Page 52 of The Frozen River

“The injuries from her assault were witnessed with my own eyes. She had multiple bruises and cuts. A split lip. I dressed her wounds and helped her bathe and listened to the details of what happened to her. She hasn’t changed a word from that day to this.”

Obadiah Wood scratches at his jaw. “How can the court be certain that you and Mistress Foster have not conspired to wrongly accuse Colonel North?”

I swallow a sigh. I will never understand why men think that women work so hard to destroy them. In my experience it is usually the opposite.

“I can prove it,” I tell him. “If you will allow me?”

“By all means.”

I pull the diary from my satchel, take it to the table, then set it before the judge and turn back to the entry on August nineteenth. I scoot the book closer for him to read.

“There,” I say. “I recorded Rebecca’s accusation in my daybook on the night she told me. You will note that I’ve made many months’ worth of entries since and that I could not have gone backward to fill it in. What Rebecca claims is true. In every word and detail.”

Obadiah Wood dismisses us so he can read the diary entries and deliberate. Based on how many people trickle out of the Meeting House, it feels as though the entire town of Vassalboro is present.

As Ephraim and I make our way to the door, I see Lidia North out of the corner of my eye. She is waving, trying to get my attention as she angles through the crowd.

Once she gets within a few feet of us, Lidia calls out, “Martha! Can we speak? I am out of tonic.”

But by then we have reached the crush of people surging out the door, and Lidia is shifted away, her voice lost in the buzzing crowd. I don’t look to Ephraim to see if he noticed her. For right now, it is easier to pretend I didn’t hear. Once outside, I walk with Ephraim as he leads Sterling to the stables to be fed and groomed.

“You got my message?” he asks, searching for an empty stall.

“I nearly lost an arm in the process, but yes.”

“Percy wouldn’t hurt you.”

“I’m glad you’re certain of that. I had to feed him a plucked chicken just to make sure.”

Once Ephraim has handed the reins to the gap-toothed stable boy and given him a shilling to tend the horse, I throw my arms around him.

“I was so worried you wouldn’t make it.”

“I almost didn’t.” He pulls me closer. Breathes in the scent of my skin. “The bog is wretched this time of year. We were nearly swallowed twice. If North assigns that lease, I’ll call him a murderer. No one could survive there.”

“Well, he certainly wanted to murder you just now,” I say.

“Let him try.”

“I would rather that he not, if you don’t mind. I’ve lived without you long enough these last weeks.”

Ephraim leads me back to the tavern, and we eat an uneasy lunch at a small corner table. The stew is flavorless and the bread dry. I long for our town and our tavern and the cooking of Abigail Pollard. We pick at our food until a man comes to stand beside me and clears his throat. I look up into an apologetic face.

“Mistress Ballard,” he says, then nods to Ephraim. “Mr. Ballard.”

“This is Barnabas Lambard,” I explain to my husband. “Officer of the court. Much has happened while you were away.”

Ephraim watches the boy but says nothing

Barnabas takes off his hat. “I did not know the Fosters were your friends,” he tells me.

“You couldn’t have.”

“I certainly didn’t intend to make their situation worse. I can see that I have, though. And that troubles me. I only reported what I found in Hallowell.” He clears his throat, and the accusation is gentle. “What you sent me to find.”

I do not look at my husband, though I can feel his curious gaze on my profile. “The fault is mine. I should have told you that Burgess was dead, but I was afraid you would leave without investigating. I stand by my assessment that he was murdered. But it was not by Isaac Foster.”

“You know this for certain?”