Page 67 of The Frozen River

“Hello, Martha,” she says. “Cyrus.”

My son gives her a broad, pleased grin in response, and I think that his cheeks have turned a bit pink.

“May I?” Sarah asks, indicating the bench.

“Of course.” I scoot aside to make room.

She sits, arranges her skirt, then holds out a small cloth purse. “Here.”

“What is this?”

“Six shillings for your fee. And another twelve for the court’s fine. Exactly what I owe you. My Da’ said he’d not pay a cent of it. That it was my responsibility. So I’ve been doing odd jobs around town for those who’d have me. I earned every bit of it myself.”

The fining of unwed mothers is a cruel system, meant to humiliate women, and therefore dissuade them from carnal activity. But given that women do not conceive children on their own, and there is no law that fines men for their participation, it is the worst kind of hypocrisy as well. The minimum and maximum fines are set by law, but the amounts in between are up to the whim of each individual judge and can range from inconvenient on one end to crippling on the other. The law—grossly titled An Act for the Punishment of Fornication, and for the Maintenance of Bastard Children—states that any woman who commits fornication shall be fined no less than six shillings for the first offense and no more than three pounds. Every offense after that ranges between twelve shillings and six pounds. If a woman is unable to pay the fine, she is committed to the jail yard for a minimum of forty-eight hours, but the court can extend it to thirty days. Joseph North decides the cases in this county and is not typically known for his leniency. But for Sarah, he’d handed down the minimum fine—no doubt because I had offered to pay it myself, that day, as Sarah had not a shilling to her name. It has taken her six months to earn the money.

“Sarah…”

“I insist. It’s my debt. And I want to pay it.” She drops the purse into my hand and closes my fingers around it.

There is something in her eyes—a kind of light—that I cannot argue with. Sarah is proud of herself for accomplishing this, and I’ll not take that from her. Cyrus senses it too, is leaning across the table on his forearms. I know that he wants to tell her something, that the words would come tumbling out if only he had the ability. Instead, he holds up one finger, then opens the ledger and rips out a page from the back. He grabs ink and quill from his case, and we both watch as he scribbles a short note, then slides it across the table.

You are a good woman, Sarah White.

She takes the paper and smiles at it with a frustrated expression. “I’m sorry, Cyrus. I canna read.”

His gaze drops from hers. Falls to the table. He nods once, resigned. Embarrassed.

“He says you’re a good woman.”

And this makes her laugh. “He might be the only one in the Hook who does.”

“Not the only one,” I say. “Not by a long shot.” And that’s when the idea occurs to me. “What are you doing on Saturday?”

“Nothing as far as I know.”

“You should come to the Frolic. It’s at the mill this time. We would love to have you.”

I look to Cyrus for confirmation, and he offers an eager nod.

“I don’t know….”

“It’s just one evening.”

“What about the baby?”

“Bring her. There won’t be any shortage of arms willing to rock her while you dance.” I can see her hesitate, look to the door for a way out. “Think about it? Please?”

Sarah gives me a half-hearted nod. “I will.”

“Promise?”

She smiles again, but sadly this time. “For you, Martha, yes.”

She says goodbye, but my gaze is on Cyrus as she leaves. He tracks her across the room and doesn’t meet my eyes until she’s out the door.

Oh. How have I missed this?

“How long?” I ask.