The Midwife's Tale (9 page)

She looked up at me and nodded. “She is with child. Or she was. When I last saw her, she said her time was near, but that was several weeks ago. I pray for her nightly, but…” She wiped a tear from her cheek as her voice trailed off.

“Did she tell you who the father is?” I asked.

“She said she couldn’t. She said that making a public declaration would bring too much trouble from Mrs. Hooke.”

“Do you mean that Mrs. Hooke knows of your daughter’s condition?” I asked. Margaret nodded and started to weep. I was surprised Rebecca Hooke knew of the pregnancy, and I did not know what to make of it. Usually, when a maidservant became pregnant, her master or mistress dismissed her, for no respectable householder wanted to be accused of harboring a wanton woman. I put my hand on Margaret’s shoulder to comfort her. “All is not lost,” I said. “I will see what I can do for her. Perhaps after she has the child, she can return here and help in the shop. Surely the siege will be lifted by then.” I looked around their rooms again. There was barely enough for Margaret and her husband; two more mouths to feed could push them onto the poor rolls. I slipped a few coins into Margaret’s hand and then made my way down the stairs, with Martha close behind. We bade Daniel farewell and started back to my house.

I looked over at Martha and saw that she had been holding back tears. I was somewhat surprised at this—she didn’t seem the type to be moved by so common a story. I considered pressuring her to tell me what was wrong, but at that moment a voice called out from behind us. We turned and saw Margaret Goodwin hurrying to catch up to us.

“If you are going to find Anne, let me go with you,” she said as she approached. “She might not talk to you, but if we approach her together, she will tell us who the father is.”

“Good,” I said, and we continued on our way. “You said she never told you who the father was, but could you hazard a guess? Did she have a suitor?”

“No. A few apprentices tried to court her, but Mrs. Hooke is a hard mistress, and would not allow it. She said it would bring shame on the family.”

A harsh laugh escaped my throat. “Given her own family’s mottled history, she is hardly in a position to take such a stance. How does she expect her servants to marry?”

“I don’t think she cares, my lady.” She was probably right.

“If we are to talk to Anne, it will have to be when she is out of the house,” I said. “When Mrs. Hooke sends her out, where does she go? Our best chance is to catch her while she is at the market.”

Margaret thought for a moment. “I usually see her when I am buying butter and cheese. So we should start with those shops.”

Butter and cheese were usually sold in All Saints, Pavement, just beyond the Shambles. As we neared the butcher shops, the stench from the offal littering the gutters struck us with an almost physical force. We passed one shopkeeper who stood knife in hand over a large sow whose throat he had cut moments before. I couldn’t help wondering if it had been his animal or just one that had wandered by his shop at the wrong time. The creature jerked as blood spurted from the wound with every beat of its heart, each one weaker than the last. The butcher stared at us, as if daring us to report him to the authorities for fouling the gutters. None too soon, we emerged from the Shambles and stepped into the market.

“Margaret, you know that I cannot leave your daughter until I learn the truth. If I suspect she is with child, I have to press her until she confesses. It is a hard thing for a mother to see.”

“I’ve questioned women before. I know what it is like.”

My heart went out to the poor woman. No mother wanted to see her daughter in such a situation.

To my surprise, Martha reached out and put her hand on Margaret’s arm. “You are doing the right thing,” she said. “If she kept her condition a secret this long, she likely intended to bear the child in private, and that is a dangerous thing. It is better for Anne and her baby if Lady Hodgson knows the truth.”

Margaret blinked back tears. “Thank you. I just hope we can find her.”

“With God’s help we will,” I said. “You start on that side of the street. If you see Anne, don’t approach her. We should question her together.”

Margaret nodded and disappeared into the crowd. We began to work our way through the market, scanning faces in search of Anne. I was ready to give up when I spied Margaret waving at us. Martha and I hurried over, and she pointed to a shop window. Anne was inside, haggling with the shopkeeper.

“Wait until she comes out, and then follow her,” I told them. “Once she is away from the crowds we will approach her.” They both nodded. I don’t know that this is the kind of work Martha had in mind when she came into my service, but my instructions did not seem to trouble her.

