The Midwife's Tale (26 page)

“Is she still at the shop?” I asked, my heart racing. If Anne was right about the Hookes, she would need as much help as she could get.

“No,” she said, looking even more miserable. “She heard voices from down the street and before I could stop her, she ran off. She was so scared. I didn’t know where to turn except you. What can we do?” I looked at Martha, and she shook her head. I had no answers, either.

“Where might she have gone?”

“I don’t know. She only said a few words before she fled. What am I going to do?” Tears coursed down her cheeks, and my heart ached on her behalf. The fear of losing your only child endured even after she had grown.

“You should go home,” I said. “If she came to you once, she might come back. If she does, hide her there, and send for me immediately. Tell her that I can protect her from the Hookes. And if we learn anything, we will tell you right away.”

Margaret wiped at her tears and nodded. I knew it was not a satisfying answer, but given the situation, it was the only one I had. I embraced Margaret at the door and returned to the parlor, where Martha waited.

“Rebecca Hooke is a murderer?” Martha said. “Could she have murdered Stephen Cooper?”

“Stephen Cooper, or the infant in Coneystreet. I have no idea. The Lord knows she’s vicious enough to kill Stephen and the child both.”

“Now what do we do?” she asked.

I looked out the window at the lengthening shadows. It would do no good to go in search of Anne tonight. “There is little we can do except wait and pray that we find Anne before the Hookes do.”

*   *   *

I awoke the next morning to the church bells calling the city’s residents to worship. With one of Sergeant Smith’s guards in the lead, Martha, Hannah, and I walked down Stonegate toward St. Helen’s for the morning service. I am ashamed to admit that I let my mind wander from the service. I stood, sat, and knelt with the rest of the congregation, but I paid no attention to the priest’s words. Soon enough, he dismissed us for the morning, and we filed out of the church.

I stopped at the corner of Stonegate and pulled Hannah aside. “I need you to go to Micklegate and find Will. He will probably be at his father’s. Tell him I need his assistance this afternoon and evening.”

“If he asks why, what shall I say?”

“Tell him I need his protection.” I knew this would please him and perhaps repair some of the damage done by our argument. “Martha and I will attend christenings this afternoon. One of the guards will accompany Martha, and I’d like Will to escort me.” She nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

When we arrived at my home, Martha went to her work, and I retired to the parlor. My eyes fell on a box of checkstones sitting on the shelf. I picked up the box and slid my fingers along its edges as tears slid down my cheeks. When Birdy was alive, we had played every Sunday after the morning service. Our last game was less than a week before she died. I bested her, but not by much, and I knew that soon she would beat me handily. Or at least that had been my hope. I was saying a prayer of thanks when Will’s appearance at the door pulled me from my melancholy.

“You have two guards now!” he said as he strode into the parlor. “Has something happened, or are you recruiting an army of your own?” I knew he was using the joke to avoid talking about our quarrel, but I would not let him.

“Will, I’m sorry for what I said after we left Mr. Yeoman’s.”

Will abandoned his pretense, and tears welled in his eyes. “I am sorry, too, Aunt Bridget. You know I love you.”

“And I love you as my own son. But you cannot judge yourself through the eyes of men like Charles Yeoman, and I would account you much less a man if you did so.”

“I know, Aunt Bridget.”

“And just because someone is a woman, that does not mean she cannot be your match in many ways. You’d be better off marrying a spirited woman like … like Martha, than a sheep like Esther.”

“Like Martha?” he asked. “You want me to marry your servant?”

“You know what I mean,” I said. “Someone
like
her. She’ll tell you when you are wrong, but you’ll be better for it.”

“What about Uncle Phineas?” he asked, knowing full well that Phineas and I had fought like cats, and in all our years he’d never been better for it.

“Never you mind Phineas,” I said. “But remember that no matter what I said, I do not think you are like Charles Yeoman, Will. He is a hard, bad man, and you’ve none of his cruelty. That is why I love you.” Will crossed the room to embrace me, and I knew we’d made our peace.

“You still haven’t explained the guards out front,” he said. Now his worry came to the surface. I tried to describe our adventures in the Black Swan in terms that would not disturb him and failed miserably.

