Page 3 of The Frozen River

His expression doesn’t so much crumble, as collapse. I can see the muscle along his jaw work as he clenches, then grinds his teeth. Finally, he swallows hard and asks, “Has Betsy given her a name?”

“Mary.”

“I’d hoped for a son.”

“I know.”

“Because of the forge. I need help. I…” Charles catches himself, embarrassed. “I do love my daughters.”

“I never said otherwise.”

“It’s just that I need more hands. There’s so much work to do. And I wanted to teach him.”

I don’t bother to tell Charles that there is no him, and that infants are no help in a forge, regardless. That it would be a decade, at least, before a son—if he’d had one—could make even a small contribution to the family business.

“You have John Cowan for help. And you may yet have a son. Betsy is still young. As are you.”

Charles nods as though deciding on something important. “We will try harder again next time. I’ll make sure of it.”

Foolish man.

I step toward the glowing bricks and stretch out my hand until it rests on Charles’s forearm. It is muscled and scarred, warm from the fire. Any hair that once grew on it was long ago singed away.

“Not for several months,” I tell him. “At the very least. If you want a son, you must give her body time to heal. And even then, it is God, not you, who chooses what you will have. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“I’m not cruel,” he says.

Just demanding and ungrateful. I do not say this aloud, however. He is the kind of man who will hear the truth, but only when it is spoken indirectly.

“But Betsy needs more than that right now. She needs you to be gentle. And patient.”

He says nothing, so I give his arm a final squeeze and leave Charles to his work. Having done his job for the evening, John Cowan has retreated into his loft at the other end of the forge. The young man is big, built like an ox, and not much smarter. For now he is lost to a deep and rumbling sleep, oblivious to both the new life that has just entered this world, and the pounding of his master’s hammer. John’s days are filled with clanging metal, so why should his dreams be any different?

I return to the cabin, find an empty spot beside the hearth, and stretch out on the straw pallet that has been left for me. In a couple of hours, Betsy’s women will rise to cook a meal in celebration of this new life. The ritual is commonly observed in Hallowell. A child is born, and a meal is served. Sometimes, it is an elegant feast spread on a linen tablecloth, and at other times a sparse, cold offering thrown together in haste. Sometimes I sleep in a spare bed, and sometimes there is no place for me to sleep at all. I have spent more than one night sitting upright in a chair, jerking awake every time my head lolls. But tonight is typical of most births I attend. A modest home, a normal labor, a simple bed and—in the morning—a hearty breakfast.

I lie curled beneath my riding cloak, staring at the rough-hewn beams of the ceiling, listening to the sounds around me. Little snores and rustles and whispers as Betsy’s women bed down for the night. As my eyes grow heavy, the front door opens and Charles walks across the creaky floor toward the bedroom. I listen for the sound of anger, but only hear a man whisper softly to his wife.

It feels as though I have barely closed my eyes when I am woken by a large, calloused hand on my shoulder. Charles is there, a lantern in his other hand and urgency in his voice.

“Mistress Ballard,” he whispers. “You must get up.”

I look to the bedroom where I left mother and child, panicked that something has gone wrong in the night.

“They’re fine.” He points to the front door. “But someone has come to speak with you. Says it’s urgent.”

Perhaps an hour has passed, at most, since I fell asleep. It feels as though there are cobwebs in my head and cotton in my eyes, but I wrap my riding cloak a little tighter around my shoulders and follow Charles outside. The blast of cold air is sudden and merciless, and I gasp, then shudder.

Charles lifts the lantern, and I recognize the man sitting astride the horse. He is of middle age and middle height and minor attractiveness, but I can’t understand why he is here, and not halfway to Long Reach on a raft with my son.

James Wall looks to be the kind of exhausted that can only happen after being awake all night in the brutal cold. His eyes are red rimmed, hair disheveled, and face unshaved. He licks his chapped lips. “Pardon me, Martha, I don’t mean to intrude,” he says. “But you’re needed in town. Immediately.”

“I thought you and Jonathan left on the raft hours ago.”

“We did,” he says. “But there’s been an accident.”

WATER STREET

“What happened?” I ask James as soon as we’ve left the forge.