Page 93 of The Frozen River

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I think you might be of some help to him in that regard. He mentioned that he wants to hire a shop boy. Perhaps he would consider you.”

“I am not a boy.”

“I know.”

Sarah looks down at her hands. Flexes her fingers wide, then curls them into a ball. “You know I canna read.”

“Yes. Is that all?”

“All? You may as well be asking if I speak Latin.”

“Well, that would do you no good whatsoever. Coleman is deeply prejudiced against all the Romance languages. He prefers English, it being of Germanic origins. And those letters are easy enough to learn.”

“How?” There is suspicion but also interest in Sarah’s voice and she leans forward slightly.

“I could teach you.”

The next obstacle presents itself in the form of Alice White. “That is preposterous!” she says. “What an idea. Sarah has no need of sums or letters.”

“Why shouldn’t she learn?” I ask, turning to her pinched, angry face.

“There’s simply no point.”

“What ought she to do instead?”

Alice clamps her hand around the knitting needle. “Take care of her child.”

“Of which she is doing a fine job. It’s obvious just looking at Charlotte. And besides, reading won’t interfere with that at all. But it might”—and I am careful here, as though performing a tight rope walk on the edge of a razor blade—“provide her opportunities. A source of income and a viable way to provide for her daughter on her own.”

It is my turn to stare at Alice now. My eyes are wide, my lips pursed, daring her to contradict me.

It might keep her out of trouble, I want to scream. It might distract her from this fool’s hope of ever seeing that baby’s father again. I only admit the real reason to myself, however. And Cyrus cannot court her if she cannot read.

Alice is clever enough to understand my stern look. “How would you even go about it?” she grumbles.

I hand Charlotte back to her mother and bend down to pull a small book out of my medicine bag. “The same way I learned,” I tell her. “And the same way I taught each of my children.”

I hold the book out for them to see. The cover reads, The New England Primer: or An easy and pleasant guide to the art of reading.

There is a hungry look in Sarah’s eyes but uncertainty in her voice when she asks, “Don’t you think I’m a little old to learn?”

“Not at all. I was about your age when I did.”

Sarah wrinkles her brow. “Who taught you?”

“My husband,” I say. “After we were married.”

BALLARD’S MILL WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 24

Lidia North is in terrible pain. The headaches have increased in frequency, and she has long since run out of tonic. That’s why she’s come all the way out to Ballard’s Mill without her husband’s knowledge or consent. His escape from Hallowell last month made that part easier, no doubt. But God only knows what she’s done to assuage the unrelenting pain in the meantime. Often, when the aches descend upon her, Lidia shuts herself in a dark room and goes to bed. Sometimes for days on end. I have seen her only three times since September when she purchased her last bottle: once when she and North passed by on their way to Vassalboro, and twice in court.

The sky is dark and gloomy, fat, lazy snowflakes drift to the ground like autumn leaves, but Lidia shades her eyes with one hand as though the sun is shining. She stands on the threshold, uncertain. From my seat before the fire I can see that her eyes are watering from the pain, that Lidia is dizzy and nauseous from her illness. Her hands shake. Her face is pale. But still, I cannot bring myself to welcome Judge North’s wife into our home. Twice now the woman has lied on his behalf.

It is Ephraim who remembers his manners. “Please, Mistress North,” he says, “come in.”

“Thank you.”