“Elizabeth is asleep,” he said. “She’s not slept more than a few hours since Ben was born. Now that he’s gone…” His voice trailed off.
“Please tell Elizabeth we came back,” I said. “And that we will be here when she is churched.”
“I will.”
Then Martha and I started for home, and the other women went their own ways. We walked in silence for a while. As we crossed the Ouse, she looked out over the water and asked, “How do you do this year after year? How do you bury the same babies that you deliver?”
“With God’s help, and the knowledge that death comes to us all. If Ben hadn’t died today, it would have been tomorrow, or some other tomorrow in five, fifty, or a hundred years. We cannot stop death, only slow his march.”
“And that is enough?” she asked doubtfully.
“I also remind myself that I am a good midwife. I could not save Ben, but as surely as God created the world, I have saved babies that would have died under another midwife’s care. There are the mothers, too. Sometimes they die in travail, but if I am at a woman’s bedside, she is more likely to live.” Martha nodded and wiped her eyes.
* * *
When Martha and I neared my home, the guard at the door raised his hand in greeting. Before I could respond, the door belonging to my next-door neighbor burst open, and George Chapman spilled out into the street, his bulging belly straining at his doublet’s buttons. To my dismay, he planted himself squarely in front of us, with his hands on his ample hips.
“Lady Hodgson,” he said, “I must have a word with you.”
“I imagine you must,” I said archly. I wondered what complaint he might have this time. Because I was a young widow who had not remarried, a lady who worked with her hands, and a woman with power, my very existence challenged his carefully ordered world. He respected my rank enough not to confront me directly, but he took advantage of every opportunity to reprimand members of my household for any failing, real or imagined. “May I guess? Was Martha singing too loudly in my courtyard? Or did she not treat you with the reverence you deserve?”
Chapman looked at me closely, trying to determine if I spoke in jest—a difficult task for so humorless a man. “No,” he said slowly, apparently convinced of my sincerity. “It is not that.…”
“Well, that is certainly a relief. If you will excuse me, I have urgent business.”
“My lady, what is the meaning of posting an armed man at your door? If you have brought trouble to this neighborhood, you must warn the rest of us.”
I looked at him incredulously. “Mr. Chapman,” I began, “the city is besieged by three armies. The King’s soldiers have proven themselves rogues at best, and murderers at worst.” A look of alarm crossed his face. “You did hear that on Sunday night one of the garrison was killed not far from here, didn’t you?” He started to respond, but I held up my hand to silence him. “We have marauding rebels outside the city and equally dangerous men inside, and you accuse me of bringing trouble to the neighborhood? Are you suggesting I remain in my home with my maidservants with no man to protect us? What, will you do us that service?” I glanced significantly at his massive stomach, daring him to assert his martial prowess. Before he could reply, I grasped Martha firmly by the arm, steered her around Chapman, and hurried the last few steps to my door. As we passed the guard, I whispered, “If he tries to follow, you may run him through.” The guard laughed loudly, and I glanced over my shoulder. Chapman still stared at me, trying to think of a response. “Good day, Mr. Chapman,” I called as I closed the door behind me.
Once safely inside, I set Martha to work on her household duties, and I retired to my chamber to rest, leaving word that I was not to be disturbed. Just as I was drifting to sleep, Hannah appeared in the doorway.
“My lady,” she said, “Mrs. Emerson is here to see you. She says she has found the mother of the infant murdered in Coneystreet.”
Chapter 17
The prospect of finding the mother of the murdered child pulled me from my listless state. “Tell her I’ll be right down.”
Susan Emerson lived in St. Wilfred’s parish, not far from my house. I hadn’t delivered any of her children—she was too old for that—but she’d assisted me on occasion and even delivered a few on her own when a midwife arrived late. She was one of the most formidable matrons in her neighborhood and kept a sharp eye on local maidens. She reprimanded them if they behaved lewdly and reported them to the minister if they failed to heed her warnings.