Page 43 of The Frozen River

“And I like ye all the better for it,” he says. Coleman turns back to his chessboard. “Now how can I help ye this morning?”

I slide the packet of needles across the counter, along with a small pile of buttons, and the silk.

“Will that be all?”

There are a dozen things that I would like to have: a new cast iron kettle for the kitchen, a set of blue glass bottles for my work room. But, as I do each time I step through these doors, I remind myself of what I need.

“Nothing. Unless you’ve heard where they took James Wall?”

“I hear he’s been confined to the jail yard at Fort Western until his debt has been paid.”

“So he posted bond then?”

Coleman nods. “Yesterday.”

Being confined to the “jail yard” and being in jail are two entirely different things. The latter is as it sounds. Arrest and confinement for a set period of time. The former, however, is a loose arrangement in which those waiting trial, or those who have been arrested for unpaid debts, are able to post bail, and then go about their work during the day—within a set area—but must return to the jail house by dark. Sunrise to sunset. The bounds of their freedom include a distance of one mile on either side of the river, from Mill Brook to the bend in Water Street. In the rare instance when a home or business falls outside of that boundary, it is included as well.

Coleman studies me for a moment and I get the feeling he’s deciding whether or not to tell me something else. There’s a bit of food stuck between his teeth, and he picks at it with his tongue for a moment, then says. “That new doctor of yours has created quite a stir.”

“He’s not mine,” I protest.

“Most folks seem to be glad he’s here. Having another real doctor is a boon to this town, they say. And he’s got money.” At this he offers a crooked grin. “So I don’t hate him.”

“Money?”

“Oh, aye. His young wife arrived on Friday. Bought up half the store so she can set up house.” He gives me a knowing look. “She is very pregnant. Only a few months left, I’d say.”

“They’re renting rooms?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “A house. Across the river. They’ve leased the old McMaster place right near the Chandlery.”

“Well that explains a lot,” I mutter.

“Be careful with him, Martha. He’s made it plain that he doesn’t care for you. Thinks you’re a meddler.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“Perhaps. But he’s recruiting to his side. And that will hurt you in the end. What with the Burgess fiasco. And Grace Sewell’s delivery.”

“You know about that?”

“He’s made sure that everyone knows. Says that you insisted he give that girl a near-lethal dose of laudanum. Adamantly opposed, he was. But he deferred given that you know the girl. Wanted to make nice with the local midwife after the dustup in court. Him being a genial fellow and all.”

“That foul little bastard! I did no such—”

Coleman sets his hand on mine. “I know. But that’s what you’re dealing with, and you ought to be aware.”

I groan and rest my elbows on the counter. Drop my head to my hands. “Damn that Burgess. If he wasn’t already dead I’d kill him myself for all the trouble he’s caused.”

“As I hear it, he’s still causing trouble.”

When I look up, he’s trying to wrestle a grin into submission. “Barnabas Lambard?”

“Got quite a fright, ’e did, when Amos pulled back that tarp. Demanded to know what happened. So Amos told him everything. And then that officer marched right to Henry Sewell’s office and looked at the court records. From what I hear, he seems to agree with your assessment.”

“I am beginning to like that boy.”

“Well, ’e don’t like you over much right now.”