The Midwife's Tale (3 page)

On my way through the parlor I gazed at the portrait of my second husband, Phineas, the man who had brought me to York. Despite having looked upon the picture every day since his death, I was struck once again by the artist’s inability to portray him as any less pathetic than he had been in life. In truth, it was a peculiar kind of masterpiece. As in life, my husband’s eyes were somehow both sunken and bulging, and his uniquely weak chin became his most remarkable feature. His ears were perfect for a man twice his size, and his nose seemed to be recoiling from the prospect of smelling his own fetid breath. More than once I had considered remarriage if only to rid my home of so perfect a picture of so ridiculous a man.

From Phineas’s portrait, my eyes slid to the much smaller drawing of my first husband, Luke. While Phineas lived, I had kept the picture in a drawer, of course, but after his death I placed it on the small table in the parlor. Phineas compared unfavorably to most men, but he suffered in particular when I contrasted him with Luke. I had met Luke only after our marriage had been arranged: Our families’ lands in Hereford lay near each other, and our parents made the match without consulting either of us. While such marriages sometimes ended in disaster, Luke and I had similar temperaments and we soon fell deeply in love. But just two years after we married, my joy turned to mourning when Luke died of an ague during a trip to London. The abject sorrow I felt after his death left me little time to think about anything else, but my parents immediately began their search for a new husband. A few weeks into my widowhood, my father came to me and announced he had arranged my marriage to Phineas Hodgson, the second son of the Lord Mayor of York. I could hardly blame him for his decision. A twenty-four-year-old widow with no children brought no benefit to the family. A few months later, still numb from the loss of my beloved husband, I climbed into a carriage and, with Hannah at my side, set out for a new life in York.

Seen from Hereford, my father’s second match appeared as good as the first: The Hodgsons were among the most powerful families in the city, and both Phineas’s father and his brother cut impressive figures. I discovered too late that Phineas came from some lesser branch of the family. His unappealing visage was matched by a singular weakness of mind and character. He had squandered his patrimony long before I arrived in York, and after we married he spent most of his waking hours trying to coax me out of my estates in Hereford. When that failed, he would settle for a visit to our bed but made it clear he would have preferred my land to my body. To this day, I wonder if my father knew what kind of man he had chosen for me. When Phineas succumbed to a fever in 1642, I counted myself among the luckiest of women in England. I had my youth, my fortune, my freedom, and my beautiful daughter, Birdy. But now Birdy’s picture sat on the table next to Luke’s.

The sound of Hannah clattering down the stairs, her arms full of laundry, startled me out of my reverie. “I’ll to bed, Hannah. Come help me undress.” In my room, Hannah unlaced my stays and took my soiled clothes. I put on a clean shift and knelt by the side of the bed to pray. Afterward I sank into bed and let my mind wander. I wondered what fate awaited Mercy and her bastard child. I feared she would turn to the parish for relief soon enough. With luck, she might find employment in one of the city’s workhouses, which would keep her and her child from starving, but not much more than that. I wished I could do more to help her, but she had made her choices, and they could not be undone. Perhaps the baby’s father would marry her, I thought. With hard work he could gain his freedom and give Mercy a better life than she could rightly hope for. I preferred to think of that fate.

I heard the thump of cannon in the distance and wondered what future awaited our nation. English and Scottish armies ransacked the countryside, and an Irish horde threatened from abroad. Eventually sleep came, but I found no rest. In my troubled dreams, I was standing on the Ouse Bridge next to Mercy Harris, who was holding her newborn daughter. Mercy looked out over the water, tears coursing down her cheeks. I watched helplessly as she stepped to the edge of the bridge, kissed her baby tenderly, and let her fall into the river. As the water swallowed the child, I saw that she was no longer Mercy’s daughter, but my own lost son, Michael. I clapped my hands over my face, and my nails raked my eyes in anguish. Mercy fell to her knees next to me, and we both cried uncontrollably.

