POLLARD’S TAVERN
My hands are trembling when I push through the door to Pollard’s Tavern. I need a moment to gather myself before riding home. And I also need a whiskey. Or perhaps two.
“Mistress Ballard, is everything in the right?” Moses follows as I make my way through the crowd toward the only empty seat in the tavern.
I nod, but don’t speak. I drop to the stool with a huff. All the tables are full, and the atmosphere is merry. Loud. There are more people here tonight than usual. I listen to the laughter and chatter as I settle into my solitary place in the corner. One of two rickety stools arranged beside an old wine barrel for a table. It’s where Amos and Abigail usually perch, but they are bustling around the tavern, busy with their guests, and I know they won’t mind me taking their place.
“I’ll take whiskey if you have it,” I tell Moses. “And whatever your mother has made for dinner.”
“ ’Tis stew and bread,” he says, eyeing me with concern. “But tonight she has cheese as well, along with roasted chestnuts.”
I wag a hand at him in approval. “All of it, please.”
I relax for a moment, face pressed into my hands, and when I finally look up, it is into the quizzical gaze of my daughter Hannah. Dolly sits beside her at one of the tables, and Cyrus and Young Ephraim are here as well. Their backs are to me, and each of them looks like Ephraim from behind. Broad shoulders and dark hair. They tuck in to Abigail Pollard’s food. The table is full. Barnabas Lam-bard has come down from Vassalboro and sits by Cyrus. Dolly isn’t so much ignoring Barnabas as Cyrus now. She keeps her back to her brother, resisting his attempts to reconcile her with the young officer of the court. My daughters do not forgive so easily as my sons. For his part, Barnabas seems content to bide his time. He may have lost the battle, but he knows he’s won the war.
The youth of Hallowell are out this evening, enjoying this first glimmer of spring, a night with no bite in the air. Brothers accompanying sisters. Sisters dragging their little brothers along. Young men with their minds bent toward courtship, and young women making them wait for a stolen kiss.
Every so often I see Cyrus turn his head to the door. Waiting. Watching. Hoping for Sarah White, I’d guess, but she never arrives.
The other tables are equally packed, mostly with men I do not recognize, and I am grateful that my sons are here tonight—along with Moses and Barnabas—because more than a few interested glances are being cast toward Hannah and Dolly.
Once Moses has delivered my food and drink, I ask him who all these strangers are.
“The Boston militia,” he says. “They just rode in from Fort Halifax this afternoon. Word is they’ll be here for a week before heading south again.”
It’s been a year and a half since the militia last rode through Hal-lowell. A year and a half since Sarah White was seduced by their leader. This reminds me of something, however, and I grab Moses’s shirtsleeve.
“Do you happen to know who’s in charge? A Major Henry Warren by chance?”
I think the odds of Sarah’s beau returning to the Hook are slim. Men of his sort usually turn to new hunting grounds.
“I can ask around,” Moses says.
“Thank you.”
Hannah slips from her seat and comes to give me a hug. “We didn’t know when you’d be home. So we decided to have dinner here. Honestly, none of us wanted to cook.” She shrugs. “Dad was gone. You were gone….”
“And Moses is here?” I ask.
Hannah smiles, broad and lovely, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Aye. He is.”
“You don’t have to explain. I’d rather eat Abigail’s cooking than my own any day. Go on, enjoy your evening. I’m heading home as soon as I eat.”
“You don’t want to stay?”
“I’m tired.”
She studies me with those dark and steady eyes. “There’s more to it.”
“Aye. There is.”
“But you won’t tell me?”
I brush a bit of hair away from her eyes. “It’s nothing you need to trouble yourself with tonight.”
“Then I’ll leave it be,” she says. “For tonight.”
Hannah wanders back to the table, and I watch the delicate mating dance between her and Moses. He brings her a mug of cider, and she touches his wrist. She smiles, he blushes. He makes a joke, and she laughs. It is all so simple and innocent, and I am struck by the realization that the dance of new love is many miles behind me.
I could warn Moses and Barnabas that I expect them to get my daughters home safely tonight, that I don’t want them near any of these militiamen, but there’s no need. I doubt either man intends to let my girls out of his sight. Dolly might be making a show of her anger toward Barnabas, but I can see her lean in his direction when he tells a joke. I can see her try to hide her smile. And he sees it as well. The boy has a great deal of work ahead to win her back, but she has chosen him, and that is obvious to anyone who cares to look.
Moses is back again. “I asked some of the lads about Warren, but they say he isn’t here.”
“I figured as much.”
“That’s a problem?”
“No,” I tell him. “More like a relief.”
Young Ephraim shoves his plate aside and goes to play dice with the youngest Pollard child. Matthew, he’s called. The stable boy. They both have the rangy look of boys who are no longer little but who won’t be men for some time yet. All teeth and elbows and knees, they need haircuts and baths. They are in that grubby, delightful no-man’s-land between those who play and those who work, and I am glad that Young Ephraim’s brothers and sisters brought him tonight. It is hard to be the youngest.
Jonathan pushes through the tavern doors as I tuck in to my dinner. He sees his siblings at their table. Grins. He joins them, giving both Hannah and Dolly a kiss on the cheek. Ruffles his little brother’s hair. Gives Cyrus a jolly slap on the back. It is a rare bit of camaraderie that I never get to see. He’s a bit sterner with Barnabas and Moses, offering only a handshake, but it’s friendly at least. Once he’s found a spot, he looks up to find me watching. It’s been many years since I’ve seen him blush, but his face floods with color at the sight of me. He has been with Sally, apparently. All last night and today if the dark circles beneath his eyes tell the story right.
He nods at me once then turns away.
I finish my dinner and sip my whiskey, marveling as I watch my children. This is a new, bittersweet milestone of motherhood. They have gotten bigger, as have their problems. But they have also grown wiser, and that is a miracle because wisdom is not a thing you can acquire for your children. As I rise from the table, it occurs to me that part of what I feel, watching them, is a sense of betrayal. I carried these children into the world, paid their entrance fee with dues rendered upon my own body, and now they no longer need me.
I bid them all good evening with a kiss to the brow—even Jonathan, and I am glad when he doesn’t turn his face away.
“We need to talk,” I whisper in his ear, then I walk alone into the night.