The Midwife's Tale (8 page)

“What do you mean, you won’t tell?” challenged one woman, drunk and surly. We all were in our cups by this time, and the women became frustrated with Mary’s obstinacy. Gossiping made for good neighbors, but only when done well—one could not promise to reveal secrets and then renege.

“There’s no servant at all,” called out another guest. “Or perhaps there is, and it’s
your
servant who is with child.” The women were quite taken with this idea and prepared to make Mary the object of their cruel sport. If the game continued, she would be forced to expel her maidservant just to maintain her own reputation. Luckily for Mary, our hostess intervened, taking her arm and steering her into the kitchen. The company quickly lost interest in Mary’s story and set their sights on a neighborhood widow who had just married a younger man. I followed Susan and Mary into the kitchen.

“Susan,” I said, “I need to speak with Mary in private.” She nodded and slipped back into the parlor with the other women. I crossed the room and put my hands on Mary’s shoulders. “Mary, as a midwife, I must know the name of the servant who is with child.” To my surprise, her eyes filled with fear. “Mary,
she
is the one who has sinned against God. You are not in trouble—tell me her name.”

“I … I said too much already,” she stammered. “I am not even sure that she is with child. Please.”

Now my curiosity was piqued, and I continued to press her. I grasped her wrists, leaned close to look into her eyes. To my surprise, she seemed on the verge of tears. What was going on?

“Of course you can’t be sure. But it is my responsibility to investigate rumors such as this. If I am going to do that, I need you to tell me the name.” She tried to free herself, but I squeezed her wrists all the harder. “Mary, you must tell me.” I squeezed again and she cried out in pain.

“All right,” she said at last. “But you must promise never to tell anyone that you heard it from me.” I nodded. “It is Anne Goodwin, Margaret Goodwin’s daughter.” I continued to look at her. I knew Margaret—her husband, Daniel, was a poor cobbler in St. John del Pyke, north of the Minster—but I could sense that it was not the Goodwins who frightened her.

“Go on,” I said.

“She is maidservant to Richard Hooke.” Ah, I thought, now I see. Richard Hooke was not a man who usually inspired this kind of fear, but his wife, Rebecca, was made of stronger and more vicious stuff than he. Indeed, Rebecca was the most powerful and malevolent woman I’d ever had the misfortune to encounter. If the devil ever chose to take human form, he would do well to study Rebecca Hooke beforehand. Though none would say so aloud, it was whispered that she was the illegitimate child of a maidservant seduced by her master. But thanks to her natural guile and (I must admit) her astonishing beauty, she had overcome this stain and found a rich husband. In many ways, her Richard had much in common with my Phineas. Both men came from wealthy families, and both lacked any inclination to think for themselves. In the end, this reluctance to think was probably for the best, as neither had any brains to speak of. Richard did as Rebecca told him, blissfully unaware that the growth in his political influence and family fortune was entirely her doing. Rebecca ruthlessly pursued power on behalf of both her weakling husband and her even weaker son, James. Rebecca gave birth to James soon—
too
soon, according to some—after she married Richard. Some said she had
wanted
Richard to get her with child so she could coerce him into marrying her. Others went further and said she had bewitched him. Whatever the case, James took after his father in every way. Even as a boy, he’d been accounted little more than a common idiot, and he’d not improved with time.

Given the men with whom she had been saddled, Rebecca had to go to great lengths to advance her family’s fortunes. Her favored weapon was gossip, which she sought out with little concern for its veracity and used ruthlessly to destroy those who stood in her path. This was why Mary had been so reluctant to speak. If Rebecca suspected Mary of spreading the rumors about her maidservant, Mary’s reputation would be in tatters by morning. I considered how best to proceed when I heard a cry from the parlor followed by the breaking of glass. I hurried in and found the women staring in shock at a late-arriving gossip. Susan Dobson leaned on the edge of a table, surrounded by broken glass and red wine. I turned to the gossip nearest me, seeking an explanation.

“Esther Cooper has been arrested for the murder of her husband,” she breathed. “She’ll be tried tomorrow and executed within days.”

