Here.” I poke my finger at the diary entry.

Ephraim reads it aloud. “Saturday, August twenty-second. Clear. I was at Mrs. Foster’s. Left her well as could be expected. Indians there.” He peers at me in the dim light. “Indians?”

“You know that Rebecca has befriended them.”

“Aye. That’s no secret. Indians are there often, I would guess.”

“But you also know that there are many in Hallowell who hate her for it. They think it unbecoming a woman of her station. And an insult given all that happened during the French and Indian War.”

He nods, uncertain where I’m headed with this.

“Who do you know that is better with herbs than I am?”

“No one. Except…”

“The Wabanaki.” I can see that I’ve lost him completely now. “I found a tin that smelled of savine and tansy in Rebecca’s parlor. It was empty.”

Still that steady gaze, but no questions.

“Tansy brings the menses. But savine induces labor. It’s hard to find and harder to harvest. The concoction must be prepared carefully and administered in specific doses.”

Now he is curious. “Have you ever used this?”

“Only when a woman has gone past her time. And even then, only twice. It makes for a painful labor and, if you are not careful, can cause uncontrolled bleeding.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Rebecca Foster is pregnant. She told me this morning. The child isn’t Isaac’s.”

Ephraim looks at the entry again, does the math. “Twelve days after she was raped Rebecca took savine to end a possible pregnancy. You think the Wabanaki gave her the herbs?”

“It’s only a guess.”