Page 83 of The Frozen River

After some time—ten or fifteen minutes perhaps—the judges return to the tavern and lift their faces to Rebecca Foster. John Hubbard bangs his gavel.

“The Court of Common Pleas has decided that charges will be brought against Joseph North,” he announces.

James Parker adds, “However, it remains the duty of the court to point out that there are no witnesses who actually saw Mrs. Foster being accosted. And without such a witness it would not be lawful to try this man in a capital case that could result in his death. It is therefore the decision of the court to declare charges of attempted rape.”

The tavern erupts. People leap to their feet. Some clap their relief. Others shout their outrage. But I cannot bear to look at Rebecca, cannot bear to witness her heartbreak a second time. So I look to Ephraim instead and see everything I feel reflected in his eyes. Regardless of what might happen in the coming trial, Joseph North will not hang for what he did to Rebecca.

Obadiah Wood bangs his gavel to settle the outburst caused by this news. “We are not finished. It is our decision that this case go to trial before the Supreme Judicial Court three months hence. The defendant shall be remanded to the jail yard at Fort Western until that time. Colonel North, please step forward and acknowledge that you understand the charges, the parameters of your constraints at Fort Western, and that you will be present for trial.”

Wood looks around the room. “Colonel?”

Lidia North remains in her seat, but her husband is not with her. He is not in the tavern at all.

I sit in my workroom, journal spread open on the desk, and write as the storm barrels in from the east, across the Atlantic, a monster building out in the ocean and pushing all that wind and snow across the coast and inland. Building, building until it is a wall of white that swallows everything in its path.

We are home now, and the household bustles around me. Hannah and Dolly make dinner while the men—Barnabas included—stomp in and out, with armloads of wood to prepare for what is coming. They close the shutters and build the fires, piling in warming stones that can be wrapped and taken to bed later. Ephraim insisted that Barnabas stay the night with us instead of riding the four hours back to Vassalboro. Apparently, I am not the only one who has grown fond of the boy.

Beside the hearth is a chessboard and—between chores—Cyrus and Barnabas take their turns. They’ve been at it for hours, quietly battling each other. I’ve never seen Cyrus lose the game, but something tells me that I should not discount Barnabas Lambard. Hannah and Dolly ignore them, of course. They’ve seen pissing contests before.

I finish the entry by stabbing my quill into the paper.

Colonel North fled from judgment and could not be found.

BALLARD’S MILL SATURDAY, JANUARY 30

I am wakened by a hand on my shoulder, shaking. Gently. A whisper. Warm breath on my ear. I hadn’t slept well, too aware of the wind seeping through the chinks in the walls, of the plummeting cold, and the snow that was falling, not like a blanket, but like a burial shroud.

“Come look,” Ephraim says, and I feel him reach for my hand.

He pulls me to my feet. Steps close as I wobble, his hands roving over my thin shift. Through my hair. Down my back. Across my bottom. A laugh, and then he leans over and pulls a blanket off the bed. Wraps it around my shoulders as I stand unsteadily beside the bed, still wondering why he’s woken me.

Ephraim leads me through the dim house, our fingers intertwined. He’s lit the candles and built the fire, but it can’t yet be five in the morning and the household is still asleep, everyone in their beds, except for Barnabas who snores on a pallet by the fire. Or perhaps he only pretends to sleep. As I blink away the cobwebs in my eyes, I see his head shift toward us as we walk by, but his eyes remain closed.

A light sleeper, then, I think. A cautious man.

The chessboard lies beside him on the floor, unchanged from last night.

When we reach the door, Ephraim nudges me to the side, then pulls it open. Before me stands a wall of white nearly to the lintel. Only six inches of pale, pewter clouds can be seen above the snow-drift. I’ve seen drifts pile up to three, maybe four feet. But only once before have I seen anything like this.

“It’s still coming down,” he says. “Not as heavy as earlier. But it doesn’t show any signs of stopping.”

I reach out a hand, palm flat, and press it into the snowbank. It is soft, but frigid, and my hand sinks in, leaving a print. I am awake now, aware of what my husband has been trying to say these last minutes.

“It’s like it was in Oxford,” I tell him.

He nods. Smiles. “So you remember, then?”

“Like that is a thing I will ever forget.”

Ephraim Ballard takes my hand and leads me back to bed.

Thirty-Five Years Ago

OXFORD, MASSACHUSETTS JANUARY 19, 1755

“What did you say?”

My cheek rested against Ephraim’s bare chest, but still, even that close, I barely heard what he’d whispered. My hand lay on his heart, and he ran his fingers through my hair slowly, letting it slide through and fall back to pool around my bare shoulders. The sun wasn’t up, but even if it had been, we wouldn’t have known, for the storm still raged outside and the sky was as black as it had been for two days.