I awoke with a start and tried to control my sobs before Hannah heard them and came to see what the matter was. As I quieted my breathing, I prayed that Mercy would never know the sorrow of losing a child. Her daughter had been born healthy, but I knew all too well that was no guarantee. Michael was a picture of health when he was born, but he sickened and died just a few days after his christening. Birdy had lived long enough to see her brother and her father buried, but the Lord had claimed her as well. On a Sunday morning she sang the Psalms at the top of her lungs. That afternoon she had a cough. That night she died in my arms, feverish and shaking, leaving me alone.

Once I’d stopped my tears and dried my cheeks, I summoned Hannah and had her bring me a glass of milk to cool my blood. I then sent her away with a warning not to disturb me until supper. I dared not close my eyes for fear that the dreams would return, so I resolved to put my household accounts in order. We still had some of the provisions I set aside when a siege seemed likely, but the prices commanded by necessities such as butter and eggs disturbed me all the same. I still had plenty of money locked in my trunk, as well as hundreds of pounds out on loan to wealthy friends and to the goldsmiths, but if the siege dragged on and food could not be had at any price, access to ready cash could be the least of my problems. As I finished my accounts, I prayed that it would not come to that.

After the previous night’s events and that morning’s dreams, I decided to dedicate what was left of the afternoon to reflection. I began reading some of Mr. Herbert’s sacred poems. Naturally enough, within minutes Hannah appeared in the doorway.

“Sweet peace, where dost thou dwell?” I asked aloud. She looked puzzled but said nothing. “What is it, Hannah?”

“My lady, a maid is here with a letter for you. I don’t know who she is, and she is not from the city.”

“Well, take the letter, give her a penny, and send her on her way,” I said. “I told you not to disturb me.”

“I tried, madam. She insists on staying while you read it.” She clearly did not relish giving me the news. I considered chasing the girl away, but her persistence piqued my curiosity.

“Very well,” I said. “Bring me the letter, but keep her in the kitchen. Who knows who she is?”

Hannah returned with the letter and slipped back downstairs. The wax seal on the envelope coupled with the elaborate script on the outside indicated that it had been written by a professional scribe. I opened it and found that the letter inside was written in the same hand as the envelope. It was from my cousin, who had passed away a few months earlier. She was one of the godly sort, and it came through even in such a brief letter.

Written at my home in Hereford, the xi of March, 1644

My Dearest Cousin,

As I write this, my body is failing. By now I’m sure that you have heard the news of my death. Weep not, for I am at the Right Hand of God. As I settle my earthly accounts and prepare to approach the Heavenly Throne, I am working to ensure that my faithful servants are well-settled. Martha Hawkins, the maid who brought you this letter, has been in my household for two years and has proved one of the most diligent servants I have. She is modest, honest, and hardworking. She can even read and write. The times we live in are dangerous to maidens without employment. With armies roaming the land, who knows what could become of her? If you cannot bring her into your home, I beg of you to find her a place with a godly family in the city. I will next see you at the Right Hand of God, but until then I am

Your ever-loving sister in Christ,

Elizabeth

The letter was clear enough but left many questions unanswered. I considered for a moment whether God might have brought this girl to my house to help Hannah with her labors, even as old age weakened her body.

“Hannah! Take the girl to the parlor and come back. I will see her, but need to dress first.”

A few minutes later, Hannah returned. She helped me into one of my richest set of clothes, one that I knew would impress a country girl from Hereford: a fine linen skirt, silk bodice, and linen jacket embroidered with blood-red silk. Finally, I added a coif of French lace and went downstairs.

Before entering, I paused before my gilt mirror. At thirty years, I was probably not much older than the girl waiting in the parlor. My darling Luke had called me beautiful, and I supposed he told the truth—after Phineas died I was beset by suitors who lusted after more than my wealth. I looked closely at my face, trying to remember how it had appeared before I lost my little ones. I wondered if strangers could discern in my face the scars that sorrow had left on my soul. Had the crease on my forehead been so deep when Birdy was born? Were the lines around my eyes always so pronounced? I did not know.

