Mercy of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

  Betty reached for him and soon had the babe settled at her breast. Young Will burst in, held her hand, and kissed it feverishly, eyes upon her beaming face. Maggie soon had Betty regally receiving praise from her family and took Betty’s mother aside to remind her to make the babe a comforting posset of butter and sugar. She promised to come over next day to check on mother and baby. Ed said he would bring a nice cut of young lamb over to the house tomorrow.

  She headed for the Siren Inn, taking a moment to offer a prayer of thanksgiving for an easy, uncomplicated delivery, a bit of a rare thing for a first time mother. Her own mother had not been so fortunate; she had suffered three stillbirths and countless miscarriages, yet still Father forced himself upon her in the night. One night when Maggie was but twelve, her mother bled to death in childbirth before the midwife could arrive, and she had to help her lifeless brother into the world. Are all men as selfish?

  Some of the fog had cleared, and she could hear the ships’ bells clang and the hearty shouting of men working on the docks. The incline on Siren Street was steep, and treated her to a clear view of the English Channel, where the white caps folded in on themselves like meringue. The fishing boats had already forged their way to shore, having been out since before dawn.

  The Siren Inn was ancient, built in the twelfth century and burned by the French two hundred years later. Rebuilt from ships’ timbers in the 1400s, the inn was a haven to weary travelers and sailors and a watering hole for the thirsty residents of King’s Harbour. A rusty sign depicting the figure of a sea maiden swung in the wind, and ivy climbed the exposed beams of the white-washed building.

  At this early hour, no evidence existed of the revelry that usually met her when she occasionally helped a laboring mother during business hours.

  Lena’s husband, Josef polished mugs behind the bar. “Hello, Mistress Maggie. Watch your step, now. My wife’s not cleaned up yet.”

  She picked her way carefully over the bottles of ale and snoring sailors that littered the floor. The smell of stale tobacco, spilled ale, and unwashed sailor made her wish briefly she had not given the peppermint-soaked handkerchief away. It was no secret she had the nose of a bloodhound. Nothing smells quite as repugnant as a sailor fresh, or most emphatically not fresh, off the boat. Some were so filthy their clothes had been known to crumble off their body.

  “Busy last night, eh, Josef?”

  He nodded, scowling, and she wondered what had him so out of sorts.

  She warmed her hands at the massive fireplace, breathing in the pleasant scent of the fire. The fireplace was big enough to house a family of five, surely the largest fireplace in all of Britain, even Europe, she wagered, with no small amount of pride. In this corner, centuries of history abided. There was even a priest’s hole in the chimney breast. When King Henry VIII decreed Roman Catholicism a crime, many a priest had found refuge there.

  She had best go up and see the foreign girl. But first, she paused to gather her thoughts and pray for guidance before climbing the stairs to her room. The girl, whose name was Sabine, spoke no English, Sarah had said a few days ago, and they knew not where the girl came from. Sarah had to depend upon the girl’s husband or lover, and she said he was less than cooperative. He had probably not even bothered to translate correctly her sister’s questions regarding the girl’s health. She hoped Sabine had improved and made her way up the stairs.

  The “husband” wore a scowl upon his darkly bearded face. His stocky body filled the doorway, meaty arms crossed. “What do you want?” His eyes skewered her.

  The mewling of an infant in the background both alarmed and confused her. The girl had given birth? When had this happened and who had delivered it?

  “I am Maggie Wilson, the midwife. My partner was here a few days ago to check on the mistress. Now it is I who’ve come to check on your, er, wife. She has had the baby?”

  He sneered. “Name’s Gerard Blanc, and the chit’s not my wife. She had the pup, ugly little thing it is, too. Come in, then.”

  She stifled a retort. The huge canopy bed swallowed the tiny, painfully young girl, at best perhaps fifteen or sixteen. She stared, almond-shaped eyes the color of toffee. Her blue-black hair, even in a state of disarray shone like a raven’s wing.

  “She don’t look right,” Gerard Blanc grumbled.

  “When was the infant born? And who acted as midwife?”

  “Born two days hence. A colleague of mine did it,” he barked. “What of it?”

  A colleague? She shuddered to think what kind of colleague this miscreant had. “What is his name, sir?”

  “His name is Edward Carter, and he will drive you out of business with all his fancy instruments, so speedy did he yank the brat out.”

  Sabine was so pale she all but blended in with the bed linen. She held the baby at her breast.

  “Has Sabine eaten?”

  “Won’t eat. Won’t talk.”

  “You should have fetched me,” Maggie said. “She needs to be examined. Leave.” Then she remembered too late her medicines were dangerously low. With Ian’s brother gone, they’d been bartering and trading with the townspeople for herbs. There was only enough for one dose to ease the poor girl’s pain. She would have to make a trip to the apothecary shop on her way home.