This news transformed the company’s spirits. Until now, gossiping about Stephen Cooper’s murder entailed flights of fancy. They had imagined a foreign assassin stealing into the house and slipping the poison into his cup. They wondered if a business rivalry had gone too far or if Cooper had been murdered by his highborn mistress. In every case, Esther had been a bystander, grieving at her husband’s death but in no way responsible. They had even imagined a future for her—she was young, pretty, and wealthy. She could remarry if she chose or enjoy a long and prosperous widowhood. But now she stood accused of petty treason.

I listened in horror as the company of women turned against her. Within minutes of the news, the women invented much darker explanations for Stephen’s death, and with each telling Esther became more villainous. One woman said that
Esther
had taken a younger lover when her husband couldn’t satisfy her. Another argued that she had succumbed to the temptations of Satan himself, and a third claimed that she had bewitched Stephen before murdering him. The last struck too close to home by suggesting that Esther blamed Stephen for her miscarriages and wanted to be shut of a husband with such weak seed. But in the minds of these women, the explanation for her actions became secondary to the enormity of her crime. This was not a crime of passion, but deliberate and cold-blooded murder, and one that threatened all order. If wives murdered their husbands, servants would soon kill their masters—or mistresses. The women said she would be lucky to escape with hanging but hoped that she would be burned. When such slander began, I tried to remind the women that Esther was a friend, but I spoke too late. Once they turned on Esther, there was nothing I could do to save her reputation.

Powerless to stop such loose talk, I slipped from the room and started for home.

Chapter 6

That night I lay in bed for many hours considering the day’s events. My mind first went to Esther Cooper’s plight, for hers was the most dire. I did not for a moment believe that she had murdered her husband, and the discovery of a vial of poison in her chamber did little to change my mind. Who knew when it had been put there? In a busy household such as the Coopers’, any number of guests or servants could have hidden it. But I could not see any way to help her. She was in gaol, and in the morning the Lord Mayor would have his trial. It seemed clear that the only possible result of such a farcical proceeding would be conviction and execution. I prayed to the Lord that Esther would somehow avoid the terrible fate that seemed so near. I also considered how I might address the rumors that Anne Goodwin was with child. Rebecca Hooke would never allow me to question her, for even raising the issue would bring shame on her household. But I knew that Anne’s mother, Margaret, lived in the city and resolved to speak to her first. If she knew of her daughter’s condition, she might convince Anne to slip away from her mistress and talk to me.

In the morning, I found Martha in better spirits, and with only a little coaxing she agreed to accompany me to meet Margaret Goodwin. The Goodwins lived on the northern edge of the city, in St. John del Pyke, one of York’s poorest parishes. Martha and I walked up Stonegate and the Minster towers came into view, bathed in sunlight. Even after years living in the city, I was struck by the majesty of the cathedral, and I said a prayer that the Lord would see it safely through our wars. The so-called godly complained so long and loud about the beauty of churches, I sometimes wondered if they might be of a different, more barbaric stock than most Englishmen. I was no Papist, but I could not see God becoming enraged over a stained-glass window, silver candlesticks, or a brass reading desk. I shuddered to think what fate awaited the Minster and our parish churches if the fever-brained rebels and their schismatic preachers took control of the city. We turned southeast at the Minster and wound our way through the city’s narrow streets until we reached the square tower of Holy Trinity Church. I pointed it out to Martha.

“I thought Holy Trinity was on the other side of the Ouse, past your brother’s house,” she said.

“York has so many churches, they had to share names,” I said with a laugh. “This one is Holy Trinity, Goodramgate, the other Holy Trinity, Micklegate.” She nodded, and I continued. “There are three parishes called All Saints, two each named after St. Helen, St. Michael, St. Martin, and St. Mary.” She shook her head in wonder. “If you pay attention to the neighborhood they are in, you won’t get
too
lost.”

“Where I grew up, we made do with just the one church.” She smiled, and I laughed again, relieved that she had recovered from the previous day’s fright. Martha thought for a moment and then became serious. “Hannah said that you had children,” she said.

Her directness took me unawares, and I swallowed hard before answering. “I had two children, both from Phineas. I had a baby boy named Michael. He was born just after I buried Phineas. He died soon after.”

