Page 65 of The Frozen River

In fact, Dolly will be eighteen next month. A mere two months younger than I was when Ephraim first came to court me. He knows I’m thinking this, of course, so he stubbornly refuses to meet my gaze.

Again, Barnabas flashes that impish smile, a hint of confidence without hubris. If I am not careful, I will end up being quite fond of this boy. It is a rare man who can handle my husband.

“Well, I’m young too, which is good. But I never said a word about courting. I only said I’d like to say hello.”

“And yet you’ve still not explained why.”

He shrugs. “I like the way she looks. At me, I mean. Twice I caught her eye, and she didn’t blush or giggle. There doesn’t seem to be a silly thing about your daughter. From what little I have seen, she reminds me of Mistress Ballard. Clever, both of them. Same as my own mother.”

It’s a good speech, but Ephraim won’t give in quickly. He lets Barnabas stand there a moment—long enough for a twinge of uncertainty to creep into the boy’s muddy eyes—before he finally lifts his hand and holds it out. “Ephraim Ballard.”

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” I say, wiping my hands on my apron. “Would you like some breakfast? I believe Dolly is cleaning up the last of it now.”

“I would like that very much.”

I wait until Ephraim and Barnabas have gone up the path toward the house and then I pull the mill door closed. Outside, in his mews, Percy squawks his displeasure at our departure, but I pay him no mind. He’s had his breakfast already, and soon Ephraim will let him out to fly.

I follow the men up the path, watching as they make their way between the snowbanks, noting how they walk. Ephraim like a bull—sure and strong—and Barnabas like a stag—young and ready. There is much, I think, that you can tell about a man by the way he walks. Nothing timid on the path before me, though, so I catch up and try to prepare myself for what will come next.

Dolly is waiting at the door. She leans against the frame just as she did the last time Barnabas Lambard came through the garden gate, one hand on her hip and her face flushed with curiosity. She must have seen him ride up, must have been hoping that we would come back to the house.

I poke Ephraim in the ribs and whisper, “Understand my father a bit better now, perhaps?”

He answers with an irritated grunt.

Dolly’s cheeks are bright, and her hair is brushed, falling down her back in rivers of loose brown curls, but the prettiest thing about her are those eyes. Same as her father’s. It may as well be midsummer for all the blue beneath her heavy lashes. And when she smiles at Barnabas, I can hear Ephraim’s teeth grind together. I tug at his hand and pull him back a half step.

“Remember, love,” I laugh, “it’s a woman who does the choosing. You said so yourself.”

“And I’m a fool for ever mentioning it to you.”

Dolly lets Barnabas into the house, and we follow, neither of us quite ready to see our youngest daughter so easily felled by Cupid’s arrow.

DR. COLEMAN’S STORE TUESDAY, JANUARY 12

“Aren’t you coming in?” I ask.

Ephraim shakes his head. “Not today. I need to go across the river and inquire about a lumber order.”

There are only two ways to cross the Kennebec: by ferry in warmer months, or by foot once it’s frozen. It is nearly half a mile wide at points and deep enough that no one has ever touched the bottom. The current likely has something to do with that, however. The Kennebec is not the kind of river that you swim. Everything on the west side is considered Hallowell, and everything on the east, Fort Western, even though they are, in practicality, one village, split in half, spanning two miles in length. But each side has its homes and shops, its own community. Though it is treacherous, I almost prefer crossing the river on foot. The ferry takes too long.

“Be safe,” I tell him.

“Not to worry, the ice is thick enough. And I’ll only be gone an hour. Meet me at the tavern for a pint when you’re done here.”

Ephraim kisses my forehead, then steps off the boardwalk toward the well-trod path that leads down the bank and across the frozen river. I watch him begin the crossing—sure-footed as always—then I turn back to the store.

Coleman is doing steady business today, so I wait for a group of loggers to finish buying their tools before I approach the counter.

“What might you be needing today, Mistress Ballard?” he asks.

“Nothing. Unless you’ve come across something new to read?”

I hoist my basket onto the counter and pull back my cloak. My copy of Emmeline sits on top of two dozen neatly stacked candles. Their bottoms have been cut flat and their wicks trimmed.

“You’ve brought a new batch, I see.” Coleman reaches out his right hand and plucks a candle from the basket. He sniffs the dried wax, then picks at a fleck of lavender with his thumbnail. “These are fancy.”

“Just because something is useful doesn’t mean it can’t be pretty.”