Seen from Hereford, my father’s second match appeared as good as the first: The Hodgsons were among the most powerful families in the city, and both Phineas’s father and his brother cut impressive figures. I discovered too late that Phineas came from some lesser branch of the family. His unappealing visage was matched by a singular weakness of mind and character. He had squandered his patrimony long before I arrived in York, and after we married he spent most of his waking hours trying to coax me out of my estates in Hereford. When that failed, he would settle for a visit to our bed but made it clear he would have preferred my land to my body. To this day, I wonder if my father knew what kind of man he had chosen for me. When Phineas succumbed to a fever in 1642, I counted myself among the luckiest of women in England. I had my youth, my fortune, my freedom, and my beautiful daughter, Birdy. But now Birdy’s picture sat on the table next to Luke’s.
The sound of Hannah clattering down the stairs, her arms full of laundry, startled me out of my reverie. “I’ll to bed, Hannah. Come help me undress.” In my room, Hannah unlaced my stays and took my soiled clothes. I put on a clean shift and knelt by the side of the bed to pray. Afterward I sank into bed and let my mind wander. I wondered what fate awaited Mercy and her bastard child. I feared she would turn to the parish for relief soon enough. With luck, she might find employment in one of the city’s workhouses, which would keep her and her child from starving, but not much more than that. I wished I could do more to help her, but she had made her choices, and they could not be undone. Perhaps the baby’s father would marry her, I thought. With hard work he could gain his freedom and give Mercy a better life than she could rightly hope for. I preferred to think of that fate.
I heard the thump of cannon in the distance and wondered what future awaited our nation. English and Scottish armies ransacked the countryside, and an Irish horde threatened from abroad. Eventually sleep came, but I found no rest. In my troubled dreams, I was standing on the Ouse Bridge next to Mercy Harris, who was holding her newborn daughter. Mercy looked out over the water, tears coursing down her cheeks. I watched helplessly as she stepped to the edge of the bridge, kissed her baby tenderly, and let her fall into the river. As the water swallowed the child, I saw that she was no longer Mercy’s daughter, but my own lost son, Michael. I clapped my hands over my face, and my nails raked my eyes in anguish. Mercy fell to her knees next to me, and we both cried uncontrollably.
I awoke with a start and tried to control my sobs before Hannah heard them and came to see what the matter was. As I quieted my breathing, I prayed that Mercy would never know the sorrow of losing a child. Her daughter had been born healthy, but I knew all too well that was no guarantee. Michael was a picture of health when he was born, but he sickened and died just a few days after his christening. Birdy had lived long enough to see her brother and her father buried, but the Lord had claimed her as well. On a Sunday morning she sang the Psalms at the top of her lungs. That afternoon she had a cough. That night she died in my arms, feverish and shaking, leaving me alone.
Once I’d stopped my tears and dried my cheeks, I summoned Hannah and had her bring me a glass of milk to cool my blood. I then sent her away with a warning not to disturb me until supper. I dared not close my eyes for fear that the dreams would return, so I resolved to put my household accounts in order. We still had some of the provisions I set aside when a siege seemed likely, but the prices commanded by necessities such as butter and eggs disturbed me all the same. I still had plenty of money locked in my trunk, as well as hundreds of pounds out on loan to wealthy friends and to the goldsmiths, but if the siege dragged on and food could not be had at any price, access to ready cash could be the least of my problems. As I finished my accounts, I prayed that it would not come to that.
After the previous night’s events and that morning’s dreams, I decided to dedicate what was left of the afternoon to reflection. I began reading some of Mr. Herbert’s sacred poems. Naturally enough, within minutes Hannah appeared in the doorway.
“Sweet peace, where dost thou dwell?” I asked aloud. She looked puzzled but said nothing. “What is it, Hannah?”
“My lady, a maid is here with a letter for you. I don’t know who she is, and she is not from the city.”
“Well, take the letter, give her a penny, and send her on her way,” I said. “I told you not to disturb me.”
“I tried, madam. She insists on staying while you read it.” She clearly did not relish giving me the news. I considered chasing the girl away, but her persistence piqued my curiosity.