Her dark brown eyes made a quick assessment of the new arrivals, and she crossed the yard just as George was helping Hannah and me climb down.
“I thought your mother was coming,” she said in a low voice, almost angry.
“My father is ailing,” I said, trying to keep my voice patient and steady. I didn’t need to get into an argument with this woman moments after arriving in Gloucester. “How’s Mary? Has she delivered yet?”
“Soon,” Joyce said. “She’s been contracting all day. Midwife Hawkes is with her now.”
My own stomach tightened as if in response.
Joyce glanced over at George, then to Hannah, who was quietly listening to us. “She’s as well as can be expected.” Her gaze went back to George. “You’re Susannah’s husband?”
“Yes, I’m George Martin.”
Instead of greeting him, Joyce merely looked back to me. “I hope you’ve come to help and not rely on my good graces.”
I didn’t know what to say—at least not anything that would be appropriate in front of Hannah. It was remarkable how the presence of a small, innocent child could curb my tongue. “We’ve come to help,” I said, taking Hannah’s hand in mine. “George will be on his way after some refreshment.”
“I’ll wait out here,” George quickly said.
I didn’t blame him for wanting to stay out of a house that contained a birthing woman and the likes of Joyce. Hopefully, the midwife would be more pleasant. I followed Joyce inside while Hannah remained with George for a few minutes. Once inside the dim interior, I heard Mary’s whimpers coming from the back room.
I immediately pushed the door open and found her in bed with the midwife next to her. My sister’s face was pale, and her eyes closed.
“Mary,” I said softly and crossed to the side of her bed.
Her blue eyes opened, and a faint smile crossed her face. “You’re here.” Then she looked past me. “Is Mother coming?”
“It’s just me,” I said, taking her hand in mine. “Mother is staying to help Father. Joyce tells me that you should deliver today.”
“Yes,” Mary said faintly, her eyes sliding shut again.
I looked at the midwife, a stocky woman like me, but at least ten years my senior. “How is she?”
Midwife Hawkes gave a small nod. “She’s faring well now, but the pains have been slowing down, which isn’t good.”
I looked back to my sister, but she didn’t seem to be aware of what the midwife said. Mary’s distended belly looked swollen and painful.
“Where are her other children?”
“Thomas took them into town, and they’re going to stay with his mother for a few days.”
I thought it wise that the children weren’t around for the birth. Now I started to worry about Hannah. She wouldn’t have anyone to play with until her new cousins returned.
Thinking of Hannah reminded me that I was going to fetch George something to eat for his return journey. He didn’t want to stay overnight and miss a second day of working on our house or helping my father.
I left the bedroom and sliced some bread in the kitchen, then lathered it with Mary’s churned butter and took a couple of pieces to George, along with two apples. He and Hannah were in the yard talking to Thomas, who must have just returned.
When Thomas saw me, he said, “Thank you for coming.”
I smiled at him—I’d always liked Thomas and thought he was a good husband and father—and handed the food to George. He bent down and kissed me, then was on his way, Hannah clinging to my hand. At least she didn’t make a fuss with her father leaving, although I was a bit unsure how she’d fit in with all of her new cousins.
“How is Mary?” Thomas asked me, his brows pulled together in concern.
“She was mostly sleeping,” I said, glancing down at Hannah.
Thomas nodded. “I’ve got to return to the harvest, but if there’s any news, come and fetch me.” His gaze met mine, and in his gaze, I saw more than what his words might say. He was worried about Mary, just as the midwife was. Delivering twins was not an easy task, no matter the woman.
I took Hannah inside with me and set her to playing with her doll in the kitchen, then went into the back bedroom to check on my sister. Joyce followed, and although I felt uncomfortable with her hovering, it wasn’t my place to send her out. Joyce was Mary’s neighbor, not mine, and I knew they had a friendship of sorts, even though I’d warned her against it.