“My God, Aunt Bridget, what have you gotten yourself into? You go out in search of one killer and stumble upon another?”

“Will, it’s not as bad as it sounds,” I protested. “Tom wouldn’t dare come here.”

“Then why did you hire a second guard?”

“Just for safety’s sake,” I said. “It is unlikely he’ll show his face, but I don’t want to take chances.”

“You have to tell my father about this,” he insisted. “He can have the constables start a search for him.”

“If I did that, I might as well send Martha to the gallows myself. Tom would happily perjure himself just to see Martha hanged alongside him.”

“We can worry about that after he’s caught. You can’t risk your life for a maidservant!”

“Be careful, Will,” I said coolly. “She is a member of my household, and has more than earned my loyalty and protection. Whether she is a maidservant or the Queen herself is of no import. This is my household, and I will govern it as I see fit. When the time is right, I will inform your father of the situation, but not yet. You must trust me.”

Will’s face made clear that he did not approve of my decision, but I knew I could trust him not to betray me to his father. “All right,” he said. “But if you’ve already got two men guarding your door, why do you need me?”

“Abigail Stoppard’s son will be christened this afternoon, and I must attend. The gathering afterwards will last late into the night, and I would rather not walk alone. There is an alehouse not far from their home, and you will be able to amuse yourself there, I should think. Come on. We should go now.”

Will and I chatted amiably during the walk to St. Mary, Castlegate. The Stoppards’ home sat just north of Clifford’s Tower, only a few houses away from St. Mary’s church. Abigail’s husband, Abraham, invited me in, and Will disappeared to the alehouse. Inside, three servants worked feverishly to prepare the house for the gathering that would follow the ceremony. I saw them putting up meat pies, roasted fowl, and many bottles of wine. Abraham was an attorney in service to the Crown and had done well for himself in recent years. Today he would christen his firstborn son, and he planned to use the occasion to announce his wealth to all in attendance. I followed him to the lying-in room, where Abigail lay in bed, holding the squalling baby boy, surrounded by five or six of her friends. I had delivered her three weeks earlier and was pleased that both she and the child were in good health.

“Lady Bridget,” Abigail called out, “come see the baby!”

I crossed the room and took the boy into my arms. He continued to wail, so I reached into my pocket for the silver rattle I had brought as a christening present and slipped it into his tiny hand. He gave it a vigorous shake and so surprised himself with the noise that he stopped crying. “Ah, the best present yet,” said Abigail. “He’s been crabby for the better part of the afternoon. All the coming and going woke him early from his nap.” I rocked the baby for a bit while the other women continued to talk. Soon enough, a serving-maid entered and announced that it was time to go to church.

“Where is the christening sheet?” I asked Abigail.

“I’ll get it,” she said as she climbed out of bed and opened an elegant wooden chest. She produced a pure white gown made of the finest silk and lace I’d seen in some months. Together we laid the boy in the gown and buttoned it up the front before handing him to one of the other gossips.

“What name do you want me to give him?” I asked.

“We’ve decided to name him Charles,” she said. In the midst of a war such as ours, a baby’s name could signal the parents’ political opinions. The year before, a family announced their support for the Puritanical religion and Parliamentary government by asking me to name their son The-Lord-Is-Near. To this day I wonder what the poor boy’s friends call him. In naming their son Charles, the Stoppards made a public show of their support for the King.

“Who are the other godparents?”

“We’ve chosen Abraham’s brother and his wife—they should arrive shortly. The other godfather is going to be your brother, Edward.” I raised an eyebrow. Securing Edward as a godfather would bind the Stoppards to the Hodgsons for years to come; it was quite an accomplishment. “I know, I know,” she continued, amazed at their good fortune. “I wasn’t sure Abraham should even ask, but he did, and Alderman Hodgson agreed. We’re quite excited.”

“You know he supports Parliament, don’t you?” I asked. It seemed odd that they would name their son after the King and at the same time ask Edward to serve as godparent.

“Abraham thought it best to make as many friends as possible. Only the Lord knows how the war will end. Someday Mr. Hodgson might be able to help us, or we might be able to help him.” I couldn’t argue with Abraham’s thinking. While I favored the King, it did not diminish my love for Edward.

