Lawhon The Frozen River

A RIVETING DRAMA Inspired by a Real Heroine-A Must-Read Tale of Courage and Heart
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80075-553-6
Verlag: Swift Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 448 Seiten

THE CAPTIVATING BESTSELLER BASED ON THE TRUE STORY OF HEROIC MIDWIFE MARTHA BALLARD In the cold of night, she tends to the women. In the light of day, she delivers them justice. 'Thrilling' Irish Times 'Lawhon works storytelling magic with a real-life heroine' People Magazine 'The narrator of Ariel Lawhon's The Frozen River is another stalwart heroine' The New York Times 'Historical fiction at its best!' 5 Star Reader Review 'These markings of ink and paper will one day be the only proof that I have existed in this world. That I lived and breathed' Maine, 1789: When the Kennebec River freezes, entombing a man in the ice, Martha Ballard is summoned to examine the body and determine cause of death. As a midwife and healer, she is privy to much of what goes on behind closed doors in Hallowell. Her diary is a record of every birth and death, crime and debacle that unfolds in the close-knit community. Months earlier, Martha documented the details of an alleged rape committed by two of the town's most respected gentlemen-one of whom has now been found dead in the ice. But when a local physician undermines her conclusion, declaring the death to be an accident, Martha is forced to investigate the shocking murder on her own. Over the course of one winter, as the trial nears, and whispers and prejudices mount, Martha doggedly pursues the truth. Her diary soon lands at the center of the scandal, implicating those she loves, and compelling Martha to decide where her own loyalties lie. Clever, layered, and subversive, Ariel Lawhon's newest offering introduces an unsung heroine who refused to accept anything less than justice at a time when women were considered best seen and not heard. The Frozen River is a thrilling, tense, and tender story about a remarkable woman who left an unparalleled legacy yet remains nearly forgotten to this day. Inspired by the life of Martha Ballard, a renowned 18th-century midwife who defied the legal system and wrote herself into history. For fans of OUTLANDER and WHERE THE CRAWDADS SING Readers love Ariel Lawhon 'The HYPE IS REAL ... I was absolutely drawn into Martha's world, the harshness of the life, the struggle of women to have a voice, the mystery created. I loved this book so much! It's in my books of the year' 'I give this book ALL THE STARS ... One of the BEST HISTORICAL FICTION THRILLER BOOKS that I've read' 'Extremely ABSORBING and enjoyable read' 'RIVETING ... I would thoroughly recommend it to any historical fiction lovers, or those who enjoy stories based around strong women' 'This story is so POWERFUL, and it's astonishing how relevant Martha's FIGHT FOR JUSTICE still feels today ... If you're looking for a rich, layered story about justice, resilience, and a woman who refused to be silenced, The Frozen River is A MUST-READ' 'Highly recommended for fans of historical fiction with STRONG FEMALE LEADS, intricate plotting, and a BEATING HEART OF JUSTICE. A BEAUTIFULLY WRITTEN, quietly fierce book that will stay with you long after the final page' 'Its SECRETS kept me UTTERLY HOOKED'

ARIEL LAWHON is a critically acclaimed, New York Times bestselling author of historical fiction. Her books have been translated into numerous languages. She lives in the rolling hills outside Nashville, Tennessee, with her husband and four sons.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Lawhon, Ariel

Leseproben

Clark Forge

Thursday, November 26

“You need not fear,” I tell Betsy Clark. “In all my years attending women in childbirth, I have never lost a mother.”

The young woman looks at me, eyes wide, sweat beading on her temples, and nods. But I do not think she believes me. They never do. Every laboring woman suspects that she is, in fact, moments away from death. This is normal. And it does not offend me. A woman is never more vulnerable than while in labor. Nor is she ever stronger. Like a wounded animal, cornered and desperate, she spends her travail alternately curled in upon herself or lashing out. It ought to kill a woman, this process of having her body turned inside out. By rights, no one should survive such a thing. And yet, miraculously, they do, time and again.

John Cowan—the young blacksmith apprenticed to Betsy’s husband—came to fetch me two hours ago, and I’d told him there was no time to dally. Betsy’s children come roaring into the world at uncommon speed, with volume to match. Shrieking banshees, all slippery and red-faced. But so small that—even full-term—their entire buttocks can fit in the palm of my hand. Wee little things. John took my instructions to heart, setting a pace so fast that my body still aches from our frantic ride through Hallowell.

But now, having barely arrived and situated myself, I find that the baby is already crowning. Betsy’s contractions are thirty seconds apart. This child—like her others—is in a hurry to greet its mother. Thankfully, she is built well for birthing.

“It’s time,” I tell her, setting a warm hand on each of her knees. I gently press them apart and help the young woman shimmy her nightgown higher over her bare belly. It is hard, clenched at the peak of a contraction, and Betsy grinds her teeth together, trying not to sob.

Labor renders every woman a novice. Every time is the first time, and the only expertise comes from those assembled to help. And so Betsy has gathered her women: mother, sisters, cousin, aunt. Birth is a communal act, and all of them spring into action as her resolve slips and she cries out in pain. They know what this means. Even those with no specific job find something to do. Boiling water. Tending the fire. Folding cloths. This is women’s work at its most elemental. Men have no place in this room, no right, and Betsy’s husband has retreated to his forge, impotent, to pour out his fear and frustration upon the anvil, to beat a piece of molten metal into submission.

Betsy’s women work in tandem, watching me, responding to every cue. I extend a hand, and a warm, wet cloth is set upon it. No sooner have I wiped the newest surge of blood and water away, than the cloth is plucked from my grip and replaced by one that is fresh. The youngest of Betsy’s kin—a cousin, no more than twelve—is charged with cleaning the soiled rags, keeping the kettle at a boil, and replenishing the wash bucket. She applies herself to the task without a flinch or complaint.

