The Midwife and the Assassin (23 page)

“And for good reason,” Tom replied. “He has proven himself as reliable as any man in Mr. Marlowe's service.”

“Is it curious that I am pleased by this?” I asked. “Mr. Marlowe is a cruel man, but I've rarely seen Will so happy.”

“You love your nephew. It would be strange if you felt any other way.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Things are so out of order. The King is dead, his son is fled, and who knows if he will return? Last autumn, my greatest concern was which of my Pontrilas neighbors to visit. Now I am no longer a gentlewoman, but a spy, and I'm joined in this by Martha and Will. Some mornings I am unsure whether the sun will rise in the east or west.”

Tom nodded sympathetically. “And I take it that you realize how dangerous this matter has become thanks to the murder of Enoch Harrison.”

“Aye,” I said. “When only Daniel Chidley was murdered, it was a minor affair, perhaps a squabble among Levellers, or a fight between husband and wife.”

Tom nodded. “And now…”

“Now with so much gunpowder on the loose, there is the threat of yet another rebellion.”

“A rebellion, or an entirely new war,” Tom said. “We cannot know how the people will react to the King's execution. If Prince Charles were to cross the Channel tomorrow, who is to say that the people would not flock to him? And if he were to discover a ready supply of gunpowder when he arrived? We could be staring at the start of another civil war. It would be…” Tom's voice trailed off. The consequences would be dire indeed.

“So you do not think it was the Levellers?” I asked.

“I have not seen such violence in them. They will write their pamphlets and petition Parliament, but they are not rebels in that particular way. At least not yet.”

We reached the Horned Bull, and stood outside.

“I don't know if you have food for supper in your rooms,” Tom said. “But I cannot stomach the thought of another meal here. If you know where to look, there are far better places to eat, even at this hour. Would you join me?”

In truth, Martha and I had laid up plenty of bread, cheese, and pickled herring, but I welcomed the prospect of dining with Tom. I took his arm. “I would love to.”

Tom guided me to an inn so brightly lit that despite the winter's cold I felt a measure of cheer. The warmth inside was all I'd hoped for, and within minutes Tom and I were enjoying a delightful meal of meats and cheeses washed down with rich red wine. We talked of our pasts, carefully avoiding any mention of the sorrows that had brought us together, but each of us knew that the other had suffered and this drew us even closer. When we ordered a second bottle of wine, I realized how the night would end if I so wished it. I thought about how many years it had been since Luke died, for that was the last time I'd felt true affection for a man. But Luke and I had been in the flower of our youth, knowing nothing of life's cruelties. Now I was older and wiser, and I knew all too well that the Lord made no promises except that death would come for all men. I could be dead in days: stabbed through the heart by an assassin, trampled by a hackney, killed by a falling roof tile. And so might Tom.

It was the thought of Tom's death that disturbed me most. I had spent the years since Luke died wondering if his was the only love I would find; indeed, I had resigned myself to it. But here was a man who saw me not as Midwife Hodgson, or Widow Hodgson, or Lady Hodgson, or even as a spy, but as all these things. He saw me and knew me, and I knew that he loved me.

“Bridget,” Tom said as he refilled my glass. “I will stay the night here, and I hope you will stay with me.”

I took his hand and nodded. “I will.”

*   *   *

The next morning I awoke in a man's arms for the first time in what seemed like ten thousand lives. Gray light made its reluctant way through the windows as if it were chary of disturbing us, and I thanked the Lord for its courtesy. Tom and I each knew the other was awake, but we lay in silence for a time, unwilling to break the spell that we had cast upon ourselves. I cannot say how long our contentment lasted before a rumbling sound from Tom's stomach brought us both to laughter.

“You inspire more appetites than one, my lady,” Tom said.

I nearly wept at the words
my lady,
and the love I'd felt for him the night before came rushing back. Words failed me, so I squeezed his hand, and we lapsed back into silence until his stomach roared once again. Tom laughed and rolled out of bed. “Let us find breakfast.”

Tom pulled on his trousers and helped me into my clothes as lovingly as he had helped me out of them the night before. I kissed his fingers when he finished.

