BALLARD’S MILL
SATURDAY, APRIL 10
I stand on the path, fifty feet from the mill, and watch Isaac Foster ride away. Ten days. That’s how long it took him to finally return to the Hook and explain their absence at the trial. He came today without Rebecca, spoke only to Ephraim, and even then, he didn’t stay for a total of fifteen minutes.
I walk the rest of the way down the path—tin plate with Ephraim’s dinner balanced in my hand—as Isaac follows the drive into the trees, then disappears among the shadows. The days are longer now, and the sky brighter as winter loosens its ruthless grip. It hasn’t snowed in a week, and the air no longer burns my lungs. The river is still frozen, however, but it has started to crack and pop occasionally, hinting that it won’t be long until the thaw. Inside the mill, Ephraim stands at his worktable, furiously stripping bark from a slender pole with his draw blade. It’s a two-handled thing, straight as an arrow, and two feet long, with an edge sharp enough to cut bone. He knows what he’s doing and is careful, but still, I wince at the sight of that glinting metal sweeping toward his torso. He wears a long leather apron over his shirt and britches, but one wrong move and he will need stitches. Or worse.
“Where have the Fosters been?” I ask, careful not to startle him.
“In Vassalboro. Isaac appealed his lawsuit to Obadiah Wood.” Ephraim looks up, then wipes a trickle of sweat from his brow. “They negotiated a settlement.”
“Of?”
“One hundred dollars. It’s only half of what Isaac is owed, half of what he was promised in his contract with Hallowell. But it will be paid at the end of the month and is enough to get them settled somewhere else.”
“And did he say anything of North’s acquittal?”
“Only that he truly believed they’d get a guilty verdict. He doesn’t understand how a jury of ‘twelve honest men’ couldn’t see the truth of what happened to his wife.”
“They couldn’t see her at all! Rebecca didn’t bother showing up to trial.” My voice is louder than I intend, and Percy rouses in the rafters of the loft. That bird has the nerve to squawk at me.
“Isaac said she refused to go. Said she didn’t have the heart to stand before another group of men and give them details of her shame.”
“It isn’t her shame.”
“I know. And so does Isaac. But what was he supposed to do? Drag her to Pownalboro and force her into the courtroom? Physically threaten her so she’d testify? He isn’t a cruel man. Besides, Seth had her written testimony. You were there as a witness. Isaac thought it would be enough. And I can’t blame Rebecca for not wanting to go through that again.”
I set Ephraim’s dinner on the worktable and lower myself to the stool. “She told me this would happen. That even if the court found North guilty, it would only be for attempting a crime, not committing one. And what’s the worst punishment he would have gotten? A fine?”
There is only a small section of bark left on the pole, and I watch my husband strip it methodically away. The blade makes a whooshing sound as it reveals the pale wood beneath. I watch him for a moment, thinking.
“The jury acquitted every man tried of rape that day,” I say after a moment. “But they fined a woman into poverty for spreading lies about a judge’s daughter.”
The pole is bare now, and Ephraim sets down his draw blade. Takes off the leather apron. “I believe it would have been different with Rebecca. She’s pregnant. That’s harder for a jury to ignore.”
“If they’d had the chance to see her, listen to her,” I say.
“I’m sure that’s what North realized in January when she gave her testimony. He expected them to bring charges of rape against him that day. He knew that a jury would believe Rebecca, so he ran off to Boston and hired a fancy lawyer.”
“And escaped doing his time in the jail yard,” I add.
“But he didn’t miss his chance for a bit of revenge when he had our son brought in on murder charges.”
“You think North was behind his arrest?”
Ephraim nods. “I do. During the inquiry, Judge Parker pointed out that Burgess’s death was very convenient for North. I think he sat in that courtroom believing he’d be charged with rape and suspecting that murder charges would follow. So he bolted. And then he found a way to have Cyrus charged instead. I aim to prove it too.”
“How?”
“I’m going to have Paul ask around about this lawyer, Henry Knowland, while I’m in Boston.”
Paul. He always says it so casually, as if the man he’s speaking of isn’t Paul Revere. Yes, an old friend, but also a national hero. The silver ink dish he gifted me is but a small part of the favor he owes my husband. If anyone can help Ephraim get to the bottom of what North was planning with his lawyer in Boston for those two months, it is Paul.
“Eat your dinner,” I tell him. “It’s getting cold.”
Ephraim goes to the plate and nods in approval. He stabs a potato with his fork and pops it in his mouth.
“When do you leave?” I ask.
“First thing in the morning.”
“And how long will you be gone?”
“Ten days. Perhaps a fortnight, depending on how difficult it is to get information about Knowland and make my case before the Kennebec Proprietors.”
In the week since North’s trial, Ephraim has been collecting writ-ten testimony from friends and neighbors who will swear to the fact that we have lived on this property since assuming the lease. He will take all of that—along with the letters I found in Burgess’s saddlebag—to Boston. But it means he is leaving again, and though the matter needs to be settled—and quickly—I don’t like the idea of him being gone.
Percy watches us from his perch in the loft, his noble head swiveling this way and that. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that he talks to Ephraim sometimes. In his own way. Every so often, I can hear his squawk and screech from the house if the air is still. Sometimes I think I can hear Ephraim answer.
“The ice is moving in the river,” I say, “and not a moment too soon. I am done with this winter.”
He looks at me cautiously. “Perhaps it is not yet done with us.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“The waterwheel. It hasn’t budged. You will know winter has gone for good when it turns again and brings its music back.”
Percy flaps his wings as if in agreement.
I glare at the bird. “He took another chicken yesterday.” Ephraim crooks an eyebrow. “You’re the one who gave him a taste for the things. What did you expect?”
“I expect him to be a gentleman about it and take only what’s offered.”
“Percy is no gentleman, Martha. He’s a wild beast. Don’t mistake him for anything else.”
“A beast perhaps, but a tame one.”
Ephraim studies his bird with a quiet thoughtfulness. “There is no such thing.”
“Well, speaking of wild things”—I smooth out a wrinkle from my skirt—“Jonathan was supposed to put netting over the chicken run last week so Percy couldn’t get in. He hasn’t done it yet.”
“There are lots of things that Jonathan is supposed to do and doesn’t. And plenty that he does but shouldn’t.”
“Then you’d best deal with him as well when you get the chance. And eat the hen on your plate before your bird steals it too. I didn’t bring it for him.”
Ephraim tucks in to his dinner as I sort through the contents of his haversack and pack basket to make sure he has everything he needs for the trip to Boston. It all looks to be in order.
Once done with his dinner, Ephraim still has a hungry look in his eye, and, after putting his plate down, he eases me up against the wall. “What will you do without me?” he asks, sliding his hands around my waist.
“I have no lack of things to keep me busy.”
“Oh?”
“There’s much to do in my workroom. Syrups. Salves.”
Those hands drop lower, exploring the small of my back. My hips. My arse.
“Flax to spin. Cotton to comb,” I tell him.
Slowly, too slowly for my liking, in fact, Ephraim begins to ruck up my skirt. He kisses the side of my neck.
“Cooking… cleaning…”
“Sounds terribly boring.” His fingers brush against the soft skin of my thighs.
“If you have thoughts on a better way to keep me occupied, I would love to hear them,” I say.
“I think words are wasted at a time like this.” Ephraim lifts me up and sets me on the table, drawing my skirt up around my knees. “I’d rather show you.”