Page 59 of The Frozen River

Dorothy Ballard—May 17, 1767—died, July 4, 1769

Hannah Ballard—August 6, 1769

Dorothy “Dolly” Ballard—February 20, 1772

Ephraim Ballard, Jr.—March 30, 1778

For twenty-three years, my primary work was to grow a family. Work I considered both honor and duty. Joy and trial. The fact that I am only fifty-four and have buried one third of that family is a sorrow for which there are no words.

I was eight months pregnant with Hannah that awful summer and—in my darkest moments—was convinced that the ache of it would put me and the child I carried in the ground as well. Rarely does a day go by that I do not look at Hannah and think her a miracle.

It hurts. Every year it hurts when I do this, but to forget would be the greater injury. Now that it is done, however, I push my book away and breathe long and deep through my nose. I listen to my daughters rattling around the kitchen. Smell the hiss of bacon and the sizzle of potatoes. I put away my journal and my Bible and go to be with the children I still have left.

BALLARD’S MILL SUNDAY, JANUARY 3

My family stopped attending public worship in July when Isaac Foster was removed as preacher. It was our only available form of protest, and while I do not regret the decision, it does feel strange to sit at home on a Sunday morning. But it is not unpleasant to rest before the fire, a warm cup of tea in hand, and read the Book of Common Prayer.

“He has shown the strength of His arm,” I whisper, the nail of my right index finger running along the last verse of today’s liturgy. “He has cast down the mighty from their thrones and has lifted up the lowly.”

I close my eyes, pray that it might be so, and close the book. No sooner have I set it back on the shelf than I hear a gentle knock at the door. Hannah sticks her head outside, then looks back at me and says, “Mistress Parker is here.”

“Is her husband with her?” I haven’t seen Seth since the morning he and the others cut Joshua Burgess from the ice. He’d been one of the first to flee during my inspection of the body.

Hannah shakes her head. “She’s alone.”

“Didn’t you invite her in?”

“She asked to speak with you at the gate.”

“Is she ill?”

Hannah shrugs. “Not to look at.”

Strange, I think, and pull my shawl off the peg, wondering at this need for privacy as I slip out the door. Mrs. Parker stands inside the garden gate, wringing her hands.

“Ellen.” I look her over head to foot. “Are you unwell?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

There is no wind, and the snow has a thin crust of ice on top where it has melted during the day and frozen again at night. My boots make an unpleasant crunching noise as I move across the yard.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I need to borrow a horse.”

I know for a fact that her husband has two fine steeds tied up in their barn. “Why?”

Ellen Parker is a shy woman, the kind who drifts to the back of a crowded room, who blushes whenever too many people look at her at once. The cold has turned the tip of her nose red, but I think that the pink tinge on her cheeks is embarrassment.

“She’s back,” Ellen whispers.

“Who?”

“Her.” Ellen’s eyes widen, and she purses her lips as though this should be obvious. “The Negro woman. I need to see her.”

“Oh.”

I heard her husband, Seth, mention this, at the tavern, when I inspected Joshua Burgess a month ago, but I’d forgotten in all the turmoil that followed. “Do you not want your husband to know?”