The Midwife's Tale(102)

“Good morning, my lady,” he said. “I am Mr. Stevens, the surgeon here. How can I be of service?”

“We are here to see a wounded soldier, Sergeant Hawkins. We have heard he is delirious.”

“Yes, a regrettable case,” he said, shaking his head. “The wound itself would not have been serious if he had come to me immediately. For some reason, he tried to treat it himself. His bed is in the far corner. We moved him there because his yelling disturbed the other patients. It’s stopped now, though. He’s too weak.”

“How long will he live?” Martha asked.

“Not long, I don’t think. With infections it is hard to say, but he’ll be dead tomorrow.” I was appalled by his blunt language, but Martha nodded her thanks. I looked closely at her face, but I could not tell how she felt about her brother’s impending death. Perhaps she did not know, either.

We thanked Stevens again, and he wandered off to check on other patients, God help them. Martha and I went to the corner that he had indicated. We reached the last bed, and for a moment I thought we had come too late. Tom lay in the bed, but he was little more than a husk of the man I’d met at the Black Swan. His sallow complexion and sunken cheeks made his face the very mirror of death—only the slight movement of the sheet covering his chest indicated that he still lived. Even from the foot of the bed, I could smell the infected wound and knew that the surgeon’s prediction was likely on the mark. I did not regret his death, of course, but I knew that Martha’s reaction would be much more complicated, and I felt for her.

Martha pulled a stool from a neighboring bed and sat next to her brother. “Tom … Tom, can you hear me?” She reached out with her good hand and caressed his cheek. He took a deep, hitching breath and opened his eyes. He saw Martha and his features hardened. “Oh, Tom,” she whispered, “what have you done now?”

“Hello, sister,” he croaked. From the foot of his bed I could barely hear him. “Have you come to dance on my grave? Was betraying me in Hereford not enough?”

“Why did you do it, Tom? Why couldn’t you let me be?”

He started to laugh but dissolved into a coughing fit. “Let you be? After what you did? I’d kill you now if I could.”

“Tom, please!”

“What is your plan now, Martha? Will you spend your life as a servant?” Even in his weakened state, his voice dripped with scorn. “Didn’t you have enough of that life back home? Wasn’t Mr. Holdsworth’s cruelty enough? You could have been free of all that if you’d stayed with me.”

“For how long? Until I met my fate at the end of a rope?”

“That’s better than the life you’ve chosen. You’ll find out soon enough how ill suited you are for service.” He looked up at me. “Do you think she’ll carry your shit and wash your clothes forever? She’ll turn on you, just as she did me. It’s in her blood. She can’t bear to be ruled by another. A natural-born rebel she is.”

“You will die soon, Tom Hawkins,” I said. “You should repent for the things you’ve done. I can have the surgeon summon a minister.”

“The only thing I regret is that I didn’t cut your throat. If it weren’t for that cripple of yours, you would be the one lying on your deathbed, not me.” He turned back to look at Martha for the last time. “You’ll hang yet, sister, you’ll hang yet.” Then he turned his head and closed his eyes.

Martha looked impassively at her brother. Without a word, she stood and walked out of the hall. I hurried after her and caught her at the gate. I searched desperately for words to comfort her, but none came. Neither of us spoke as we walked back to my house. That afternoon, Edward sent word that Tom had died. I told Martha and she nodded but said nothing.

* * *

From that day, life in my household returned to something like normal. With Tom safely in the ground, I dismissed the guards. Esther sent profuse thanks by letter but kept to her house and refused all visitors. I understood her reluctance to see anyone. The Lord Mayor had made much of her conviction but said nary a word about her exoneration. Her friends and neighbors knew that she had escaped burning, but few could say why. As a result, rumors spread far and fast. Some said she had bewitched the Aldermen, while others claimed she had bribed or even seduced the Lord Mayor. I did not think she could stay in York for long. Better she should go to London and start anew. With the money left to her by Stephen, she would have no trouble finding another husband.

The siege continued for another week, but without hardship, even for the city’s poor. Martha and I attended two or three births and talked about many things, but not her brother. During the day, I sometimes forgot that I had killed a man with my own hands. But Richard Baker continued to haunt my dreams.