The Midwife's Tale(24)

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.”