“Bridget,” he said. “My love.”

My heart thrilled at the words, and I fought down the urge to break into song. “Tom.”

“We should marry,” he said.

I stared at him, slack jawed, unable to speak.

“Well, then,” he said at last. “I … suppose…”

“Marry?” I asked.

“Well, yes,” he said. “Marry.”

I found myself awash in emotions—love, fear, excitement, trepidation—and utterly without words to express any of them. “Tom … I … I don't know.”

Tom laughed, and to my relief it was warm and genuine. “I know. You are a twice-widowed gentlewoman-spy, playing a poor midwife at the behest of a man you despise, who also happens to be my master. You do not know where—or even who!—you will be in a month's time. You do not know what kind of husband I would be or, after all these years, what kind of wife
you
would be. You have been your own mistress for nearly a decade, and you have no desire to become any man's woman. Yet here I am, talking of marriage.”

I stared at Tom, wishing some kind of answer would come to me. I finally settled for, “Yes, that sums it up.”

Tom laughed again. “And I will not have your answer today, for it is not an easy question. But know this, Bridget Hodgson: I love who you are, and I would never seek to change that.”

Without warning, the most extraordinary mix of laughter and tears burst forth, washing away whatever words I might have been able to summon in response. I fell against him, still laughing and crying, and he wrapped me in his arms until I regained myself.

I looked up and found that Tom had been crying as well. I leaned forward to kiss him. “I will consider it,” I said. “I love you.”

Tom and I left the inn together and bid each other farewell once we were outside. I returned to the Cheap, my head still wobbling from all that had happened in the hours since I'd left Enoch Harrison's house. As I approached Watling Street I prepared myself to be interrogated by Mrs. Evelyn and Martha in case either of them realized that I'd been out all night. Indeed, Mrs. Evelyn stood in her doorway, with one eye on her shop and the other on the street.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hodgson,” she called out when she saw me. “What drew you abroad last night? Were you at a travail?”

I knew better than to lie to such an inquisitive woman. If I said I'd been at a birth, she would overwhelm me with questions I could not hope to answer: Where was the birth? Who was the mother? Which gossips attended? How did they comport themselves? How is the child? I did not resent her prying, for it was the work of gossips to mind their neighbors and ensure good order. But that did not mean I wanted my night with Tom Reynolds to become the talk of the Cheap.

“Nothing so interesting, I'm afraid,” I said. “I was with my nephew until late, and I did not wish to walk home at night, not by myself. It was so cold, and the city is not as safe as it once was.”

Mrs. Evelyn accepted my explanation—what reason did she have to doubt it?—but I knew that any future early morning walks home would not pass unnoticed or uncommented upon.

I climbed the stairs hoping Martha had not yet returned from Lucy Sheldon's travail. The banked coals in the hearth told me she hadn't. I said a prayer of thanks, for Martha would have been much harder to fool than Mrs. Evelyn. I would tell her the truth eventually, but I wanted it to be on my own terms rather than at the end of an interrogation.

Martha arrived shortly after I did, exhausted by the travail and weaving from side to side from the drinking she must have done after. “It was nothing out of the ordinary,” she said as she stripped off her skirts and fell into bed. “But it was her first child, and the gossips were very merry. They made me stay until the wine was finished.”

I nodded in sympathy. Midwives were counted among the best of gossips, but such an honor came with a whole host of obligations. Within moments Martha was snoring softly. My body demanded that I join her so I might recover the sleep I'd lost the night before, but instead I settled at our table and let my mind wander over the previous day's events.

My first thoughts, of course, were about Tom, the night we'd spent together, and his suggestion that we marry. I'd spoken the truth when I said I loved him, but his description of my misgivings about marriage had been entirely correct. I'd been born Bridget Baskerville, spent a blissful year as Bridget Thurgood, and became Bridget Hodgson upon marrying Phineas. If I married Tom—if I became Bridget Reynolds—what would that mean? I believed Tom when he said that he would not try to change me, but marriages were uncertain endeavors; I knew full well what I had in my widowhood, and abandoning that certainty would be no easy thing. I buried my face in my hands and, overcome by fatigue and the future's uncertainty, allowed myself to weep. When I stopped, I crawled into bed next to Martha, closed my eyes, and was asleep in moments.