I turned my back on such dark and fruitless thoughts, drew myself up, and went to meet the girl. When I entered, I found a young woman of perhaps twenty years waiting for me. She was standing at the window, looking onto the street. She turned and curtsied deeply. I dismissed Hannah more sharply than necessary, for I wanted the girl to understand that I was her judge and no one else. She wore a simple skirt and bodice over a high-necked shift. The shift and her coif were pure white and likely new—she had come prepared. The girl tried to keep her eyes lowered, but I caught a flash of blue as she glanced up at me. In that moment, I felt my stomach lurch, for her eyes seemed to be the same shade of blue as Birdy’s. I composed myself before addressing her.

“My cousin speaks very highly of you, Martha. How long were you in her service?”

“Two years, my lady. I came to her from another household in the parish when I was twenty-one.” She paused and I nodded for her to continue. “She hired me when she started to suffer from a palsy. That is why she had a scribe write the letter.” Her Midlands accent with its touch of Welsh confirmed much of her story—I had no doubt she came from Hereford’s lower orders.

“Who was your master before my cousin? I’m from Hereford, you know.”

“Samuel Quarels. I served him before he died, and then I served his widow. When she remarried, her new husband took her to Lincolnshire. Your cousin was kind enough to take me in. I can only pray that you will see fit to do the same.”

Martha’s story made sense. I had known Samuel and had heard of his death and his widow’s remarriage. I looked the girl over, and I noticed that her hands shook. For a moment I thought she might have a palsy of some sort, but I realized that my efforts to impress my authority had worked too well—the poor girl was frightened. I decided I couldn’t simply cast her onto the street—I would take her on as a servant, at least for the time being.

“Hereford is a long journey, and York is under siege,” I said in a gentler voice. “How did you get to the city and then evade the armies surrounding it?”

“When your cousin died, my lady, she was kind enough to leave me a bequest of forty shillings. With that I made my way up here. It was a dangerous journey—I had to be careful of my traveling companions and avoid soldiers.” There was no denying that point. Whether they were Royalist or Cavalier, too many of the men fighting our war were rogues at best and murderers at worst. She went on: “I did not know of the siege until I was nearly here. By then I hadn’t enough money to return. As I approached the city, I learned that the north was lightly patrolled. I slipped in on Monday, and found you yesterday.”

“Have you any money left?”

“No, my lady. I spent most of it on the journey, and the rest to buy these clothes. I wanted to present myself properly. The journey from Hereford reduced my skirts to rags. I still have them, though,” she added, indicating a small bag in the corner. “I’m not a spendthrift.” Good, I thought. After sauciness and thievery, there were few things I could abide less than a profligate servant.

“I will employ you for a fortnight. If you do well, I will keep you on at fifty shillings per year. You will sleep in the attic with Hannah.”

A look of relief spread across her face. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Hannah will show you to your room and get you a chest for your clothes. You will start after supper. She will set you to work.”

In the days that followed, Martha lived up to my cousin’s praise. She was as hardworking as any servant I’d had, following my instructions and Hannah’s without a moment’s hesitation. Hannah acquainted her with the household routine and introduced her to the city, showing her which grocers held back their finest goods for wealthy clients and which bakers sold the largest loaves. After a few days in service, I accompanied her to the market to see how she matched up against York’s grocers, who drove a notoriously hard bargain. After the apprentice measured out the grain that Martha had ordered, she spoke up.

“Why are you stopping?” she asked. The edge in her voice caught the youth unawares. He looked at her in complete confusion. “Are you trying to cozen me?” she demanded. It was less a question than a challenge.

“No, madam,” he said reflexively. Her status was no higher than his, but she demanded his respect and received it. “That is the amount you asked for.” To my eye it seemed a fair measure. I considered reining her in, but I was curious what her game might be.

“It certainly is not, you Scotch rogue!” Martha cried out. “Has your master ordered you to cheat your customers in this way? I find that hard to believe. Or are you cheating your master, too? That’s it! You intend to keep my money for yourself! Is he here? He’ll pull your ears off, I imagine.” She peered over his shoulder in search of his master and then turned to scan the street. “If he’s not here, I shall have to summon the constable.” By the look on the boy’s face, she had him completely fuddled.