“Thank God you are here,” she cried out before falling to her knees and clutching the edge of my skirts. “Lady Hodgson, you must come! It is my younger sister. She is in travail, and the child will not come. She is all alone.”
My first instinct was to send her to another midwife, but after a moment I grasped the meaning of her words. “Your younger sister?” I asked. “How old is she?”
The girl’s face fell. “She is fourteen,” she said. “Our stepfather…” Her voice failed but the meaning was clear enough. I felt fury welling within me at the violation the girl had suffered, and in that moment her stepfather became the author of every abuse that the weak suffered at the hands of the strong. I knew that I could not ignore the opportunity to mete out a measure of justice: The stepfather would hang for ravishing so young a child. I looked at Martha and saw that she felt the same.
“I’ll get my bag,” I replied. “I’ll see your sister delivered and your stepfather punished.”
Martha and I followed the girl toward St. John-del-Pyke, one of the poorest neighborhoods in York. We wound our way through an ever-shrinking series of streets until the road was so narrow that the sky was nearly blotted out.
We reached the end of an alley and stopped in front of a tenement that seemed on the verge of collapse. The girl peered behind us as if worried we might be followed.
“It is here,” she said. “You must follow me.”
I glanced at Martha and could tell that she too sensed something was amiss. I reached into my apron and grasped the small knife I kept there. I used it for cutting navel strings, so it was sharp enough for ordinary flesh.
“Be at the ready,” I said.
We followed the girl up two sets of rough wooden stairs. As we climbed, my concerns abated somewhat, for the building was full of life. Children played on the stairs, and we could hear their parents talking behind ill-hung doors. If someone intended to ambush us, he’d have plenty of witnesses.
The girl paused when we arrived at the top of yet another staircase. The voices from below suddenly seemed far away, and I gripped my knife once again.
“She is in here,” the girl said. “My sister.” She took a step back and gestured for us to enter. “Go on in.”
There was no question that the girl was lying about something, but Martha and I were in no mood to run.
I glanced at Martha, and she nodded. We were ready. Martha reared back and kicked the door with all her strength. The door flew open and with a screech pulled loose from one of its hinges.
A woman stood just inside—the door must have nearly struck her in the face—and she stared at us in astonishment. Martha and I returned her gaze, no less thunderstruck. Of all the people in York, the last I’d expected to find behind the door was Rebecca Hooke.
* * *
“You know how to enter a room, I’ll admit that,” she said with a cold smile.
I turned to face the girl who’d summoned me, but she’d already fled down the stairs.
“You might as well come in,” Rebecca said. “Neither of us wants this meeting to become common knowledge.”
I peered through the doorway and saw that Rebecca was alone. I stepped inside with Martha close behind. Martha wrestled the door closed as best she could while I looked around the small room. The only piece of furniture was a rough wooden bed, and the small horn window provided scant light. If Rebecca had not brought her own lamp, I might not have recognized her at all.
“What is it?” I asked. I did not bother trying to conceal the hatred or fury in my voice. “You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble, so you must want something of significance.”
“I want nothing,” she responded. “Rather, I have an offer. And after the news you received this morning, you’ll want to hear what I have to say.” She paused. “I can save your nephew and the children.”
For a moment, hope leaped in my breast, but I choked it down. Rebecca Hooke would sooner see me hanged than do me a favor.
“And why would you do such a thing?” Martha demanded, giving voice to my own suspicions. “Because it is for the good?”
Rebecca laughed, high and cruel. “Of course not,” she replied. “Let’s just say I have my own reasons. Do you want to hear my offer or not? There are other ways to achieve my ends, but this is the easiest for me, and it is the only one that will save your litter of pups.”
“What do you propose?” I asked at last.
“I should like to see Joseph Hodgson hanged before the week is out,” she said. “But I need your help to for it to happen.”
How long did I stare at her trying to make sense of her words? Seconds? Minutes? Hours?