I had only been asleep for an hour or so when shouting from the street dragged me to wakefulness. I went to the window to see what was the matter, but by the time I arrived the combatants had moved on. Thanks to the wine, Martha had slept through the tumult, and I was alone. I returned to bed, but sleep eluded me.

After a half hour or so, I gave up and went to the parlor. Thoughts of Tom pushed their way into my head, but I denied them; I did not want the tears to return. Instead, I surveyed the bloody landscape that Daniel Chidley's killer had laid before us and considered Enoch Harrison's place in it. I did not doubt that the same person had killed both men: The single knife wound was as distinctive as the Royal Seal. To my eye, it seemed likely that the murderer was a part of the Royalist faction, or at least had been hired by one of the King's men. The theft of the gunpowder would not only hurt Parliament's forces, but could supply a rising within England—a double victory for Prince Charles if he did indeed cross the Channel. If Daniel Chidley had somehow learned of the conspiracy, the King's men would not have hesitated to kill him. What was one murder if your goal was to start a war?

But what of the Levellers? If Lilburne's men in the army truly did intend to rise against Parliament's tyranny, they would need the powder as well. And they would be no less likely to kill their enemies.

So, Royalist or Leveller? Or had I missed some other murderous faction? My mind returned to Mr. Marlowe—could he have reasons of his own for seeing both men dead?

I could find no answer for any of these questions and resolved to speak to Katherine Chidley. After all, she had helped to set Martha and me on this course. I wrote a note to Martha telling her I would be across the street, then set out in search of answers to our many questions.

 

Chapter 18

I found Katherine in her parlor. She rose and greeted me warmly, but it took her only a moment to realize that there was more to my visit than mere friendship.

“What brings you here?” Katherine asked. “You have news?”

“Aye,” I said. “Daniel's murderer has killed again.”

“What?” A man's voice from behind startled me nearly out of my shoes. I spun around to find Jeremiah Goodkey staring at me, his eyes wide in surprise.

“How so?” Katherine cried. “How is it possible?”

“And how do you know it's the same man?” Goodkey seemed alarmed at the prospect. “Has he been captured?”

I stammered for a moment, trying to find a way
not
to tell Goodkey everything I'd learned, but I knew that I could not make such an announcement and then refuse to say anything more. With no other choice, I told them about Enoch Harrison: that he was a merchant murdered the day before by a single knife wound to the heart; that the murderer had killed so quickly that Harrison could not react. I finished my story without mentioning the gunpowder. If Goodkey was behind the murders, the less he knew about our investigation the better off we'd be.

“How did you learn about this murder?” Goodkey asked.

For a moment my heart ceased to beat, for I had no good answer. Why
would
someone summon me—a midwife from the Cheap—to Enoch Harrison's murder?

“A friend's husband,” I said at last. “A woman I delivered is married to a constable. He knew of Daniel's murder and saw the similarity to Mr. Harrison's. He summoned me.” I knew my story was as thin as year-old linen and would raise more questions than I could hope to answer. I held my breath as Goodkey considered my reply, and said a prayer of thanks when he declined to press me any further.

“It seems that Daniel's death is part of a larger and more dangerous scheme than anyone thought,” Goodkey said at last. He paused for a moment. “Katherine, I am worried that if you continue mining this vein some ill might befall you. It would be safer if you left this matter to the magistrates.”

“What do you mean, Jeremiah Goodkey?” Katherine asked. The steel in her voice made it abundantly clear that not only did she know what he meant, but it vexed her to no end. In that moment I almost pitied him.

“You face a practiced and expert killer,” Goodkey said. He grimaced as if the act of speaking caused him physical pain. “If you pursue him too closely he could turn his attention to you. He killed Daniel and this Enoch Harrison. What chance would you have against him? You could be dead by morning.”