The Midwife's Tale(62)

“My lady, I wonder if I could ask you a question.”

“Of course,” I said.

“I’ve only been here in York a short time, but I think that a young man wishes to court me.” I tried to suppress a smile as I caught on to Martha’s game.

“Really? How exciting! But you are not sure? Have you spoken to him?”

“He’s hardly said a word to me, but when we are together, he stares at me constantly. When I look at him, he looks away and pretends to stare at the wall. It’s quite obvious what has happened.”

“He has fallen in love with you,” I said.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. And that’s the tragedy of it, for it is a match that cannot be.”

“How sad!” I exclaimed with only a little too much enthusiasm. “Why is that? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I don’t think there is. The first problem is that I am not inclined to marry yet. But even if I were, it is impossible. He is far above my station. His family would never allow him to marry a servant.” I risked a glance over at Will. He had picked up a book and was staring at it intently.

“Do you know his family?”

“They are merchants here in the city. His father is an Alderman. I know his aunt very well.” That last comment was too obvious by half, and I saw Will furrow his brow as he realized that Martha and I were having a jest at his expense.

“That sounds serious,” I said. “Does he know that you are aware of his love for you?”

She turned to stare at Will. “I think he is beginning to figure it out.”

With that, Will slammed the book shut and leapt to his feet, sputtering with indignation. He was not accustomed to being teased by servants, even with the connivance of a gentlewoman. I burst out laughing even as I tried to mollify him. Martha smiled sweetly, curtsied (whether to me or to Will I could not tell), and wisely retreated to the kitchen. By this time Will’s face had become quite red, and he turned his anger and embarrassment in my direction.

“How could you let your servant mock me in such a fashion? I like her less and less.”

“And I like her more and more,” I replied, still laughing. “You were far too obvious. She could hardly ignore your stares.” I squeezed his arm, and he began to regain control of himself. “Will, I cannot tell you the details, but I have good reason to trust her. It is true that she brought trouble in her wake, but it was not entirely of her own making. Except for her murderous brother, she has no family in Yorkshire. If I cast her out, I would lose a valuable servant, and she would be killed by Tom. She also has a number of skills that I think you will appreciate, and perhaps ask her to teach you.”

“Aunt Bridget, really. She is a servant. I don’t think I have a future in cooking or cleaning.”

“Very well,” I said lightly, quite sure that he would change his mind if he saw her use a knife or a lock-pick. “Now, shall we go see Charles Yeoman?”

* * *

During the journey, Will looked everywhere except at Martha, a fact that amused her nearly as much as his earlier surveillance, and she had little success hiding her pleasure at his discomfort. I was less pleased, however, for the many years of ridicule Will had suffered on account of his clubfoot meant that he took seriously every insult to his honor. What seemed like good-natured teasing to Martha might seem like a deliberate provocation to Will. Moreover, since Will could hardly respond to this offense in his customary fashion by beating her senseless, he retreated within himself and refused to speak at all. By the time we reached Petergate, I’d had my fill of the silence and regretted my role in Martha’s performance.

“Martha, we should apologize to my nephew for our behavior a few minutes ago,” I said. She looked surprised and opened her mouth to speak, but I continued. “Will has only my best interests at heart, and he does not know you as well as I do. Regardless of how out of place his concerns may seem, they are born of love, and should not be mocked.” I turned to Will, looking him in the eyes. “Will, I was wrong and I am sorry. I ask your forgiveness.”

“Sir, I ask your forgiveness as well,” Martha echoed, bowing her head, suddenly the very picture of contrition.

Will looked uncomfortable at having to admit that Martha’s little play had cut him so deeply and tried to dispense with our apologies as quickly as possible. “No, no, it is quite all right,” he said. “It is not just that you made sport of me. I’ve been thinking about the events of recent days, and the times in which we live. Parliament accuses the King of tyranny, the King calls Parliament rebels. Wives are murdering their husbands and mothers discarding their infants into privies—the world is on its head.” He paused before continuing. “I read in my grandfather’s commonplace book yesterday. He copied part of a poem that struck me.