Joyce had been ostracized from Meeting the year before, Mary had told me, accused of poisoning another member’s cat. Joyce was verbal in her dislike about cats, and when the woman had visited with Joyce, then returned home to find her cat dead, she believed that Joyce had put a hex on the cat.
It was a silly story, but I couldn’t discount Joyce’s odd ways. Her gaze was piercing, her words direct, and even I, who didn’t shy away from being direct myself, felt at odds around her.
Mary’s eyes were open when I entered the room, but she didn’t seem to be focusing on anything in particular. She was in the bed, not on the birthing chair in the corner, and the midwife hovered over her, pressing a damp cloth against her forehead. The room felt overly warm, and perspiration stood out on both Mary’s and the midwife’s face.
I knew something wasn’t right. I hadn’t delivered a child before, but I’d heard many stories, and all of Mary’s stories, as well.
“What’s going on?” I said quietly to the midwife.
She looked at me, her face unreadable. She glanced at Joyce, and I wondered if the midwife would stay silent with Joyce in the room. But then she said, “Your sister has given up.”
I stared at her, stunned. “What do you mean?”
“She’s no longer making an effort,” Midwife Hawkes said. Her voice trembled as she continued, “It’s time to push, but she won’t even try.”
Everything in my body went cold. “What does that mean? Maybe she needs to rest, and then she can try?”
Joyce moved around the bed to stand on the other side and peer down at Mary. It bothered me she was inspecting my sister so closely, but fear and disbelief were taking over all of my emotions.
“What can we do?” I asked the midwife.
She handed me the cloth and said in a low voice, “I’m going to fetch her husband.”
I stared at her. “Is it that serious? There’s nothing you can do?”
“I’ve seen this before,” she said, no longer bothering to keep her voice low. “There’s nothing more I can do.”
I followed her gaze. Mary’s eyes were still open, but it was clear she hadn’t heard a word we’d said. I took the cloth from the midwife and dipped it into the bowl of water at the bedside, then pressed the cloth against Mary’s perspiring brow. There had to be something more. My eyes stung with tears, and my throat swelled as I considered what this might mean for Mary. Was the midwife going to give up, too?
When Midwife Hawkes left, my tears started to fall. Joyce didn’t move or speak, and I continued to dab my sister’s forehead. Was this really all I could do for Mary?
“Mary,” I whispered. Then louder, I said, “Please, Mary. You must try. Don’t give up.”
Joyce grasped her hand, and I looked over at her. “Have you seen this happen before?” I knew she wasn’t a midwife, but she was a couple of decades older than me and certainly had more life experience.
“She stopped drinking the tea I gave her.”
I furrowed my brows. “What tea was it?” I didn’t really blame my sister for not drinking Joyce’s tea, no matter how well-intentioned.
“I fixed her a tea of roots that would help ease her delivery,” she said, shaking her head. “Mary complained it made her cramps stronger, and so she refused the second batch I made.” Joyce’s gaze met mine. “The cramps help prepare the uterus for delivery.”
I was silent for a moment. “What’s in the tea?”
Although Joyce didn’t smile, her eyes brightened. “The mandrake root. I have three different types
in my garden, and I’ve mixed them. I took it with my pregnancies.”
I’d had no idea she had children. Were they grown and moved out? “Will it help now?” I asked quietly, not exactly daring to believe I was asking her about a tea that my sister had previously refused.
Joyce gave a shrug. “I don’t know, for I never had trouble delivering, you see.”
I was curious about her children. Was she a widow? I had never heard about her husband, and I’d never seen a man about her place. Mary’s eyes were shut, and her breathing shallow. I wished that the midwife would return and tell me she’d been mistaken. Maybe Thomas could rouse Mary and she’d wake up and try.
“Can you fetch the tea?” I asked Joyce. “We must try something.”
Joyce didn’t hesitate, but hurried out of the room.
