Page 96 of The Frozen River

Charles opens the door with one hand, and I see that he is holding the baby snug in the crook of his other arm. They both exhale in relief when they see me. “Come in,” he says. “Please.”

I shed my riding cloak. Set my bag on the floor. “What’s wrong?”

“It started last night,” Betsy says. “At first I thought it was just a shudder. You know how they do sometimes when they pass water? But then she did it again. Later. And again, in the middle of the night, and both those times her hippen was dry.”

“It got worse this morning,” Charles adds.

I take a seat beside the fire and reach for the bundle in his arms. He hands the baby to me, and I set her in my lap—head at my knees, feet against my belly—so I can unwrap the blanket. Mary Clark is still scrawny, but she’s gotten longer and fills my entire lap now. “When was her last fit?” I ask.

Betsy sniffles. Wipes her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. “An hour ago. Right before we sent John.”

The cabin is warm, and the baby doesn’t protest when her swaddle is fully removed. There are no signs of injury. No lumps. No bruises. She looks at me with large, round eyes as I run my hands across her body. I feel her legs and back. Arms. I prod her torso gently and move my fingers up the side of her neck, around her ears. “Has she fallen? Perhaps off the bed?”

The baby is too young to roll over, but falling happens sometimes accidentally.

“No.”

I press my fingers lightly against the base of her little skull. Temples. Crown. There doesn’t seem to be any swelling. “Has she been dropped? Perhaps by one of the girls?”

Betsy shakes her head.

“Have they carried her to you? Maybe once when she was crying? Or just around the bedroom and you didn’t know?”

She hesitates. Looks at Charles.

“I’ll go ask,” he says, and slips into the bedroom where their other two daughters are playing quietly out of the way, as they’ve been instructed.

“They would never,” Betsy whispers.

“It wouldn’t have been on purpose.”

Charles comes out a moment later. “Neither of them dropped her. They swear on it.”

“And you’re certain they’re telling the truth?”

“Yes. Both of them are terrible liars.” He almost smiles. “They get it from their mother. None of them have a talent for it.”

I am finished with my examination when it happens again. Little Mary Clark goes stiff and still in my lap, then there is a sudden jerking of muscles. Her eyes roll back until I can see the whites. Betsy wails. Charles curses. And I hold the child’s head in one hand and reach into her mouth to make sure she hasn’t swallowed her tongue and blocked her airway. She hasn’t, so I pull her tight against my chest. I can feel all nine pounds of her quivering against my ribs.

Forty-five seconds. That’s how long the seizure lasts. And when it is over, Mary doesn’t cry. Her face is placid, and her eyes look to the ceiling, unfocused.

“I don’t think this was caused by any injury,” I say.

“What then?” Charles asks. It is strange to hear the voice of a big man crack in fear.

I think I know, but I cannot be sure. And I don’t want to share my opinion yet. If I am correct, this is a disease I’ve never treated. A disease that might not even be treatable.

“Go fetch John for me,” I tell Charles.

He hesitates, curious, but does as he’s told and is soon back with his apprentice in tow. He’s been at the anvil and wears a heavy leather apron. Sweat beads his brow.

“Mistress Ballard?” he asks.

“Is Sampson still saddled?” I ask.

“No.”

“Then you can take Brutus. But be careful,” I say, noting his startled expression. “He bites. And he’s thrown every rider that’s ever sat him. If you value your life, do not pull too hard at the reins.”