The Midwife's Tale(78)

It was a good decision, for as the women became heated with wine, the conversation grew louder and the laughter many times more raucous. As always, the talk at a christening party turned to childbirth, and the company soon called upon me to tell the story of how Martha had emptied Elizabeth Wood’s bedroom of drunken gossips. The crowd scolded the unruly women who would disturb a woman in travail and laughed uproariously as I told of Martha dragging their ringleader from the room by her ears. As more guests arrived, they demanded I tell the story again, and I must admit that with each telling, the women became more unruly and Martha’s actions more violent and valiant. I was grateful that nobody mentioned the health of the child.

As the hours passed and we drank our way through the Stoppards’ excellent wine, other women told their own tales, each one with its heroines and villains. I found myself more than a little pleased when the talk turned to Rebecca and Richard Hooke. “Tell us, Lady Hodgson,” urged Abigail, “how is it that such a womanish man could get such a mannish woman with child? Or did Rebecca sire the child on Richard?” The women roared, and I joined them. Without warning, the image of Anne Goodwin, alone and frightened somewhere in the city, leapt to my mind. The laughter died in my throat. I summoned a servant and replenished my wine.

“Lady Hodgson,” called Mary Horton, rescuing me from my own dark thoughts, “tell me—is there a sworn midwife in All Saints, Pavement?”

“Dorothy Mann is licensed,” I said after a moment. “Why do you ask, Mary? Are you with child? Your husband must be … surprised.” We women laughed long and loud at the prospect, and Mary joined us. She had two grown daughters and three grandchildren—her childbearing days had ended long ago.

“No, it is not me, but not for lack of trying,” she fairly shouted, while at the same time making an astonishingly lewd gesture with a sausage. I can only imagine what the men in the next room must have thought at the laughter that followed. “In truth,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek, “I have heard that one of the parish’s maidens is pregnant, a poor, silly serving-maid. After what happened in Coneystreet, I want to make sure that women are there to witness the birth and ensure no harm comes to the child.”

“Tell Dorothy,” I said. “She will look into it and search her body. If the maid is indeed with child, Dorothy will inform the churchwardens.”

The prospect of a bastard birth and the thought of an infanticide soured the mood for a time, but the good cheer returned when Ann Young joined the crowd. I didn’t know her, but Abigail told me that she had been married just the week before, and this was her first time among the matrons. The guests promptly began to interrogate her about the wedding night. “How many times? How long?” they called out. Ann blushed a bright crimson and refused to answer but was clearly happy to be counted among the neighborhood’s respectable women.

“How long, you ask?” cried Mary Horton. “Her Harry’s a tall one, so I’d say about this long.” She held her hands an unlikely distance apart, and once again we descended into fits of laughter. At that moment, one of the husbands had the misfortune to poke his head into our parlor in search of his wife. We greeted his appearance with catcalls and quickly chased him from the room. His young wife started unsteadily for the door. In the few seconds it took her to cross the room, she replaced Ann as the center of attention. She’d not yet borne a child, and we encouraged her to take full advantage of the evening.

As she closed the door behind her, I said to Mary, “When these women find their husbands, this one christening will beget a thousand more.”

“It is a good night,” she said, laughing. I could not have agreed more. As more husbands came in search of their wives and wives went to find their husbands, the crowd in Abigail’s room slowly thinned. The wine continued to flow, but at a more leisurely pace, and the conversation quieted. I found myself sitting on a couch with Abigail as we watched another couple depart for home.

“Will you marry again?” she asked.

I was not surprised at the question. I was young enough to have at least a few more children, and still handsome, to some eyes, at least. I also knew that my name and my wealth would counterbalance any deficiencies a gentleman might find in my body or mind. As I considered the question, I became aware of the exquisite warmth that the wine had brought to me. I thought of my gossips throughout the city: rich and poor, sinners and saints, Royalists and Parliament-men. All the women of York called on me when they were in need. I eased new mothers’ fears when they became pregnant, swearing to them that with God’s help I would deliver them safely. How many mothers had I helped in their travail? How many times had I done all I could to ensure that a mother and her child would survive? How often had I rejoiced with mothers like Abigail? Three hundred? Five hundred? But in his wisdom, the Lord took more children and mothers than I cared to remember. Some babies, like little Ben Wood, were born weak and never seemed long for this world. Some, like Birdy, seemed full of life from the day they were born, but God struck them down all the same. As a midwife, I helped the women when I could and comforted them when I could not.