While she was gone, I again spoke to my sister. “Mary, wake up. You need to deliver these babies. Think of how excited your children will be. Think of Mother and how she’ll want to hold them and rock them.”
I abandoned the damp cloth and sat next to Mary on the bed. Her extended stomach looked painful, and I placed my hand on her bulge. I couldn’t feel the babies moving, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. I found myself praying and pleading that she would be all right, that she’d deliver these children safely.
It seemed ages before Joyce returned, and I was grateful that it was her and not the midwife yet. I didn’t know what Midwife Hawkes’s reaction would be to the tea.
“I brought a cream that I made as well,” Joyce said in a furtive tone. She held out a small jar to me. “Put it under her nose and on her upper chest. It should help her wake up.”
Hesitating only a moment, I took the jar and opened the lid. The scent was pungent and sharp, like something soured, but I dug my finger into the jelly-like substance and smoothed it along my sister’s upper lip.
Her eyes flew open immediately.
“Mary!” I said, and her eyes slid toward me.
Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
“Put it on her chest too,” Joyce said in a hurried voice.
I did as I was told, my fingers trembling, as I prayed that Mary’s strength and will would return.
“Drink this, Mary,” Joyce said, holding the cup to her lips. The liquid inside steamed, and I hoped it wasn’t too hot.
Mary’s eyes widened as she gazed at Joyce, and she started to shake her head.
“Please, Mary,” I said, taking the cup from Joyce and holding it for Mary.
Her gaze settled on me, and the look of surprise lessened.
“You need to drink this, and then you need to push.” I kept my voice firm, even though I was starting to shake and my eyes burned with tears. “Thomas will be here soon, and we want to tell him good news.”
“You’ve done this before, Mary,” Joyce added in. “Your body is strong and your mind stronger.”
“Come on,” I told Mary, wanting to keep her focus on me. “Drink this, and it will help you deliver your babies. They’re waiting to see their mother.”
Mary lifted her head enough that I was able to get her to sip the liquid. When she tried to push the cup away, I became more adamant. “You have to try, Mary. This tea will give you the strength you need.” She drank more, and when she finally relaxed back onto the bed, I was satisfied.
I looked over at Joyce, who gave me a slight nod.
“Mary?” Thomas called out, entering the house.
I moved from the bed, and Joyce and I stood on one side of the room as Thomas entered. He didn’t even glance at us but went straight to Mary’s side.
“Thomas,” she gasped. “The babies are coming.”
“They are?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Yes,” she said, her face reddening as she let out a cry. “I need to push!”
The midwife that had come in behind Thomas hurried forward. “Let me see her.”
Thomas moved back and let the midwife take over. He looked across the room at me, and I nodded. “We’ll take care of her. See if Hannah needs anything.”
His nod was barely perceptible, but he left the room, and the door shut behind him. I turned back to my sister. Color had flooded her previously pale face, and her listless hands were now clutching the midwife’s shoulders as she rose from the bed and sat in the birthing chair.
Gloucester
“Tell me exactly what was in that tea,” I asked Joyce in a hushed voice. Although we were standing at her front door and no one could overhear us, I felt the need to stay quiet. My sister was still in bed with her babies, delivered two days before, healthy and pink. If I hadn’t seen Joyce bring in the tea myself, I might have thought a miracle had occurred.
But when Midwife Hawkes saw the remains of the tea in the teacup, she’d chastised both me and Mary, saying that she’d never step foot in Mary’s house again. How could I explain that something in the tea had revived Mary and we should be grateful to Joyce? Wasn’t Mary’s life more valuable than criticizing a disreputable neighbor?
Now, as I gazed at Joyce, insistent in getting answers, she repeated the same herbs she’d told me before. I watched the blue of her eyes carefully. Was it possible to know if someone was telling the truth?
“What else?” I asked, not sure if she was telling me everything, but pretending that I knew she wasn’t.
Joyce’s gaze shifted away, my first indication that there might be something she wasn’t telling me.
