The Midwife's Tale(7)

“Very well,” I said. “Bring me the letter, but keep her in the kitchen. Who knows who she is?”

Hannah returned with the letter and slipped back downstairs. The wax seal on the envelope coupled with the elaborate script on the outside indicated that it had been written by a professional scribe. I opened it and found that the letter inside was written in the same hand as the envelope. It was from my cousin, who had passed away a few months earlier. She was one of the godly sort, and it came through even in such a brief letter.

Written at my home in Hereford, the xi of March, 1644

My Dearest Cousin,

As I write this, my body is failing. By now I’m sure that you have heard the news of my death. Weep not, for I am at the Right Hand of God. As I settle my earthly accounts and prepare to approach the Heavenly Throne, I am working to ensure that my faithful servants are well-settled. Martha Hawkins, the maid who brought you this letter, has been in my household for two years and has proved one of the most diligent servants I have. She is modest, honest, and hardworking. She can even read and write. The times we live in are dangerous to maidens without employment. With armies roaming the land, who knows what could become of her? If you cannot bring her into your home, I beg of you to find her a place with a godly family in the city. I will next see you at the Right Hand of God, but until then I am

Your ever-loving sister in Christ,

Elizabeth

The letter was clear enough but left many questions unanswered. I considered for a moment whether God might have brought this girl to my house to help Hannah with her labors, even as old age weakened her body.

“Hannah! Take the girl to the parlor and come back. I will see her, but need to dress first.”

A few minutes later, Hannah returned. She helped me into one of my richest set of clothes, one that I knew would impress a country girl from Hereford: a fine linen skirt, silk bodice, and linen jacket embroidered with blood-red silk. Finally, I added a coif of French lace and went downstairs.

Before entering, I paused before my gilt mirror. At thirty years, I was probably not much older than the girl waiting in the parlor. My darling Luke had called me beautiful, and I supposed he told the truth—after Phineas died I was beset by suitors who lusted after more than my wealth. I looked closely at my face, trying to remember how it had appeared before I lost my little ones. I wondered if strangers could discern in my face the scars that sorrow had left on my soul. Had the crease on my forehead been so deep when Birdy was born? Were the lines around my eyes always so pronounced? I did not know.

I turned my back on such dark and fruitless thoughts, drew myself up, and went to meet the girl. When I entered, I found a young woman of perhaps twenty years waiting for me. She was standing at the window, looking onto the street. She turned and curtsied deeply. I dismissed Hannah more sharply than necessary, for I wanted the girl to understand that I was her judge and no one else. She wore a simple skirt and bodice over a high-necked shift. The shift and her coif were pure white and likely new—she had come prepared. The girl tried to keep her eyes lowered, but I caught a flash of blue as she glanced up at me. In that moment, I felt my stomach lurch, for her eyes seemed to be the same shade of blue as Birdy’s. I composed myself before addressing her.

“My cousin speaks very highly of you, Martha. How long were you in her service?”

“Two years, my lady. I came to her from another household in the parish when I was twenty-one.” She paused and I nodded for her to continue. “She hired me when she started to suffer from a palsy. That is why she had a scribe write the letter.” Her Midlands accent with its touch of Welsh confirmed much of her story—I had no doubt she came from Hereford’s lower orders.

“Who was your master before my cousin? I’m from Hereford, you know.”

“Samuel Quarels. I served him before he died, and then I served his widow. When she remarried, her new husband took her to Lincolnshire. Your cousin was kind enough to take me in. I can only pray that you will see fit to do the same.”

Martha’s story made sense. I had known Samuel and had heard of his death and his widow’s remarriage. I looked the girl over, and I noticed that her hands shook. For a moment I thought she might have a palsy of some sort, but I realized that my efforts to impress my authority had worked too well—the poor girl was frightened. I decided I couldn’t simply cast her onto the street—I would take her on as a servant, at least for the time being.

“Hereford is a long journey, and York is under siege,” I said in a gentler voice. “How did you get to the city and then evade the armies surrounding it?”