As the company prepared to depart, I embraced Abigail, took the child in my arms, and stepped into the street. I walked at the front of the procession, holding young Charles high so that all passersby could see him. We reached the church as the rest of the congregation filed in, and Abraham led us to the pew reserved for the christening party. Edward had arrived already and smiled broadly when he saw me. Abraham’s brother and sister-in-law followed me into the pew. I held the child and did my best to keep him quiet during the main part of the service. After the final prayer, the priest called us forward, and using a gilt dipper, he baptized Charles and bade us return to our seats.

When I neared the pew the baby started to wail, so I retreated down the aisle and out of the church. Once on the street, I stopped and looked up into the clear afternoon sky. In the distance I heard the rebel cannons firing and the Castle’s guns firing back. The beauty of the day mocked our human cruelties, and I wondered what role Charles would play in future dramas.

I heard footsteps and turned to find two of the other gossips who had followed me out of the church. They came over to see the baby, who had quieted a bit. “He probably would like to get back to his mother,” volunteered one of the women. I agreed, and the three of us started back to the Stoppards’. When we arrived, Abigail was in the front parlor directing the servants as they made the final preparations for the army of guests who would soon arrive. As soon as we entered, she scooped Charles out of my arms and held him close. It was the longest the two had ever been apart, so I could hardly blame her.

“How was the service?” she asked. “He didn’t cry, did he?”

“He did fine,” I said with a smile. “He was done with the service before the priest was.”

She laughed. “Mr. Addison does love the sound of his own voice. The service will be done soon. I should feed him before the guests arrive.” We followed her into her lying-in room, and she sat on the bed and put the child to her breast.

A few minutes later, we heard the front door open, followed by the cheerful voices of the Stoppards’ guests. The door to the lying-in room burst open, and Abigail’s gossips flooded in, chattering enthusiastically. Some came over to greet Abigail or see the baby, others made their way straight for the food and drink. I saw no reason to wait and helped myself to a plate of roast goose, venison, cheese, and a custard, all accompanied by a glass of strong red wine. After she finished feeding Charles, Abigail passed him along to a serving-maid, who took him upstairs to a quieter bedchamber.

It was a good decision, for as the women became heated with wine, the conversation grew louder and the laughter many times more raucous. As always, the talk at a christening party turned to childbirth, and the company soon called upon me to tell the story of how Martha had emptied Elizabeth Wood’s bedroom of drunken gossips. The crowd scolded the unruly women who would disturb a woman in travail and laughed uproariously as I told of Martha dragging their ringleader from the room by her ears. As more guests arrived, they demanded I tell the story again, and I must admit that with each telling, the women became more unruly and Martha’s actions more violent and valiant. I was grateful that nobody mentioned the health of the child.

As the hours passed and we drank our way through the Stoppards’ excellent wine, other women told their own tales, each one with its heroines and villains. I found myself more than a little pleased when the talk turned to Rebecca and Richard Hooke. “Tell us, Lady Hodgson,” urged Abigail, “how is it that such a womanish man could get such a mannish woman with child? Or did Rebecca sire the child on Richard?” The women roared, and I joined them. Without warning, the image of Anne Goodwin, alone and frightened somewhere in the city, leapt to my mind. The laughter died in my throat. I summoned a servant and replenished my wine.

“Lady Hodgson,” called Mary Horton, rescuing me from my own dark thoughts, “tell me—is there a sworn midwife in All Saints, Pavement?”

“Dorothy Mann is licensed,” I said after a moment. “Why do you ask, Mary? Are you with child? Your husband must be … surprised.” We women laughed long and loud at the prospect, and Mary joined us. She had two grown daughters and three grandchildren—her childbearing days had ended long ago.

“No, it is not me, but not for lack of trying,” she fairly shouted, while at the same time making an astonishingly lewd gesture with a sausage. I can only imagine what the men in the next room must have thought at the laughter that followed. “In truth,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek, “I have heard that one of the parish’s maidens is pregnant, a poor, silly serving-maid. After what happened in Coneystreet, I want to make sure that women are there to witness the birth and ensure no harm comes to the child.”