Page 36 of The Frozen River

She nods. Swallows. Begins to cry. “Yes.”

“Good. Your mother is bringing us a wash basin. And then we are going to meet your baby.”

When Dr. Page comes running up the chandlery steps two hours later, I meet him at the door to Grace’s bedroom. The girl is sitting up in bed, holding her new son with a sense of wonder and pride.

When Page tries to push past me, I set a hand on his chest. “You are not needed here.”

“That is my—”

“No. She’s my patient.”

“You would do well to learn your place, Mistress Ballard.”

I laugh at him. “I have been in my place for many, many hours now. You, on the other hand, knocked a woman unconscious and abandoned her to the ill effects of a dangerous drug. As a result, you were not present when she began to vomit in her sleep. Had I not been in my place, she would have died. But I am curious about one thing, however,” I say.

He looks in alarm to the bed. “What?”

“Did you even bother to learn her name while you were gone?”

Any humility that might have been rising to the surface after learning his error is wiped away by a sudden flash of pride. “There was no need.”

“Then you have learned nothing. Her name is Grace. And if you were an educated man—as you claim—you would know that the name means ‘unmerited favor.’ Which is exactly what God has shown by allowing both her and the child to survive your ministrations.”

I close the door in his face.

POLLARD’S TAVERN SATURDAY, DECEMBER 12

There is blood in the snow.

A crowd has gathered outside the tavern, and two men scuffle at its heart, arms and legs flailing. Amos and Moses Pollard stand on either side of the shrinking circle, arms out to block anyone from interfering. Abigail has wisely situated herself on the front steps, mug of steaming cider in hand, a safe distance from the fray. She looks on with disdain.

I have just come from delivering Grace Sewell and am ready to be home, but my curiosity wins out, and I cross the street to see what all the fuss is about.

“Men are a right bunch of fools,” Abigail mutters when I reach her side.

“Yes. But which ones specifically?”

“The one that’s bleeding is James Wall.” Before I can ask a question or jump to any conclusions, she adds, “And the other is an officer of the court from Vassalboro. Came here to bring James in on charges, he did.”

“Charges for what?”

She shrugs. “Dunno. But James doesna want to be brought. So they’re deciding it amongst themselves. Like I said, fools. James shouldna resist, and the officer shouldna let him.”

“Let?”

“Ye’ll see.”

And I do, soon enough, when the officer grows tired of the debacle. He’s an average-size man, under six foot, and not so much thin as sinewy. It is clear he’s been trained to box, however, and is quick on his feet. A left hook makes contact with James’s jaw, sending him sprawling to the frozen mud. The officer is on him in a moment, tying his hands behind his back with a length of rope.

“As I said,” the officer pants. “You are to report to Fort Western immediately to face charges for failure to pay your debts.”

James spits a glob of blood onto the ground. “I already told you! We got stuck in the river and couldn’t make our delivery. So I didn’t get paid. And therefore I couldn’t make my payment last month.”

The young officer does appear sympathetic at this. But he straightens his back and stands over James. “The why of it is none of my business. That’s for the court to decide.”

The crowd watches as he pulls James to his feet and leads him to a wagon parked beside the tavern. They step aside as James is hoisted onto the seat and has his bindings tied to an iron loop attached to the wagon’s sideboard. It’s a sailor’s knot, meant for rigging, and there’s no chance it will come loose on the journey. Once satisfied that James is secure, the officer unties the reins and climbs to his seat.

He tips his hat to the crowd, then flicks the leather straps and shouts, “Ha!”