Page 71 of The Frozen River

I don’t add that rushed marriages are nothing new in Hallowell, nor are the assumptions that go along with them. Tied to my saddlebag is the large, wrapped parcel. I undo the binding and hand it to Sam. He lifts it from my arms carefully, as though picking up a child.

“Your marriage is your own business, Sam. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

“Thank you. May’s mother wouldn’t make her a quilt. She’s too angry. Will probably never forgive me.”

“Of course she will.”

“You don’t know her mother.”

“I do, as a matter of fact. But regardless, my own mother forgave me, and Ephraim as well, after we went to housekeeping early.”

He looks up at me. “You didn’t wait?”

“No,” I say. “Ephraim took me home that evening.”

A different sort of young man might blush at those words. He might stammer or shift his feet. But Sam Dawin is staid and steady, practical, and he makes no show of being ashamed at the desire to bed his own wife.

“I am glad you understand,” he says. “Not many do.”

“You would be astonished at the things I understand, Sam.”

I can see the decision running through his eyes, first the question, then the answer, one chasing the other. Finally, he asks, “Do you want to come in? I am certain May would like to see you.”

“I would like that very much,” I tell him, then go back to my saddlebag. Brutus is tied up at the post, drinking from a trough and grazing on the bale of hay beside it. I lift a bottle from my bag. “And I have another gift. But this one is just for May.”

The house is small but neat, designed well so that Sam can add on as their family grows. It is set back from Water Street by a good fifty yards, but it has views of their wharf and the river beyond. Sam Dawin was fortunate to lease one of the last lots with river frontage and is therefore able to take advantage of both the mill traffic and his eighty acres of farmland. If he manages it well, he’ll provide a solid living for his young family.

The front room is warm, clean, and smells of new wood and freshly baked bread. May sits in a rocking chair beside the hearth, a pile of knitting in her lap and a cup of tea on the small table to her left.

At first, she looks startled to see me, but then she smiles, and two perfect, round dimples appear at the corners of her pretty mouth. “Mistress Ballard,” she says, “please come in.”

Sam holds up the parcel. “Martha has brought us a wedding gift.”

“How kind of you. Our very first,” May says, trying to stand, but she isn’t even fully upright when she plops back into her chair again, dizzy.

That’s when I notice the bucket at her feet, and within seconds, May has grabbed it and leaned over, retching.

“I’m so sorry.” She gags. Retches again. “Forgive me. I—”

Her words are lost in the gurgling, wet slop.

I am at her side immediately, kneeling, pushing the hair away from May’s clammy forehead. A palm set against her forehead proves that she has no fever, so I put the bottle I’ve brought on the little table, and, operating on instinct, begin to give orders.

“Sam, go get a cold, wet cloth.”

He’s back in less than thirty seconds, and I press the fabric to May’s forehead. “Lean back. Rest your head on the chair. Breathe through your nose.”

The girl obeys without question as I pat her brow and cheeks with the cool cloth. “Are you ill?” I ask.

“In a manner of speaking.”

One look at Sam proves my suspicions correct. He closes his eyes slowly. Sighs. Nods. May is pregnant.

This angers me. Not because the child was clearly conceived out of wedlock—that happens more often than not in Hallowell—but because it gives the gossipers room to gloat. I had hoped to suffocate that rumor.

“How far along?” I ask.

“I have missed two cycles.”