The Midwife's Tale (14 page)

“After we buried Mrs. Holdsworth, my courses stopped. I told myself it was an excess of wind or water, and that my body would be right soon enough. But I knew that I was with child. The prospect was so terrible I hid it as best I could. I started bundling up my skirts and wearing a cloak even when the weather did not require it. Nobody suspected.”

“What did Mr. Holdsworth say?”

“I never told the swine,” she said. “I knew he would call me a whore and turn me out of his house. I would have wandered from parish to parish, and soon enough I would have been reduced to the whore he had tried to make me. When my time approached, I slipped into the woods not far from Mr. Holdsworth’s house. There I gave birth to a boy, dead.

“Ah, how I cried,” she continued. “He never drew a breath or saw my face, but I loved that child. But you know this pain, too.” Here, Martha’s mask slipped, and I saw the grief she still felt for her lost child, a grief I knew all too well. I nodded, fighting my own tears. “I wrapped him in a piece of linen I stole from Mr. Holdsworth, blessed my boy, and then buried him deep so the animals couldn’t get him.

“Do you know what I did the afternoon after I buried my baby? I went back to work washing and mending Mr. Holdsworth’s breeches. Such was my lot. The next day was the Sabbath, and Mr. Holdsworth took me to divine service. The minister said servants should obey their masters as they would God Himself. When we got home, Mr. Holdsworth repeated the sermon and then troubled me again. After that I lost interest in what the priests had to say about God. If God wanted Mr. Holdsworth to rape me, then I’ve no interest in Him or His plans.”

At that moment, my mind returned to the conversation we’d had as we’d walked to Margaret Goodwin’s house. I remembered her reaction when I told her of losing Michael and Birdy and her scorn at my suggestion that the death of my babies had been a part of God’s plan. Now I understood both her sympathy for me and her wrath toward God. I also knew that she was telling me the truth. The look in her eyes as she told me of her son’s death was the same one she’d had when we’d talked of my lost children. While she might be an accomplished dissembler, no woman could lie so convincingly about the death of her own child.

Martha took a breath, and her face hardened. I did not yet know what had happened to her master, but I knew that fate had not been kind. “That day Mr. Holdsworth must have realized I had a child, and for a time he left me in peace. But he never asked what happened, and I hated him for it. It was during this respite that I found my escape from Mr. Holdsworth. One afternoon, he sent me to deliver five pounds he was loaning to a neighbor. As I passed a hedgerow I heard a familiar voice call my name.”

“Tom,” I said.

“He’d returned from the wars the very picture of health—another part of God’s plan, I suppose,” she said with a sneer. “He told me that he’d done his best for God, and now he would do his worst for himself. Without warning, he tore the coins from my hands. ‘Well, you’ve done it now,’ he said. ‘You’ve become a thief just like me.’

“I protested that I had done no such thing, but even then I knew the truth didn’t matter. Mr. Holdsworth would beat me within an inch of my life for losing such a sum no matter what happened. Tom had made sure I could never go back even if I wanted to. Then he offered to take me with him on the road. He said he needed an assistant to replace the pocky wench they’d hanged in London.”

“You went with him willingly?” I asked, aghast.

“I promised to tell the truth, and I will.” Her voice took on a harder edge. “But tell me, my lady, if I had come to you then and asked you what I should do, what would you have said? Would you have sent me back to Mr. Holdsworth to tell him that I’d been robbed by my own brother? The
best
I could hope for would be a whipping. Would you have told me to return to that goat and his lechery? He’d have raped me again and again, and soon enough I’d have become pregnant. Would you have asked me to do that? Would you have asked me to lose another child, or be turned out of his house as a whore?” To my relief she did not wait for me to answer, for none presented itself. “No, my lady,” she continued, “it was far better to go with Tom than to suffer for Mr. Holdsworth’s sins. I know many would say my decision was wrong, that I should have gone back. And I know that I could still hang for my crimes. But I had no choice, and I have no regrets.” I nodded. While I could not condone her decision to become her brother’s accomplice, I could understand it.

“As we walked away from my former life, Tom sang the praises of life as an outlaw: ‘I’ll show you how to rob a man blind without him knowing it, and how to kill him if he finds out. When I’m done with you, you’ll be able to pick locks and pockets. You will follow a man without being seen, and break into his house without making a sound. Ah, Martha, there are great and terrible things ahead of you, and I will make them possible.’

