The Midwife's Tale(25)

“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.