Page 54 of The Frozen River

When I bring dinner to the room several hours later, Ephraim laughs at me.

“What?”

He nods toward the jug of cider on the wood tray and the two mugs beside it. “Didn’t they have any ale? You know I don’t drink that stuff.”

I look at the jug, and it takes a moment to remember what he’s talking about. “That was a long time ago. And besides. My father was upset.”

“He tried to kill me.”

“Maim. Possibly paralyze. But I don’t think he wanted you dead. Or at least not permanently.”

Ephraim rolls his eyes. “I don’t think a temporary death is what he had in mind when he threw the jug at my head.”

The laugh surprises me. It is good medicine after weeks of angst, after such a disappointing day. “Perhaps he did want to kill you. Just a little. But I think we can both agree you deserved it.”

Thirty-Five Years Ago

OXFORD, MASSACHUSETTS DECEMBER 19, 1754

Ephraim ducked. The jug missed him by a foot and shattered against the doorframe, filling the room with an overpowering scent of fermented apples.

“It is his right, Mr. Moore,” Joseph North said, stepping between my father and my husband. That word. Husband. So new I couldn’t yet speak it aloud, the mere thought was startling enough. “They are married now,” he continued, lifting the certificate in one hand as though to offer proof. As town clerk, North had the legal right to marry us. A fact Ephraim had known and exploited.

“I care nothing of his rights. It’s my daughter’s reputation that concerns me.”

“There’s nothing left of it, Father. Billy Crane saw to that.”

They were startled to hear me speak, and every head in the room turned. I had remained silent that evening, speaking only when my turn came to say the vows.

I have forsaken all others and will cleave only unto thee.

The words were still warm on my lips, and I pressed them together, hoping to keep the sensation intact. For those few moments I was not afraid. Was not ashamed.

My mother had been crying for over an hour. Father alternately in a rage and puffing with relief that his disgraced daughter had been redeemed. North came as promised, arriving shortly after we did, documents in order. Ephraim held my hand as we walked through the door and refused to let me leave his side even for a moment.

“Billy Crane is dead,” North said.

Father nodded. Crossed his arms over his chest. “And I do thank you for that.”

“And Martha comes with me,” Ephraim said firmly, drawing the conversation back to the topic at hand. “We go to housekeeping tonight.”

Most couples—my parents included—did not begin living together for many months after the wedding, choosing instead to consummate but live separately until a house could be put in proper order. Tradition held that this was a way to gather all the necessary goods needed to keep a home. It also gave the groom time to complete living arrangements for the new couple. But in fact, the practice was often used by parents to ensure that their daughter had not made a grievous mistake in her choice of husband. Though not common, it was not unheard of for an annulment to be requested in the weeks after a wedding.

“She has nothing!” my mother wailed.

“She has me. And I have plenty to get us started,” Ephraim said. “Hasn’t enough been taken from her? Do you mean to withhold tradition as well?”

He referred to the communal gathering and gifting of household goods, dishes and linens and quilts, that usually took place after a wedding and before newly married couples made a home together. He wanted to make sure that the women of our community would still make me a wedding quilt. He wanted to make sure the town would not shame me.

“If this is her choice, she can do without,” my father said, and even though I could tell he regretted the words as soon as he spoke them, he lifted his chin in defiance.

“I am saddened to hear you say that, Mr. Moore. I had thought better of you.” Ephraim released my hand and moved his arm to my waist. He pulled me tight against his side. “You can send her trunk in the morning. But she comes with me tonight.”

The cabin was bigger than I expected. Two rooms, the larger with a stacked-stone fireplace. In one corner there was a kitchen with a cookstove, a table, and a window above a long stretch of rough-hewn wooden counter. A bedroom. I glanced at the door. Looked away. Glanced back. My hands began to shake.

Ephraim released me and stepped away. “Do you like it?”

I loved the home, and I loved the man, and I didn’t have the proper words to tell him either of those things. I hadn’t answered his question, though, so I turned to him, nodding. “I do.”