“Whatever his faults,” Martha continued, “when it came to teaching thievery, Tom was as good as his word, and soon I surpassed him in all his crimes. At the time, it seemed like a grand adventure, for there is nothing quite as exciting as sneaking about a man’s home when he is asleep. Tom took great pride in stealing from the rich, and I told myself that we had greater need of money than the people we robbed. For a time we were fortunate, too, and nobody got hurt. My sin was far less than Mr. Holdsworth’s.”

I took a deep breath. “Martha, I have to ask you this, though I fear the answer more than you can know.”

“You want to know if I ever killed anyone.” I nodded. “No, my lady, I never did. At the time I thought it was because we were careful, that Tom tried to avoid situations that could lead to murder. But soon enough I saw that it was simple luck that kept my hands free from blood.”

“Soon enough?” I asked with trepidation. “Do you mean Mr. Holdsworth?”

She nodded. “But even before that awful night, I began to search for a way to escape from Tom. We had tested our luck too many times. I knew that soon it would run out, and we would hang. But I did not know where I would escape to. I realized that my only hope was to take the money that Tom and I had stolen together and strike out on my own. I made a plan that would get me my money, my freedom, and, best of all, revenge on Mr. Holdsworth. But with Tom, even the best plans end in blood.

“My plan was simple. I convinced Tom to rob Mr. Holdsworth. Once we had his store of coins, I would knock Tom on the head to then take the money for myself. The loss of his money would hurt Mr. Holdsworth more than anything, and I was determined to deal that blow. Tom is a greedy soul, and readily agreed to the plan. We returned to Hereford, and while I remained in a nearby town, Tom watched Mr. Holdsworth’s house to make sure that everything was as I’d said. A few days later he returned, and I could tell from the look in his eye that it was.

“That night, Tom and I walked quickly through the fields and forests to Mr. Holdsworth’s house. From my time in service, I knew the surest paths and which ones would be deserted at night. When we arrived, the house was dark and the doors locked tight. But I knew that he had refused to replace the broken lock on a narrow kitchen window. I would squeeze through the window and let Tom in the front door. The money was on the first floor in a small room protected by heavy oak door. It was made to withstand hours of battering, but our plan did not involve breaking it down.

“I waited for clouds to pass over the moon and raced from the woods to the house. I eased open the broken window and slipped in. As always, the keys to the back door hung on a nail in the buttery. I opened the door, and Tom, moving more like a shadow than a man, crossed to the door that stood between us and our prize. He took his tools from his pocket and went to work on the lock. He was as good a burglar as you’d want to meet, but this lock was more than his match. After a half an hour he looked at me, his eyes ablaze. I could tell he was ready to charge upstairs and demand the key from Mr. Holdsworth at knifepoint. I did my best to calm him, and took the tools from his hands. The lock was tough, but after ten minutes’ work, it clicked open. Tom was first through the door. He stopped short with a soft cry, and I pushed past him. The room was completely empty. The only sign of its former use was an iron ring in the wall to which his cash box had once been chained.

“Tom turned to me, and demanded where the money had gone. His fury was something to behold. I could do nothing except shake my head, for I had no idea what had gone wrong. Tom drew his dagger and charged up the stairs. I knew that Mr. Holdsworth wouldn’t be any match for Tom, so I waited below. I could imagine the scene: Mr. Holdsworth would awake to the tip of Tom’s knife pressing into his throat, perhaps drawing a little blood. Tom would ask him if he preferred his life or his wealth. I hoped Mr. Holdsworth would have the good sense to tell Tom where the money was. A few minutes later I heard Tom shouting and I knew that Mr. Holdsworth had refused. Then I heard a pistol shot from upstairs. I started up the stairs and froze. Tom wasn’t carrying a pistol that night. I heard bodies crashing about the room, a strangled cry, and the sound of a body falling to the floor. It had to be Tom. I had always known he’d meet a violent end, but never thought it would be at the hands of a man three times his age.”

“It wasn’t Tom’s body,” I said, my heart sinking. “Your brother killed Mr. Holdsworth.”