“There’s your baby,” I say, my hand upon the slick, warm head. “Bald as an egg. Just like the others.”

Betsy lifts her chin and speaks with a grimace as the contraction loosens its grip. “Does that mean it’s another girl?”

“It means nothing.” I keep my gaze steady and my hand gentle on the tiny head that is pushing into my palm.

“Charles wants a boy,” she pants.

Charles has no say, I think.

Another brutal wave descends upon Betsy, and her sisters move forward to lift her legs and hold them back.

“On my count, push,” I tell her. “One. Two. Three.” I watch the rise of Betsy’s contraction as it tents her abdomen. “Now.”

She holds her breath, bears down, and another inch of bald head is revealed, the tips of little ears cresting beyond the confines of her body. She doesn’t have a chance to catch her breath before the next wave rolls over her, and then they come, unrelenting, one on top of another, never loosening their grip upon her womb. Betsy pushes. Gasps for air. Pushes again. Again. And again. Someone wipes the sweat from her brow, the tears from her cheeks, but I never look away. Finally, the head pushes through.

I ease my hand forward, cupping a cheek and one small ear in my palm. “Only the shoulders now. Two more pushes ought to do it.”

Betsy, however, is ready to be done with this business, and she heaves with the last of her strength, forcing the child right into my hands, then flops back onto the bed as the baby is freed from her body with a whoosh, the only remaining connection a slick silver cord.

A tiny, outraged squall fills the room, but Betsy’s women neither cheer nor clap. They watch, silent, waiting for my pronouncement.

“Hello little one,” I whisper, then hold the baby up for Betsy to see. “You have another daughter.”

“Oh,” she says, crestfallen, and pushes onto her elbows to see the child.

There is work yet to be done, and I go about it with deliberation. I lay the little girl on the bed between her mother’s legs and snip the umbilical cord with my scissors. Once that primordial bond is cut, I tie it off with a piece of string. Then I plunge my hands into a wash bucket, clean them, and swipe my thumb across the roof of the baby’s mouth. No cleft palate. Another tiny miracle that I mentally log during any successful birth. I wipe the blood and waxy vernix from the writhing, slippery infant even as I keep an eye on Betsy for excess bleeding. Nothing seems out of the ordinary.

Betsy’s women pull back her hair, wash her face, make her sip lukewarm tea. They help her into a sitting position and a clean shift. They ready her to nurse.

“Look how pretty you are,” I say to the baby, then add, “Look how loved you are.”

And I pray to God that it is true.

Charles Clark is so desperate for a son—this is their third child in four years—that his determination might well kill his wife if he isn’t careful. As for Betsy, she is desperate to please her husband and will never tell him no.

All appears in order with mother and child, so I wrap her in clean, soft linen and hand her to Betsy. She puts the bundle to her breast and hisses as the baby latches onto her nipple. It makes her abdomen contract once more, ridding itself of the afterbirth. Even this is fascinating to me, and I inspect the remnants of labor for irregularities, making sure it is intact, that nothing has been left behind. It too is normal, and I discard the residue into the bucket at my feet.

“There’s one last thing,” I warn.

Betsy nods. She’s been through this before.

“Bear with me. It will be a few seconds. But it may hurt.”

“Go on, then.”

I knead Betsy’s abdomen, rolling the heel of my hand this way and that, helping it contract. The girl winces but doesn’t cry out, and then there is nothing left for her to do but nurse the child.

“What will you call her?” I ask.

“Mary.”

A name that means “bitter,” I think, but offer the young mother an approving smile because it is expected.

The women work in tandem to clean Betsy and wrap her groin in clean, dry cloths. These will be changed by the after nurses every hour for the next few days.

It is four thirty in the morning—still hours before dawn—and Betsy’s women slip away to clean the last of the mess, and then to find what sleep they can. They will come in shifts to care for Betsy and her children over the next week. It will be the only rest the young blacksmith’s wife will get.

I remove my soiled apron and wash my hands again, then tie back the pieces of hair that have come loose before I sit on the edge of the bed and drink a cup of tea—now cold—that was brought to me when I arrived. For several moments I observe mother and child.

“Shall I let Charles know that all is well?” I ask.

“Yes,” Betsy says, “but don’t tell me if he’s angry.”

“He has no right to be angry. You’ve given him a beautiful child.”

“It means nothing, whether he has a right to his anger or not.”

I take a deep, calming breath before reassuring her. “Don’t worry about Charles. I’ll take care of him. You enjoy your daughter.”

The Clarks live in a small cabin adjacent to the only forge in three counties. It is a short walk, but I slide into my riding cloak anyway. The frigid air hits me like a slap, so startling after the near-oppressive heat inside the birthing room. It stings the inside of my nose with each inhale. The night is clear and crisp, the moon proud, and stars bright against an inky blanket of sky.

I don’t bother to knock on the forge door—Charles wouldn’t hear me with all the hammering anyway—but push it open without announcing myself. Betsy’s husband paces, muttering curses and prayers. He is utterly helpless and totally to blame for his wife’s recent agony.

Charles lifts his head when I enter his field of vision, and brings a cross peen hammer down on a rod of white-hot iron with such force that I can feel the vibrations through the hard-packed earth beneath me. The room smells of hot metal and baked mud. Of sweat and fear. Charles Clark stands straight, sets his hammer aside, and pushes a wet clump of hair away from his forehead. He’s starting to bald—I can see the receding patches at each temple—and it makes him appear older than his thirty years. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark beard. Piracy would have been a good option for...