Page 121 of The Frozen River

I stiffen in my seat, and Ephraim reaches for my hand. He squeezes it just hard enough to make me hiss.

“Careful,” he whispers.

“What? I haven’t said anything.”

“You were about to.”

“Only that a woman gossips,” I mutter in his ear, “and is fined enough money to buy three horses, but a man breaks laws, both divine and human, and walks out of court with his hands in his pockets.”

“Would you have them hang him from a tree without a stitch of evidence? Not a single witness came forward to support the accusation.”

“And nary a single concern that Johanah’s men stood in court without her?”

Ephraim squeezes my hand again, but harder this time. “How many worries would you have me carry today, love? Those of a stranger as well?”

It’s a fair question, but I cannot help but feel unsettled that a young woman is out there in the world with no one to protect her from those closest to her. My only comfort is that Sumner looks equally disturbed as he makes notes on his copy of the docket.

The third case called before the judges is of great interest to me, and once again I search the courtroom for signs of the Fosters. Still nothing. They are cutting it awfully close.

Judge Francis Dana takes his turn to address the room. “The court will hear an appeal from Nathaniel Whitaker, convicted by the Court of Common Pleas of Lincoln County of the attempted rape of one Milly Lambard.”

“No relation to Barnabas, I hope,” Ephraim mutters.

The courtroom listens as Milly Lambard states that, four years earlier, Nathaniel Whitaker assaulted her in a field in Canaan. He denies this emphatically. Her family testifies that she told them about the assault on the morning that it happened. His family testifies that it couldn’t have happened because he was with them, it being a Sunday afternoon, and they all sup together after services. Questions are asked. Accusations made. But in the end this case also goes to the jury without a preponderance of evidence. The earlier conviction is overturned, and Nathaniel Whitaker walks out triumphant.

“Where are you going?” Ephraim asks.

“Privy. We’ve been sitting here for hours.”

“They’re about to start.”

“Better now than later and miss my chance to testify.”

I weave my way through the crowd—most of the people standing to stretch or gossip about what they’ve heard—and step into the bracing air. Fine little puffs of snow drift down from the steely clouds that hover above Pownalboro, and I glare at the sky. I am tired of winter. Of snow. Of ice. Of cold. I am tired of the world being held in suspension between these mercurial seasons. But I do not control the four winds, cannot command the sun to burn hot again. I can, however, empty my bladder and make myself a bit more comfortable.

The line to the privy is long—at least twenty people deep—and I shift from foot to foot. The human need for relief is impolite and inconvenient, but really, the tavern should have more than one accommodation for such needs.

Five minutes. Ten.

Fifteen.

I glance over my shoulder as the sound of a gavel banging the table resonates through the chill air. Only two more people in front of me.

By the time I close the outhouse door and throw up my skirts, my relief is replaced by fear, and I do my business as quickly as possible. By the time I make it back to the courthouse, half the room is standing. People crane their necks. Whisper. There is a buzz in the air, like static. It makes me tense. Makes me feel as if an itch is snaking its way across my body.

“What took you so long?” Ephraim asks when I squeeze back to the front of the room.

“Them.” I indicate those around us. “The line was long.”

“Well, they called North.”

“I see him.”

He stands off to the side, head bent, whispering with a man I have never seen before.

Ephraim sets his hand to the small of my back. He means to calm me, but the gesture has the opposite effect. “They also called the Fosters. They aren’t here.”

“That can’t be.”