The Midwife's Tale(77)
“Lady Bridget,” Abigail called out, “come see the baby!”
I crossed the room and took the boy into my arms. He continued to wail, so I reached into my pocket for the silver rattle I had brought as a christening present and slipped it into his tiny hand. He gave it a vigorous shake and so surprised himself with the noise that he stopped crying. “Ah, the best present yet,” said Abigail. “He’s been crabby for the better part of the afternoon. All the coming and going woke him early from his nap.” I rocked the baby for a bit while the other women continued to talk. Soon enough, a serving-maid entered and announced that it was time to go to church.
“Where is the christening sheet?” I asked Abigail.
“I’ll get it,” she said as she climbed out of bed and opened an elegant wooden chest. She produced a pure white gown made of the finest silk and lace I’d seen in some months. Together we laid the boy in the gown and buttoned it up the front before handing him to one of the other gossips.
“What name do you want me to give him?” I asked.
“We’ve decided to name him Charles,” she said. In the midst of a war such as ours, a baby’s name could signal the parents’ political opinions. The year before, a family announced their support for the Puritanical religion and Parliamentary government by asking me to name their son The-Lord-Is-Near. To this day I wonder what the poor boy’s friends call him. In naming their son Charles, the Stoppards made a public show of their support for the King.
“Who are the other godparents?”
“We’ve chosen Abraham’s brother and his wife—they should arrive shortly. The other godfather is going to be your brother, Edward.” I raised an eyebrow. Securing Edward as a godfather would bind the Stoppards to the Hodgsons for years to come; it was quite an accomplishment. “I know, I know,” she continued, amazed at their good fortune. “I wasn’t sure Abraham should even ask, but he did, and Alderman Hodgson agreed. We’re quite excited.”
“You know he supports Parliament, don’t you?” I asked. It seemed odd that they would name their son after the King and at the same time ask Edward to serve as godparent.
“Abraham thought it best to make as many friends as possible. Only the Lord knows how the war will end. Someday Mr. Hodgson might be able to help us, or we might be able to help him.” I couldn’t argue with Abraham’s thinking. While I favored the King, it did not diminish my love for Edward.
As the company prepared to depart, I embraced Abigail, took the child in my arms, and stepped into the street. I walked at the front of the procession, holding young Charles high so that all passersby could see him. We reached the church as the rest of the congregation filed in, and Abraham led us to the pew reserved for the christening party. Edward had arrived already and smiled broadly when he saw me. Abraham’s brother and sister-in-law followed me into the pew. I held the child and did my best to keep him quiet during the main part of the service. After the final prayer, the priest called us forward, and using a gilt dipper, he baptized Charles and bade us return to our seats.
When I neared the pew the baby started to wail, so I retreated down the aisle and out of the church. Once on the street, I stopped and looked up into the clear afternoon sky. In the distance I heard the rebel cannons firing and the Castle’s guns firing back. The beauty of the day mocked our human cruelties, and I wondered what role Charles would play in future dramas.
I heard footsteps and turned to find two of the other gossips who had followed me out of the church. They came over to see the baby, who had quieted a bit. “He probably would like to get back to his mother,” volunteered one of the women. I agreed, and the three of us started back to the Stoppards’. When we arrived, Abigail was in the front parlor directing the servants as they made the final preparations for the army of guests who would soon arrive. As soon as we entered, she scooped Charles out of my arms and held him close. It was the longest the two had ever been apart, so I could hardly blame her.
“How was the service?” she asked. “He didn’t cry, did he?”
“He did fine,” I said with a smile. “He was done with the service before the priest was.”
She laughed. “Mr. Addison does love the sound of his own voice. The service will be done soon. I should feed him before the guests arrive.” We followed her into her lying-in room, and she sat on the bed and put the child to her breast.
A few minutes later, we heard the front door open, followed by the cheerful voices of the Stoppards’ guests. The door to the lying-in room burst open, and Abigail’s gossips flooded in, chattering enthusiastically. Some came over to greet Abigail or see the baby, others made their way straight for the food and drink. I saw no reason to wait and helped myself to a plate of roast goose, venison, cheese, and a custard, all accompanied by a glass of strong red wine. After she finished feeding Charles, Abigail passed him along to a serving-maid, who took him upstairs to a quieter bedchamber.