Page 76 of The Frozen River

The girl cannot meet my eyes, cheeks and hair battling over which is brighter. Her voice is a barely a croak when she responds, “Mistress Ballard.”

Jonathan climbs into the seat beside her and takes the reins.

“Jonathan?”

He looks up then, and I see the first glimpse of the boy he used to be. Sweet but clever, the way he was when caught with his hand in a jar of sweets. It’s only a flash, but it comforts me. Reminds me that even though he is his own man, he is still my boy. Not even a ripped seam can alter that.

“We will speak about this later.”

“Are you going to marry Sally Pierce?”

Jonathan startles. He had not expected to find me waiting for him in the barn. But I have long since learned that this particular son cannot be left to wiggle his way out of a confrontation. The only way to get his attention is to catch him by surprise.

“No,” he says. “I ain’t the type to leap over my sword. Not with her. Not with anyone. Marriage means children. And children mean responsibilities. I like my life exactly the way it is.”

“Then you’d best leave her alone. You know well enough how children come to be.”

“It was just a bit of fun,” he says.

“I am not a fool, Jonathan Ballard.”

“I never thought you one.”

He leads Sterling to his stall then heaves the saddle onto its rack. He doesn’t look at me, and I think he’s finally showing a bit of embarrassment.

“Nor I, you. Which is why I am surprised at you being so reckless with that girl. Her! Of all people? How could you?”

“It was just—”

“Don’t you dare say it was just a bit of fun. Because I saw her face. And she believes that she’s getting a great deal more from you than that.”

POLLARD’S TAVERN FRIDAY, JANUARY 29

The Court of Common Pleas has come to Hallowell to determine whether charges will be brought against Joseph North. It is a special session, called by Judge Wood last month in Vassalboro, and marks the first time these men have held court in our town. Once again, we have gathered at Pollard’s Tavern, but this time North wears neither robe nor wig.

Obadiah Wood is here, along with fellow Sessions judges James Parker and John Hubbard. As the officer assigned to their court, Barnabas Lambard has accompanied them as well. The tavern is packed, every seat taken, filled with friends and neighbors who’ve come to see one of their own face this serious charge. And that has made it worse for Rebecca, of course. The familiar faces. The whispers and judgment. It is one thing to give testimony in Vassalboro, before strangers, but something else entirely to do so before the people with whom you trade milk and eggs.

The way the air crackles with tension, the way I feel the glances of our neighbors, makes me think that they are hoping for another spectacle. Another outburst on my part. Half of them weren’t here the first time, didn’t see me held in contempt of court. It makes me angry, this voyeurism.

When we arrived at the tavern an hour ago, Ephraim had looked to the sky and frowned.

“A storm is moving in,” he’d said.

I followed his gaze and saw the dark, angry clouds in the east, rolling in from the Atlantic. “Worse than usual?”

“Yes.” He flexed the fingers of his left hand. “I feel it. In my bones.”

“How long?”

“A couple of hours, if we’re lucky.”

In truth, the blizzard came in even quicker than Ephraim predicted, the winds picking up and the sky opening just as the judges arrived. Jagged bits of snow now whip through the air, scratching at the windows. A draft creeps under the door and swirls around our feet. I pull my skirt tighter around my ankles. Amos Pollard has built the fires to a roaring blaze, but they do little to beat back the creeping cold pushed forward by this storm. Ephraim drops his arm over my shoulder.

Jonathan and Cyrus chose seats at the back of the room, away from prying eyes. Whether they are here in support of us, or out of curiosity, I cannot say. But both insisted on coming.

North sits off to the side. But Henry Sewell is at the front as usual, performing his duties as clerk. He and Joseph North avoid eye contact.

Rebecca and I are at the front, flanked by our husbands, and when Obadiah Wood bangs his gavel, she nearly jumps out of her skin. These court appearances are wearing on her, I think. She had hoped that charges would be declared in Vassalboro, that the case would move to trial in Pownalboro. She had hoped that she would not have to repeat the details of her ordeal to the greedy ears of our neighbors. But Obadiah Wood had dashed those hopes, and collectively the judges chose to move this hearing to our community. Though I suspect that decision has as much to do with Joshua Burgess as it does Joseph North.