WHITE SADDLERY
Sarah White answers the door. I did not expect her to be awake, much less dressed, but there she is, as though expecting me, as though I’ve been invited. And here I thought I’d have to get through her mother first.
“May I come in?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says, and pulls back the door to let me in.
I don’t realize at first why she throws a questioning glance over her shoulder. But once I’ve knocked the mud off my boots and stepped inside, I see a man sitting beside the fire. He is young and handsome, and there is a bundle in his arms.
When the bundle squirms, then snores, I realize that he is holding Charlotte.
Sarah opens her mouth to explain, but there is no time.
“I need your help. Please.”
“Come in,” she says. “Tell me. I will help in any way that I can.”
I do hope she truly means that, because when I get to the fire and pull back my riding cloak to reveal the newborn squirming baby, she gasps. The man does as well, although he adds a colorful invective to go along with his stare. Abashed, he sets his palm over Charlotte’s ear. Says it again. But whispers this time.
“She was born almost three hours ago and has not eaten. Are you still making enough milk for two?”
God bless Sarah White, and may He curse anyone who speaks a harsh word against her ever again, for she immediately drops into the other chair and begins to unbutton her blouse.
I look to the man. Back to Sarah. “Mmm. Perhaps he ought—”
She laughs. “Don’t fret about my modesty, Mistress Ballard. He’s seen it all before.” Sarah reaches for the baby, smiling as though she’s just been offered a prize and not a burden. “This is Charlotte’s father, Henry Warren. I told you he would come back for us.”
Well.
I need to sit down.
I lower myself to a chair beside the hearth. Gape at him while Sarah lifts the baby to her breast. The little girl clamps onto her nipple with a ferocity that amazes me. She sucks and gurgles, slipping off the breast. Screaming. Starving. Angrily swatting the air with her tiny fists. She grabs hold again, little mouth working in desperation while Sarah expertly adjusts both child and breast for a better fit. She rocks the baby. Shushes her. Strokes her ear and temple with a long, soft finger. And all the while Henry watches in wonder, as though Sarah is nursing his child and not a stranger’s.
“Does she have a name?” Sarah asks.
I shake my head.
She looks at me through long, dark lashes, and I can see her mind work. “Does she have a mother?”
Again, I shake my head.
“I see. Am I to keep her, then?”
“Only as long as you’re willing. I must confess that my only thought was to get her fed, not what happens next. But I will think of something. I promise.”
“I am happy to help you, Mistress Ballard. It’s the least I can do. Considering all you’ve done for me.”
“Thank you.” I sigh and lean back, then close my eyes for a moment and let the heat from the fire seep into my body. When I open them again, I see that the young man is staring at me now. “I’m sorry. I’ve failed to introduce myself. I am Martha Ballard. A midwife. And a friend of Sarah’s.”
I extend my hand, and he accepts it. “I’d gathered as much. I’m Major Henry Warren, Sarah’s fiancé.”
I look to Sarah, stunned.
“He asked me this evening. Walked right in the door and asked me. We plan to post notice tomorrow and be married within the month.” The smile Sarah gives me is almost pitying. “I know you didn’t believe me. No one did. Everyone thought I was a fool. But they don’t know Henry. He promised and I believed him.”
It is as though someone has tossed my mind beneath the stampeding hooves of a charging herd of horses. There is so much to make sense of all at once. But before I can reckon with the fact that Sarah’s lover has returned for her, there is one thing that I have to know.
I turn to Henry. “Do you know a man named Joseph North?”
“Isn’t he the judge in this town?”
“Yes.”
“I know him by name only. I have never met the man.”
“Well, he claims differently.”
I do not know this Henry Warren any more than I know Latin. Or Chinese. But I do like the way his eyes pinch in alarm and how he pulls Charlotte tighter against his chest.
“What do you mean?”
“Judge Joseph North has sworn to the court that he was with you on the night of August tenth last year, when he is accused of raping a woman in this town.”
“On August tenth, I was three hundred miles west of here. Same as I’ve been for the better part of a year. Until December, when we got orders for Fort Halifax. And there are two dozen men at the tavern who will testify to that.”
I ponder this. Nod. “I had to ask,” I tell him.
Henry doesn’t seem the least bit offended. “I wouldn’t expect less of anyone who cares about Sarah. But I don’t like that he’s used me as an alibi. I’m happy to write to the court and certify otherwise.”
“The trial has come and gone, and North has been acquitted.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want my name associated with his. Tell me who I must speak with about this. I want it official.”
“His name is Seth Parker, and we will deal with that later. But thank you.” Now that that is out of the way, I have another question for him. “Did you know about Charlotte?”
“No. But I… ah… knew there was a possibility of a child. I had to finish my enlistment with the militia. That’s what took me so long. I’ve made arrangements for us. Here. In Hallowell.”
Sarah beams. “He’s bought Coleman’s Store!”
“You’re the man from Boston?”
“I am. And I thought that’s where we’d have to live. But my grandfather died last year. Left me a bit of an inheritance. And that gave me the option of moving here instead.”
When I told Samuel Coleman about the story of Emmeline by Charlotte Turner Smith, he had laughed. Said it sounded like a fantasy. And yet here is a woman who did the very same thing as that character. Sarah has lived on the fringes of society. Yet she’s chosen the course of her life. She’s found love on her own terms. And I’ll be damned if she likely won’t end up wealthy and happy as a result. Just wait until I tell Coleman how very real the premise of that novel is after all.
I am overwhelmed, with both joy and exhaustion, and the sensation feels very much as though I am a candle, wilting over an open flame, with my wick burning at both ends. I have so little energy left, and I can feel my mind getting fuzzy. It is time to go home.
“Martha?”
“Yes?”
Sarah tilts her chin toward the baby. She is milk drunk and has fallen off the breast. Asleep. Her mouth open, milk dribbling from one corner.
“What should I call her?”
I smile. “I think Emmeline would be a fine name.”