“Did you put a spell on it?” I whispered.
Joyce’s eyes flew open. “I am not a witch,” she hissed. “I did pray over it, just as anyone would pray over a meal. Where’s the crime?”
I let her words settle, then I took a measured breath and asked, “What were the words of the prayer?”
She narrowed her gaze. “I don’t remember.”
Now it was my turn to narrow my gaze. “Try to remember. The midwife is already upset at us, and who knows what she’ll say to others in town.”
Joyce crossed her thin arms over her chest. “I made the tea exactly how I told you, and I didn’t cast any spell, in case you think saying a prayer is casting a spell.”
Her words stung, yet I had no choice but to believe her. Otherwise I’d have to admit that my sister had delivered her babies through witchcraft.
I turned away from Joyce then, and I felt her watching me all the way back to Mary’s house. Inside, I found the children still lingering over their morning meal of porridge. Hannah had made fast friends with her new cousins, which had brought me relief.
The sound of a crying baby came from the back room, and my heart lifted. I would never tire of the sound of a crying baby, alive and healthy, I decided. Hannah looked up at me as I crossed the kitchen, and I patted her head as I walked by her. She ducked her head and smiled. It made me smile, too.
I found Mary in her room just as the crying baby quieted against her breast. She’d had a boy and a girl, so it would be no trouble to tell them apart. Nathaniel and Ruth, she’d named them.
Mary smiled at me as I entered. I picked up little Ruth and held her sleeping form in my arms as Mary held Nathaniel as he suckled. I peered at the infants’ dark hair and tiny features. “They are so precious,” I said in a reverent tone.
“I have to agree,” Mary said. “You’ve been heaven-sent, Susannah. You must miss George terribly, and Hannah has fit right in with the other children.”
I smiled back at her. “I am so grateful that you and the babies are healthy. That’s all I could hope for. I’ve already written to Mother.”
Mary nodded. “I think we had our own little miracle.”
“Yes,” I said, although I was thinking of the tea that Joyce had made. Did Mary even remember drinking it? Surely she’d noticed that the midwife never came back to check on her after the birth. With just the two of us in the bedroom, I had to ask. “Do you remember Joyce being with us when you were delivering?”
Mary’s gaze fell to
the child in her arms. “I do. She brought over that awful tea again.”
I nodded. “When you drank it, everything improved.”
Mary looked directly at me. “Do you think it was the tea?”
“What else would it have been?”
“A miracle from God?” Mary asked.
We were both silent for a moment, and then I said, “Possibly. I guess we may never know.”
Mary was watching me closely. “You spoke to her, didn’t you? That’s where you just were? I didn’t hear you with the children in the kitchen for the last little while.”
I couldn’t lie to Mary, not about this. I had too many questions as it was, and I wanted answers. “Yes, I went over and asked Joyce about the ingredients. She said she put in mandrake.” I waited for Mary’s response.
Finally, she said, “That’s not so uncommon. And I know herbs have been used for centuries. But . . .” Her eyes filled with tears. “What if it was something else—what if the miracle of my surviving the birth was not due to the Lord’s grace, but because Joyce performed witchcraft?”
The word hung between us in the room like an ugly presence—or even worse, a dark presence with evil intentions. If Joyce had made the tea and cast a spell over the contents, Mary’s soul would be owned by the devil himself.
But in this sunny room filled with new life, I couldn’t let such dark thoughts overtake me. “Joyce swears she didn’t use witchcraft,” I said in a whisper.
Mary blinked, and her eyes cleared. “Then we must believe her.” She reached out a hand toward me, and I took it, clinging fiercely.
“We both know the tea helped, but we will put our trust that the miracle came from the Lord and not the devil.”
Mary nodded vigorously, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Yes. That is the only way. I can’t bear to think that these two innocent children were born healthy due to any other cause.”
Condemn Me Not: Accused of Witchcraft Page 15