The Midwife's Tale(66)

“There are no marks on it,” I said in disappointment, “nothing to help us identify the seller.”

“Do all apothecaries use bottles such as this one?” she asked.

“No. Different sellers use different vials for their poisons, so if we find an apothecary who uses these bottles, we’ll be one step closer to finding the killer. We’ll set out tomorrow morning.”

That night I prayed for the nation, city, my household, and especially for Will. But my prayers put me in mind of Will’s lament for England’s present state, and I found myself overcome with sadness. What were his words? “’Tis all in pieces, all coherence gone”? I hoped his dark vision would not come to pass, but I could see no happy resolution to the troubles we had created.

* * *

To my surprise, I awoke Saturday morning to a knock on my door. Hannah stood in the doorway.

“What is it, Hannah? Is everything all right?”

“My lady, a servant is here with a message from Elizabeth Wood.”

I felt my stomach sink, for this could only mean that her boy had died. He had been so sickly that I was not surprised, but I had held out hope. My heart ached for her, for I knew all too well the pain she now felt.

“Please have her wait in the parlor, and then come help me dress.” She curtsied and left. I lay in bed a while longer, saying prayers for the dead child, for Elizabeth, and for her husband. This was the first infant I had lost since Michael died, and I knew that the day would be full of sad mementos of his death and burial.

Hannah returned to help me wash and dress, and then I went downstairs. Before going to the parlor to see Elizabeth’s maid, I called for Martha. She had been part of the child’s delivery and would be a part of his burial. We found Elizabeth’s maidservant standing in the parlor, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. When she saw me, she curtsied and kept her eyes lowered when she spoke.

“My mistress sent me,” she said quietly. “Her baby died last night.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Martha’s face crumple, which only compounded my own grief.

I took a shallow breath, worried that I would start to cry. “When will they bury him?” I asked.

“This afternoon. Mr. Wood just sent word to the priest.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Please return to your mistress, and tell her we will be there soon.”

“Did she give him a name?” asked Martha.

“Benjamin, after his father. Mrs. Wood called him Ben.” Martha nodded, fighting back tears.

The maidservant curtsied, and I saw her to the front door. I returned to the parlor and found Martha gazing out the window. I could see the tears on her cheeks. I went over and put my arm around her shoulders. She took a deep breath and clumsily wiped at the tears with her apron.

“Will you go and see the child?” she asked.

“Elizabeth needs me. And because you had a hand in the child’s birth, you should come as well. We brought the child into the world, so we will dress him for his burial and see him out. Ask Hannah to find some linen. Then have her help you tear some strips to wrap the child.” Within the hour Hannah and Martha finished with the linen, and we departed for Elizabeth’s house.

All midwives lost infants in childbirth or soon after—it was God’s will and a midwife’s lot—and a good midwife felt every death in her bones. But the pain I felt on this day was especially sharp. In part it was because it reminded me of Michael, of course, but also because I could see that Martha suffered as much as I did.

“What will you do when you get there?” she asked.

“It depends on Elizabeth’s state. Some women fall into melancholy and require constant attention. Others accept it as the will of God and require little help. It is hardest for women who lose their first child.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I put my arm around her shoulders to comfort her. “I hadn’t forgotten about your son.”

Just as we reached Elizabeth’s door, one of the women who had been present for Elizabeth’s delivery opened it and came out into the street. If she remembered Martha or the rough treatment she had received at her hands, she gave no sign of it.

“How is she?” I asked.

“It is not the first child she has lost, but she still feels it deeply.” Her red-rimmed eyes and pale complexion told me that she felt it, too. However badly she had acted at the birth, she remained a good gossip. Martha and I stepped through the open door and the Woods’ maidservant greeted us.

“Is Mr. Wood here?” I asked. While we would spend most of our time with Elizabeth, sometimes the fathers needed comfort and reassurance as much as the mothers.