Page 2 of The Frozen River

There is work yet to be done, and I go about it with deliberation. I lay the little girl on the bed between her mother’s legs and snip the umbilical cord with my scissors. Once that primordial bond is cut, I tie it off with a piece of string. Then I plunge my hands into a wash bucket, clean them, and swipe my thumb across the roof of the baby’s mouth. No cleft palate. Another tiny miracle that I mentally log during any successful birth. I wipe the blood and waxy vernix from the writhing, slippery infant even as I keep an eye on Betsy for excess bleeding. Nothing seems out of the ordinary.

Betsy’s women pull back her hair, wash her face, make her sip lukewarm tea. They help her into a sitting position and a clean shift. They ready her to nurse.

“Look how pretty you are,” I say to the baby, then add, “Look how loved you are.”

And I pray to God that it is true.

Charles Clark is so desperate for a son—this is their third child in four years—that his determination might well kill his wife if he isn’t careful. As for Betsy, she is desperate to please her husband and will never tell him no.

All appears in order with mother and child, so I wrap her in clean, soft linen and hand her to Betsy. She puts the bundle to her breast and hisses as the baby latches onto her nipple. It makes her abdomen contract once more, ridding itself of the afterbirth. Even this is fascinating to me, and I inspect the remnants of labor for irregularities, making sure it is intact, that nothing has been left behind. It too is normal, and I discard the residue into the bucket at my feet.

“There’s one last thing,” I warn.

Betsy nods. She’s been through this before.

“Bear with me. It will be a few seconds. But it may hurt.”

“Go on, then.”

I knead Betsy’s abdomen, rolling the heel of my hand this way and that, helping it contract. The girl winces but doesn’t cry out, and then there is nothing left for her to do but nurse the child.

“What will you call her?” I ask.

“Mary.”

A name that means “bitter,” I think, but offer the young mother an approving smile because it is expected.

The women work in tandem to clean Betsy and wrap her groin in clean, dry cloths. These will be changed by the after nurses every hour for the next few days.

It is four thirty in the morning—still hours before dawn—and Betsy’s women slip away to clean the last of the mess, and then to find what sleep they can. They will come in shifts to care for Betsy and her children over the next week. It will be the only rest the young blacksmith’s wife will get.

I remove my soiled apron and wash my hands again, then tie back the pieces of hair that have come loose before I sit on the edge of the bed and drink a cup of tea—now cold—that was brought to me when I arrived. For several moments I observe mother and child.

“Shall I let Charles know that all is well?” I ask.

“Yes,” Betsy says, “but don’t tell me if he’s angry.”

“He has no right to be angry. You’ve given him a beautiful child.”

“It means nothing, whether he has a right to his anger or not.”

I take a deep, calming breath before reassuring her. “Don’t worry about Charles. I’ll take care of him. You enjoy your daughter.”

The Clarks live in a small cabin adjacent to the only forge in three counties. It is a short walk, but I slide into my riding cloak anyway. The frigid air hits me like a slap, so startling after the near-oppressive heat inside the birthing room. It stings the inside of my nose with each inhale. The night is clear and crisp, the moon proud, and stars bright against an inky blanket of sky.

I don’t bother to knock on the forge door—Charles wouldn’t hear me with all the hammering anyway—but push it open without announcing myself. Betsy’s husband paces, muttering curses and prayers. He is utterly helpless and totally to blame for his wife’s recent agony.

Charles lifts his head when I enter his field of vision, and brings a cross peen hammer down on a rod of white-hot iron with such force that I can feel the vibrations through the hard-packed earth beneath me. The room smells of hot metal and baked mud. Of sweat and fear. Charles Clark stands straight, sets his hammer aside, and pushes a wet clump of hair away from his forehead. He’s starting to bald—I can see the receding patches at each temple—and it makes him appear older than his thirty years. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark beard. Piracy would have been a good option for Charles had he never taken an interest in the smith.

He braves a furtive glance at me, then looks away. “Does my wife live?” he asks, then clears his throat to hide whatever rush of emotion he feels.

“Yes. Of course. She is fine and healthy.”

I think this is the closest I will ever come to seeing the man tremble. Relief buckles through his body, and his knees sag, but then he pulls himself together and turns to face me.

“And the child?”

“She has very strong lungs.”