Page 141 of The Frozen River

“If you love her, you must do this,” Doctor said. “Leave Rebecca to me. Take care of the child.”

I left, carrying my medical bag. Doctor will tell Isaac that the child was dead born, that we have done our duty and buried the remains. She will lie so that Rebecca can heal. Perhaps. One day.

Once astride Brutus and away from the tavern, I pulled the baby from my bag and tucked her tight to my chest, praying that my angry, tired steed would not throw us both to the ground. I walked Brutus through the Hook, keeping a finger beneath the infant’s nose to make sure she was breathing. Every outraged, hungry cry was a reassurance that she was not stifled beneath my cloak. All the while my heart raced, and my thoughts did their best to keep up.

But now I must make a decision, and there are no good ones before me. I look to the river, listen as the blocks of ice scrape and grind together. I could do as Rebecca asked. No one would ever know. No one will ever come looking for this child.

But that is unthinkable.

Hungry and confused, she cries out in my arms once more, and I pull her close.

“Sshh.”

Dawn is still hours away, and the sky above is spread wide, midnight blue and littered with stars. The shadows mingle, dark and darker, all around us. Brutus twitches beneath me, impatient, and I settle him with my voice. A pat of my hand.

The baby shifts in my arms. Whimpers again.

“I know, I know, little one. It is cold. And I am sorry.”

But I have made my decision now and will not turn back.

I peel back the blanket until I can see the wide eyes and the tip of that tiny nose. I think of the daughters I buried so long ago, of their graves, two hundred and twenty miles away in Oxford, three in a row, beneath an oak tree. They are lost and gone, and I would give most anything to hold them again. I would give my own life if it meant they could have theirs back.

“What your mother does not yet understand,” I tell the baby, my voice choked with emotion, “is that there are some losses in this life that we do not live long enough to fully grieve. And I’ll not give her another one.”

I tuck the baby girl under my riding cloak once more—safe from the cool night air—and turn Brutus onto Winthrop Street.

WHITE SADDLERY

Sarah White answers the door. I did not expect her to be awake, much less dressed, but there she is, as though expecting me, as though I’ve been invited. And here I thought I’d have to get through her mother first.

“May I come in?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says, and pulls back the door to let me in.

I don’t realize at first why she throws a questioning glance over her shoulder. But once I’ve knocked the mud off my boots and stepped inside, I see a man sitting beside the fire. He is young and handsome, and there is a bundle in his arms.

When the bundle squirms, then snores, I realize that he is holding Charlotte.

Sarah opens her mouth to explain, but there is no time.

“I need your help. Please.”

“Come in,” she says. “Tell me. I will help in any way that I can.”

I do hope she truly means that, because when I get to the fire and pull back my riding cloak to reveal the newborn squirming baby, she gasps. The man does as well, although he adds a colorful invective to go along with his stare. Abashed, he sets his palm over Charlotte’s ear. Says it again. But whispers this time.

“She was born almost three hours ago and has not eaten. Are you still making enough milk for two?”

God bless Sarah White, and may He curse anyone who speaks a harsh word against her ever again, for she immediately drops into the other chair and begins to unbutton her blouse.

I look to the man. Back to Sarah. “Mmm. Perhaps he ought—”

She laughs. “Don’t fret about my modesty, Mistress Ballard. He’s seen it all before.” Sarah reaches for the baby, smiling as though she’s just been offered a prize and not a burden. “This is Charlotte’s father, Henry Warren. I told you he would come back for us.”

Well.

I need to sit down.