Page 48 of The Frozen River

Still no sign of Ephraim. Every minute that passes makes the stone in the pit of my stomach grow heavier. All the terrible fears I have kept at bay for the last two weeks crash against one another, growing louder and louder. But I cannot entertain any of them now. I must prepare for my trip to Vassalboro on Tuesday. And I must play hostess to the young man who has come to court my daughter.

In hindsight, I tell myself, that is why I missed the obvious. There was too much happening at once. But I see it, finally, when I lean forward to put the bird in his mews.

Ephraim has tied a message around Percy’s leg:

I’ll meet you at the courthouse. Bring the book.

VASSALBORO WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 23

I unfold the note, then refold it as I sit on the bed in my rented attic room at the Silver Street Tavern in Vassalboro. I run my thumbnail along the crease, wearing it thin. Ephraim’s handwriting is neat and concise, perfectly spaced letters drawn with a steady hand. I marvel at their beauty, at the exactness of each elegant line and curve. My husband is numbered among those who believe that a man’s handwriting is a testament to his character.

The hearing starts in less than an hour, but Ephraim still isn’t here. I made the trip alone yesterday, choosing not to travel with the Fosters, so I could have time and space to think, and arrived at sunset, expecting to find my husband waiting for me. He wasn’t, so I skipped dinner and went to bed early, eager for a good night’s sleep.

My stomach rumbles but the thought of eating makes me nauseous. I put up my hair, pull on my best dress, lace my boots, and tuck the journal into a leather satchel before leaving the room. I descend all three flights of stairs carefully, minding where I set my feet in the dim stairwell. Instead of eating breakfast, I grab a soft, wrinkled apple from a bowl on one of the tables as I pass through the main hall, then take it to the stables behind the tavern where Brutus is housed. It isn’t much lighter in there than in the stairwell, and I am forced to dodge piles of manure on my way to his stall. A quick glance in all directions reveals that there is no sign of Sterling.

“Where are you?” I mutter under my breath.

Brutus whickers when I appear in front of him, and sticks his head over the stall door. I hold out the apple on my palm and he picks it off with his teeth.

“Don’t bite anyone while I’m gone,” I say, then rub his nose fondly.

I stand there, eyes closed, for a moment longer. The smell of hay and horse and manure grounds me. It is a fortifying scent that reminds me of home.

“Yes. I’m dawdling,” I tell Brutus. “Sometimes a woman has to do a thing she fears.”

He stares at me, brown eyes unblinking. Unsympathetic. Then he snorts, sending a puff of warm air into my face.

“Fine, then. Be an ass.”

Unlike Hallowell, all court proceedings in Vassalboro take place at the Meeting House—a long rectangular one-story building that serves as church, courthouse, and community center. It sits directly across the street from the tavern, and once I step outside, I see that there is already a line of people waiting to get in. As in the Hook, court days always draw a crowd. Not wanting to lose an advantageous seat, I hustle across the muddy road and up the steps onto the boardwalk that connects all the shops and buildings on that side of the street. I slide in behind a group of whispering women and follow them into the Meeting House.

Half the benches are already filled, and I maneuver as close to the front as I can. Once I’ve chosen my spot, I tuck the satchel between my feet and wait. Because one of the defendants in the Foster case also happens to be a circuit court judge, this hearing has garnered a great deal of attention. That does not mean that it will be first on the docket, or that it will even be heard today. The Court of General Sessions has been known to run for up to three days. Though I suspect that won’t be the case this session, given that Christmas is looming.

I can see Joseph North sitting to the left of a long table at the front of the room where an older man in silk robes and a powdered white wig studies the docket. Because it is the winter meeting, his robe is red. Black is reserved for summer.

North does not look pleased to be seated with the other defendants, and they do not speak to one another or anyone else. He sits ramrod straight, cleanly shaved, and wearing his best coat.

The room continues to fill, and there is still no sign of Ephraim. But at precisely nine o’clock, the judge bangs his gavel on the table and the room falls silent. I crane my neck to look for Rebecca Foster and find her in the back corner, sitting beside her husband. Her eyes are closed, and her face is turned toward the window, as though drawing strength from the meager light that filters through. She looks beautiful and broken.

Across the aisle and five rows forward is Lidia North. She is wan and deflated. Thin as a rail. Pale as a ghost. Cheekbones sharper, clavicles jutting out above the lace collar of her blue dress. I think her headaches must be worse of late. Yet she is not deterred from supporting her husband.

“The Court of General Sessions is now open,” the clerk announces. “The honorable Obadiah Wood presiding.”

Honorable is a term used loosely in that Wood—a physician—is, like North himself, an untrained justice of the peace, recognized by the state of Massachusetts and the District of Maine but not a lawyer by trade. He fills a specific gap in the legal system and has a rudimentary understanding of the law at best. Most of these judges rule by common sense, but some by partiality.

Because this is only a hearing, there are no lawyers present, there is no jury, and no verdict will be handed down. The court meets simply to ascertain the validity of the accusation and to set formal charges for a future trial, should one be required.

Obadiah Wood looks at the docket before him and says, “The court will hear evidence in the case of the Commonwealth versus Henry Jackson. Mr. Jackson, a barber, is accused of malicious injury while shaving Jacob Retton two months past.”

Two men approach the long table and take turns arguing their case as the judge asks each of them a series of questions. The entire debate takes less than ten minutes, and Wood declares that Henry Jackson cut his client with a straight razor by accident, and no charges are filed, despite the fact that Jacob Retton will have a scar along his jaw for the rest of his life. Henry Jackson is ordered to pay a fine of twelve shillings in recompense.

And so it goes. He hears three cases of petty theft, two of slander, one divorce petition, one estate settlement, a breach of contract (said contract being a handshake), and five requests for the collection of debt. He orders a total of six fines, all of which are recorded by the clerk. It takes nearly two hours to clear these cases, and I am starting to feel stiff and numb from sitting so long. I regret not eating breakfast. I am wondering whether there will be an opportunity to slip out and find a privy to relieve myself.

“Next on the docket is the Commonwealth versus Joseph North and Joshua Burgess.”

I tense as North stands. But then Barnabas Lambard slips from his spot at the edge of the room and approaches the table. He’d been so still that I hadn’t seen him. He whispers something to Obadiah Wood then walks back to his seat. Barnabas does see me, however, and I cannot tell whether his expression is one of irritation or curiosity. I doubt he expected to find me here. If there is time afterward, I will apologize for not warning him about the body.

Obadiah Wood turns to the clerk and says, “Please strike Joshua Burgess from the court records. We have been notified that he is deceased. Also note that there may be a future inquiry as to cause of death.”