“And the picture in the hall—is that your daughter?”

I knew the question was coming, but a second a wave of sadness rose up in my breast and I fought to hold back my tears. “That is Bridget. We called her Birdy. She died too.” I started to say more but worried that my voice would break. A gentlewoman could hardly be seen sobbing in the middle of a city street.

Martha stopped and turned toward me, taking my hands. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. It is a terrible burden.”

“The Lord has His plans,” I said. “It is not our place to question His will.”

To my surprise, a bark of laughter escaped Martha’s lips. “Begging your pardon, but that is so much shit,” she said. “The Lord has His plans? My God, what nonsense!”

“Martha!” I cried, aghast at her blasphemy.

“I’m sorry, my lady, but I’ve seen many things in this world, and God’s plan is not among them. God wanted your baby to die?
That
is His plan? If so…” Her voice trailed off, leaving even more profane thoughts unsaid. I cannot say that I hadn’t had similar ideas and I wondered how Martha had come to such awful conclusions. I knew I should pursue the matter and convince her of God’s goodness, but with Birdy’s death still hanging in the air, I could not do so. Martha rescued us from the silence. “Is that why you became a midwife?” she asked. “Because of your son?”

“Lord, no,” I said. “It takes longer than that to learn the business. I had helped deliver a few women before I came to York, and Phineas’s mother took me on as her deputy when I arrived. When she died, many of her patients came to me.” I paused for a moment, considering her question. “But it is true that I have taken on more clients since Birdy died. The house is so quiet. I’d rather be among my gossips.”

We turned onto the narrow street where Daniel Goodwin had his shop. He greeted us when we entered, surprised that I would come to see him in person. I saw that his apron was torn in places and his trousers were fraying. He was perhaps fifty years old, so the lines on his face were not out of place, but his eyes had a haunted expression more common in beggars than shopkeepers. Clearly the siege had not been good for business. He was located near the Monk Bar and for years had profited from the traffic passing through that gate, but with the siege, that traffic had stopped. At the moment, he was working to repair a laborer’s boot, but the bare shelves behind him announced that he would soon be done for the day. It would be a lean month unless the siege ended soon.

“My lady,” he said. “It is an honor. Do you require my services?”

“Mr. Goodwin,” I replied. “It is good to see you. No business at the moment. I need to speak to your wife.” He could not hide his disappointment. I knew he would not accept charity, so I resolved to send Hannah back that afternoon with some of our older shoes and an order for a new pair.

“Of course,” he said. “Margaret,” he called out. “Lady Hodgson is here, and would like to speak to you.” I heard an exclamation and then the clatter of footsteps as she hurried down the stairs and into the shop.

“Lady Hodgson, how are you?” she asked. She was a bit younger than her husband, but her life had been no easier. Her clothes were fading from repeated washing and her plain coif had been mended in many places, but her eyes showed none of the desperation I saw in Daniel’s. While I had come to York after Margaret’s childbearing years had ended, I knew her as a gossip from the delivery and churching of other city women.

“I am well, thank you,” I said, and got right to the reason for my visit. “I wish this were a social call, but I am here about your daughter.” She cast her eyes downward briefly.

“Aye,” she said. “When I saw you, I thought that might be the case. Well, come up, then. We should not discuss such matters in the shop.”

Martha and I followed her through the kitchen that lay behind the workshop and up the stairs to the small rooms where she and Daniel lived. Their furnishings showed the Goodwins to be poor but dedicated to a respectable lifestyle. Three stools and a single chair sat around the trestle table in the front parlor. They were simple but solidly made, and I did not see a speck of dust in the room.

“I’d send out for something to drink,” she said, “but we’ve no help in the shop anymore. We had to let go our journeyman because of the siege. There is just no work.”

“That’s quite all right,” I said. “We won’t be long. Tell me about your daughter.” At this, her face fell. I think she had hoped we would spend a few minutes talking about the news of the town. Anything, even the murder of Stephen Cooper, would be better than to dwell on her daughter’s misfortune. “They say that she is with child,” I continued. “If that’s true, I can help her, but only if she cooperates with me. We can obtain an order from the court—the father will have to support the child.”