We didn’t have to wait long before Anne came out of the shop and started back toward the Hookes’ home. She carried a basket in front of her belly—no accident that!—so I could not tell whether she was then pregnant or had recently given birth. But I would know soon enough. Martha and I approached Anne from behind and seized her arms, pushing her forward. She let out a surprised cry and struggled briefly. When she saw who I was, her face hardened, but she stopped trying to shake free. I could tell she knew why I had accosted her in such a manner. A few yards ahead lay a small orchard, an ideal place to question her, for there was no exit. Martha and I pulled Anne off the street, and I pushed her against a wall. She looked at me with a mixture of anger and fear.

“What do you want?” she spat. I let her mother speak first.

“Anne, Lady Hodgson knows you’re with child,” she said. “She can help you. She wants the father to answer for what he’s done. Tell her who he is and let her be your midwife.” Something in Anne’s face changed, and for a moment, I thought that Margaret had convinced her daughter to cooperate. She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it. Margaret was on the verge of tears. “Please, Anne. Let her help you.”

“There is no child,” Anne replied through clenched teeth.

“Please,” she said, grasping her daughter’s arms. But the girl pulled away and looked toward the street. I decided that if her mother’s tears did not work, I would try hard questioning. I seized her collar, dragged her farther into the orchard, and held her against the wall.

“Listen to me,” I hissed. “It is well-known among the respectable people of this town that you have behaved in a sluttish fashion, much to your family’s shame. The good people of this city are not going to support your bastard. You will tell me who the father is, and you will confirm it when you are in travail.”

“I’ll tell you nothing.”

“Then I will see for myself,” I said, and started to pull at her skirts to expose her belly. Like most maidens in her situation, she had used her clothes to hide her condition, layering and rolling her skirts, and filling her apron’s pockets with everyday items—a dusting rag, a spare coif, a small apple—anything that would hide her shape.

To my surprise, my assault did not break her will. Rather, she dropped her basket and fought to keep me from finding the truth. She slapped my hands away and kicked out at my legs. Her impudence infuriated me, and I grabbed her by the neck with one hand and raised the other to strike her. I could only imagine what people would say if they saw me (a gentlewoman!) tussling with a servant. Order must be preserved.

I was shocked when Martha stepped between us, and I struck her back rather than Anne’s face. Initially, this only increased my anger, for I could no more have a servant interfere in my work than I could have a maidservant refuse to be examined. If servants were allowed to do as they pleased, soon we would be awash in rebels and bastards both. Before I could strike, Martha grasped Anne’s shoulders and, speaking soft words into her ear, guided her away from me and farther into the orchard. I started after them, intent on rejoining the battle, but Martha looked back over her shoulder, imploring me to give her a moment. I stopped. When Martha reached the back corner of the orchard, she forced Anne to look into her eyes. She then spoke to her in earnest tones too soft for me to hear. Anne shook her head, rejecting whatever Martha had said, but Martha continued to talk. After a few moments, Anne looked up at me with a little less suspicion. She nodded, and the two women made their way toward me and Margaret.

“Anne is willing to confess the truth,” Martha said. I looked at Anne, and she nodded. But before I could continue to press her, an angry voice broke the silence.

“Anne, you stupid bitch, what are you doing? You were supposed to buy butter, and meet me at St. Crux! Who are you talking to?”

I turned and saw an older maidservant striding toward us. Her cold blue eyes and narrow face left one in mind of nothing so much as the executioner’s ax. Unless I missed my guess, she was the head servant in the Hooke household. Ignoring the rest of us, she grabbed Anne’s arm and dragged her out of the orchard. Anne looked desperately over her shoulder at her mother, fear in her eyes. We started after them, but as soon as they were free, the older servant hissed in Anne’s ear and shoved her ahead. I heard only a part of what she said, but her final words were clear: “Mrs. Hooke will hear of this.” Anne looked as if the devil himself had made the threat, and hurried away from us.

