Excellent! But then I’m a steadfast fan of Martha Ballard, anyway. This book of historical fiction is based on 18th century midwife Martha Ballard’s diary. It mixes actual characters and true events with fictional events and likely some fictional characters.
The book opens with a childbirth, then quickly moves to Martha identifying a dead body that had been found frozen in a river. She declares the cause of death as hanging. The new-to-town physician claims otherwise. Martha quietly seeks out more information over a period of several months. Part of the story includes a minister’s wife who was raped by the dead man and another man who was one of the local judges and includes the court processes to bring the one left alive to trial.
Family history research has given me an idea of the circumstances of women in the late 1700s into the 1800s. I thought this book put meat on the bones of general research about the lives of women of the time—their limits in society, the general expectation of behavior, their role in the home and family, etc. For that alone I think it’s worth reading if you’re interested in women’s history.
There is a little language and there is a grizzly scene near the end.
The Author’s Note after the end of the book explains what and why Lawhon made changes, inclusions, exclusions, and some assumptions for the book.
For more about Martha Ballard, read Laurel Thatcher Ulrich’s biography, The Midwife’s Tale. Also, a transcription of Martha’s diary is available online at https://dohistory.org/diary/1785/02/17850208_txt.html.
Quotes
On keeping a journal. “Memory is a wicked thing that warps and twists. But paper and ink receive the truth without emotion, and they read it back without partiality. That, I believe is why so few women are taught to read and write. God only knows what they would do with the power of pen and ink at their disposal. ...Being privy to much of what goes on behind closed doors in this town, I have a rather good idea what secrets might be recorded, then later revealed, if more women took up the pen. p. 39 ¶1
“To name a thing is a proprietary act. It is a commitment. Of ownership or care or loyalty. It means something. With that single word I have declared that this little beast [a silver fox] is mine, and that I have a responsibility to protect her.” p. 94 ¶2
“If anyone had told me two decades ago, when I was buried in small children and endless chores, that one day I would sit at my desk in a warm, quiet house while the snow fell outside and complain of loneliness, I would have slapped them. That future seemed as far away as Constantinople.
“I would very much like to join the rest of the house in slumber, but I can already feel the creeping wakefulness that often assails me at night. This is a new affliction, something that began once I rounded the corner of forty-five. I never understood what a gift sleep was until it vanished. Whereas, in all the decades before, I slept deep and heavy, soaking up every morsel of rest that was offered. I now skim the surface, fitful, easily woken, and unable to drift off again. On nights like this, no amount of physical exhaustion can induce my mind to shutter, so I read by candlelight instead. It is the only time I allow myself this indulgence. The joy of falling into another life, another world, is the one thing that mitigates the frustration of a sleepless night.” p. 106 ¶5-6
“Words can be a gift, but so can silence.” p, 192 last sentence
“The quilt is large, big enough to cover them both, and is made of scraps of fabric that I have gathered and kept over the years for this purpose. Every year I make an extra quilt, sewn in bits and pieces at night before the fire when my other work is done.... I do this because every year there is a wedding. Sometimes rushed. Sometimes performed according to the standards of our town. Yet each young bride finds herself in a new home and does not know how to make it her home. This, a simple piece of bedding, is the answer. Everyone must sleep, and to do so beneath a warm quilt, tenderly made, is the first thing that helps a house become a home.” p. 193 ¶4
“I follow him to a table at the back and sink onto the bench with a groan. This is a new thing I’ve discovered about myself in recent years. The noises. Stand and groan. Sit and grunt. Some days it seems that I can hardly take a step without some part of my body creaking or cracking and this—even more than the gray hairs and the crow’s-feet at my eyes—makes me feel as though I am racing down the final stretch of middle age.” p. 167 ¶ last
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