The Midwife's Tale(5)

As I approached the narrow street that would take me home, a few of the trained bands approached. They were local boys and doffed their caps when they recognized me.

“Returning from a birth, Lady Hodgson?” their sergeant enquired.

“Indeed.” I fumbled for his first name—I knew I had delivered two of his children, and while I never forgot a mother, the fathers were a different matter. “How are Barbara and your girls, Sergeant Smith?” Better to stick with the rank.

“The girls are well, praise God. Bridget is nearly two now and running all about the house.” He knew I would remember Bridget’s birth. His wife’s travail lasted for days. Another midwife said the child was dead and had wanted to call in the surgeon with his cutting tools. The husband came to my door in a panic and begged my help. In the end it turned out that there were twins. I could not save the boy child, but the girl lived, and her father consented to name her in my honor. I resolved to have Hannah bake a pie and send it over to them when I got home.

After taking my leave of the sergeant, I completed the last few steps of my journey. Like those around it, my home stood three stories tall, with each one extending a bit farther over the street than the one below it. On narrower streets it was nearly possible to climb out the window of one building and in the window of the neighbor across the street. As my home came into view, I realized how tired I was. I only hoped that the women I had promised to assist in their travail would wait until the evening, or better yet until the next morning, to go into labor. And if the Overseer of the Poor called again? Well, York had half a dozen midwives, and one of them would have to suffice.

When I entered, Hannah rushed into the parlor and began fussing over me. She was perhaps twenty-five years my senior and had been my maidservant for as long as I could remember. She had helped to raise me, then left her family in Hereford to accompany me to York. She had seen me married twice, widowed twice, and I think she still held out fond hope she would see a third wedding and perhaps another child or two. She insisted that she felt as young as ever, but I wondered how much longer she would be able to do the housework by herself. She took my cloak and ushered me into the dining room, clucking all the while.

“So,” she asked, “who was the father of the baby?” Among the benefits of living with a midwife was being the first to hear local gossip.

“Nobody of note,” I said. “He’s just a butcher’s apprentice.”

She could not hide her disappointment. A debauched Alderman would have made for much better gossip in the city’s markets and shops. She went to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a steaming bowl of pottage. She placed it on the table before me and disappeared upstairs to continue her work. I was famished and began to eat, but the clink of my spoon against the bowl echoed through the empty room. I wished that Hannah had stayed with me, or at least busied herself in the kitchen, so I would not be so alone. Such melancholy feelings robbed me of my appetite. I pushed my bowl aside and started upstairs to my chamber.

On my way through the parlor I gazed at the portrait of my second husband, Phineas, the man who had brought me to York. Despite having looked upon the picture every day since his death, I was struck once again by the artist’s inability to portray him as any less pathetic than he had been in life. In truth, it was a peculiar kind of masterpiece. As in life, my husband’s eyes were somehow both sunken and bulging, and his uniquely weak chin became his most remarkable feature. His ears were perfect for a man twice his size, and his nose seemed to be recoiling from the prospect of smelling his own fetid breath. More than once I had considered remarriage if only to rid my home of so perfect a picture of so ridiculous a man.

From Phineas’s portrait, my eyes slid to the much smaller drawing of my first husband, Luke. While Phineas lived, I had kept the picture in a drawer, of course, but after his death I placed it on the small table in the parlor. Phineas compared unfavorably to most men, but he suffered in particular when I contrasted him with Luke. I had met Luke only after our marriage had been arranged: Our families’ lands in Hereford lay near each other, and our parents made the match without consulting either of us. While such marriages sometimes ended in disaster, Luke and I had similar temperaments and we soon fell deeply in love. But just two years after we married, my joy turned to mourning when Luke died of an ague during a trip to London. The abject sorrow I felt after his death left me little time to think about anything else, but my parents immediately began their search for a new husband. A few weeks into my widowhood, my father came to me and announced he had arranged my marriage to Phineas Hodgson, the second son of the Lord Mayor of York. I could hardly blame him for his decision. A twenty-four-year-old widow with no children brought no benefit to the family. A few months later, still numb from the loss of my beloved husband, I climbed into a carriage and, with Hannah at my side, set out for a new life in York.