The servant turned and barred our way. “She is needed by her mistress, and she is forbidden from speaking to you again.” She picked up the basket that Anne had dropped and started after her. Without warning, Martha tried to rush past her, but the servant uttered an oath and lashed out with her foot, catching Martha’s heel as she raced by. With a cry, Martha tumbled into the gutter. She scrambled to her feet and charged after Anne, but she had lost precious seconds.

Margaret and I followed as quickly as we could but were hampered by my status and her age: As a gentlewoman I could hardly run pell-mell through the center of the city, and at her age, Margaret could not run at all. As we hurried after Martha, my concern for Anne’s fate grew. The maidservant’s reaction told me that there must be more to Anne’s pregnancy than sluttish behavior with a neighborhood apprentice; she seemed no less afraid than Mary Hudson had when I interrogated her about the rumors. Whatever secret Anne kept touched on Rebecca Hooke or someone close to her. I could not help worrying what Rebecca would do when she learned that Anne had spoken to us, and I said a quick prayer that I could find a way to help her.

Martha was the only one in our party who could have caught her, but we soon found her standing at the corner of Petergate, unsure which way Anne had gone. Martha walked toward us, looking disgusted with herself.

“She escaped,” she said.

“No matter,” I said. “We know she was going to the Hookes’ house, so we’ll meet her there. Come, let us hurry. Perhaps we can find her alone and finish this sordid business.”

Chapter 7

The Hookes’ residence stood out from its neighbors on the street. It was no larger than my own house—Rebecca had driven her husband far, but not as far as she’d like—but remarkable attention had been paid to its appearance. The plaster wall reflected the noon-day sun like glass, and even the paving stones outside the house had been scrubbed of dirt. A footman stood outside the front door, prepared to announce any guests, but his main task seemed to be shooing pedestrians away from the door and keeping the entryway clean. A footman was hardly necessary—Edward was far more powerful and did without one—but it sent a message to neighbors and guests: This was a family to be reckoned with, one that had so many visitors they needed a guard, and so much money they could spare a servant to do nothing but stand outside.

As Margaret, Martha, and I approached the door, the manservant saw us coming, but rather than attempting to stop us, he disappeared into the house. Unfazed, we approached the door, and I raised my fist to knock. Before I could, the door flew open, revealing not the footman but Rebecca Hooke herself.

“Ah,
Lady
Hodgson, how nice of you to visit.” She sneered as she said “Lady,” making clear that she no more considered me a lady than she was glad to see me. I swallowed my anger as best I could, for sharp words would not open any doors. “And who do you have here?” Rebecca continued. “From their clothes, I’d guess a pair of beggars. Shall I have my servant get you a crust of bread?”

Margaret blushed but stood her ground. “We’re here to see my daughter,” she said through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are, and I have several servants. Perhaps you could be more specific.” Rebecca’s tone made very clear that she knew exactly whom Margaret meant.

“We’re here for Anne Goodwin,” I said. “I spoke to her at the market, and I must have another word with her.”

“Ah, yes, Anne. She is a silly girl,” said Rebecca, ignoring me to stare at Margaret. “She is working at the moment, so you cannot see her. What is the nature of your business?”

“I have heard that she is with child,” I said. “I am here to find out the truth.”

“Surely you are not accusing me of harboring a bastard-bearer.” Her voice was as cold as a tomb. “That would be a grave insult, and not one I would easily forget.”

“I will speak to her, and I will search her body,” I insisted. I tried to sound calm, but I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.

Rebecca drew herself to her full height and stared down at us, her eyes blazing. “Let us see who will be so bold as to view my maid’s body without my permission!” she hissed.

We stood, staring malevolently at each other. Rebecca was unwilling to stand aside, and I refused to retreat when I was so close to finding the truth about Anne’s pregnancy. The standoff was broken by the arrival of Rebecca’s son, James. He was about Will’s age and a handsome boy. If not for his well-earned reputation for stupidity and laziness, Rebecca would have found a wife for him without any trouble. As it stood, York’s leading families would leave their daughters unmarried before they tied them to such a wretch. By the smell of him, he’d come from an alehouse.

“Hello, Mother!” he cried jovially, somehow unaware of the situation into which he had wandered. “Hello, Lady Hodgson,” he said, pronouncing it
Hodgshun
. “What brings you here?”