“When I thought Tom had been shot, I ran for the door. Mr. Holdsworth had no idea that I was in the house, and I thought I could escape. Tom’s voice stopped me, and he called me upstairs. Even before I entered Mr. Holdsworth’s chamber the smell of blood told me all I needed to know. I tried to prepare myself for the scene within, but it was far worse than I imagined. Mr. Holdsworth lay in the corner, his throat slashed so wide his head seemed barely attached. His eyes were still open—he looked surprised. Blood soaked his nightshirt from neck to waist. A pistol lay next to his body, and I saw a hole in the wall. Tom stood at the foot of the bed, surveying the horrible scene and cursing the most horrible oaths. Mr. Holdsworth’s blood soaked his tunic and pants.

“‘The lying rogue said that the money was in his cupboard, and then he turned on me with the pistol,’ he said, kicking Mr. Holdsworth’s corpse in the chest. A thin stream of blood burst from the neck, and landed on Tom’s shoe. He paid it no mind. ‘You shitting fool!’ he shouted at the body.

“I then realized that Tom’s time in Germany had turned him from a ruffian into a murderer, that killing was
always
part of the plan. I cannot say I was sorry for what happened to Mr. Holdsworth—he deserved his death. But at that moment I knew that Tom’s next victim would likely be an innocent, a child who had the misfortune to wake up when Tom was in his room, or perhaps his mother. I knew what I had to do.

“Tom and I searched the house but found no sign of the money. We returned to the hall, and I saw my opportunity to escape. While Tom peered out the window, I picked up the iron poker from the fireplace and called Tom’s name. As he turned, I swung the poker, striking him just above the ear. He fell without a sound, and for better or worse my fate was sealed.

“I used my dagger to cut away his purse. It wasn’t the fortune I’d dreamed of, but it would have to do. I stepped over his body, out the front door, and ran for the forest. Within moments I disappeared into the safety of the woods. I knew the area far better than Tom, and when he awoke covered in Mr. Holdsworth’s blood he would have more immediate concerns than hunting for me. By the time morning came, I had nearly reached Worcester, and had devised the plan that brought me to your door. I found the scrivener who wrote the letter I gave you. The rest is as I told you when I arrived. I came to York, sneaked into the city, and found you here.”

I took a deep breath, trying to absorb all that Martha had told me. But one question remained. “How did Tom find you?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps someone I knew saw me in Worcester and told Tom. But it doesn’t matter now. In the Shambles that day he threatened to kill me for my treachery, but said that I could buy my life if I helped him rob you. I don’t believe him, though. He sees me as a traitor, and will not rest until he kills me himself. I could see the wrath in his eyes.”

“You know that I should call the constable and have him arrest you,” I said.

“That would be the wisest course,” she admitted. “And while I am sorry for many of the things I did, I will not apologize for misleading you. Had I told you the truth on the day I arrived, you would have turned me out in an instant. Then where would I have been? A single woman without protection in the midst of a war? I might as well have walked straight to a brothel and raised my skirts. But the lies I told were without malice. I have never hurt you, and never will. You have been more loyal to me than anyone I’ve known. You protected me when I needed your help, and I am in your debt. If you give me the chance, I will repay you.”

“I must think more about this,” I said. “Go to your chamber and wait there.” She curtsied and left without another word.

I sat for a time, considering what Martha had said, and what I should do about her. Obviously the prudent course would be to summon the constable or at the very least to send her away immediately. By her own admission, she was a confessed felon, complicit in a murder. And what if she was lying? She could be scheming against me at that very moment. What proof did I have that
she
was not the killer and Tom her dupe? But I could not believe that. It seemed impossible that she invented the story of her son’s death and burial, and I could not imagine that she had turned so quickly from a serving-maid raped by her master into a cold-hearted murderess.

Martha’s story drew my mind to mistakes I had made when I was her age. I knew from the first time I met him that Phineas was a wastrel and an embarrassment to his family, and I knew that I would regret marrying him. But I did so anyway, simply because I was too young and frightened to refuse the match. I had received the gift of a second widowhood not through my own doing, but through the grace of God. Martha had none of my advantages of birth or wealth and had suffered grievously at the hands of the man who was supposed to protect her. What would I have done in her place? The Lord had used Tom to take His vengeance on Samuel Holdsworth. Perhaps He had chosen me to redeem Martha. I would bring her into my home.