  He narrowed his eyes. “How long is it going to take her to be at rights again? What good is she if she cannot tend to her business? If you know what I mean.” He eyed Maggie speculatively.

  The look in his eyes recalled the look of her father as he advanced toward Mother only days after her brothers and sisters were born. He had waited long enough, he said, even as she lay in bed covering her ears against the sounds. She had not understood as a child, but now—her fingers clenched into a fist.

  “A woman who has just given birth must rest for at least a month, and it will be a good long while after that before she is able to, er...”

  His beetled brows rose in shock at this, and his lip curled in disgust. “Damn women.”

  He loomed over her, so close she smelled his filth. Covered in shite, she thought darkly, the night soil man was immaculate compared to this slime, inside his soul and out. She reached behind into her bag and pulled out the small knife she carried for the cutting of cords, and wielded it in front of him with a sure hand, eyeing him with no sign of fear. He left the room, grumbling. She had made her point. Thankfully his desire for drink was stronger than the desire to bedevil.

  Sabine had fallen asleep. She gently roused her and put the baby over to the cradle next to the bed. Miraculously the child seemed perfectly healthy. Maggie smiled, introduced herself in English, and used one of the only French words she knew.

  “Belle,” she tried. It was the word for “beautiful.”

  The girl smiled wanly, but with no sign of understanding. She did not speak French, then? As best as Maggie could, she pantomimed that she would be examining her. She thought the girl understood her intent. At any rate, she was too weak to object.

  She was not prepared for the sight of the damage: numerous lacerations from the front to the back of her privities, in danger of festering, bruising everywhere. Clearly the baby had been pulled out before its time. It was nothing short of a miracle Sabine had not bled to death.

  Anger rose in Maggie like flames, but she tamped them down as best she could, spoke calmly, and palpated the girl’s abdomen to ascertain if the afterbirth had even been delivered.

  She winced and moaned, “Aii, qing ni!”

  Maggie did not know what language she spoke, but her expression of pain was obvious.

  “I am sorry.” As quickly as possible, she mixed up the willow bark and applied some ointment to ease the inflammation. The only bright spot in this travesty was she did not bleed excessively. She covered her patient and sat on the bed beside her, holding her hand. She looked toward the door to make certain her “keeper” was not nearby.

  “If only we could speak about what has happened,” she said. “You may not be able to understan
d what I am saying, but I promise you that somehow I will make that butcher accountable for your suffering.”

  She smiled weakly and croaked, “Xie xie.”

  Was that her name? She patted her chest. “My name is Maggie.”

  Eyes bright with intelligence, she mimicked her hand motion. “Sabine.”

  It was most decidedly a French name, but she was not French. Where had she come from?

  As Maggie bent to put the empty medicine bottle back into her bag, it slipped from her hand. She cursed her fatigue and squatted to retrieve it. Under the bed hid a man-made beekeeper’s hive, called a skep. It was made out of straw, two holes cut out for eyes. The Hawkhurst Gang used the skeps as a disguise to hide their identity while they committed their smuggling crimes.

  She fought a rising panic. She had brandished a knife in the face of a Hawkhurst Gang member; getting on the bad side of a gang member was akin to throwing oneself in the path of an oncoming carriage. By the time she heard Gerard Blanc’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, Maggie had wiped all traces of alarm off her face.

  She made an attempt to smile as he barged into the room. “I am going to the apothecary and will return later to bring more medicine and a tisane for strength. I will speak with the alewife and have her bring up some custard and broth.” She looked him in the eye. “If she does not eat, she will die.”

  Hopefully the girl would be worth more to him alive than dead. He stared dully, grunted, and nodded.

  She made a quick exit and stopped downstairs to greet her good friend Lena. She had come from Heidelberg ten years ago. The apple dessert she called strudel would make an angel commit the sin of gluttony.

  She was making ale, her arms stirring a fragrant, yeasty mixture with a wooden spoon in a huge bowl. “Maggie!” She put the spoon aside and embraced her. “Liebchen, it is most remarkable. Sarah lives! How happy you must be.” She held her at arm’s length. “You are exhausted, look at you. Rest, have a mug of ale. I have not had a chance to check on the girl upstairs today, so busy have I been.”

  “I shouldn’t,” Maggie protested, even as Lena pushed her into a chair in the corner of the kitchen. She had not wanted to take the time after the birth to have a meal and a mug of ale as was customary. She was quite parched.

  “You must take a care for yourself,” the alewife chided. “You are pale.”

  She nodded, drinking the ale with closed eyes. It slid down her throat, so sweet and rich, so delicious. She let the warm, yeasty air sink into her tired muscles.

  Lena stood with her muscular arms folded over her chest, white blonde hair straggling out of her cap, her apron festooned with bits of wheat and the brown syrupy mixture called wert. Her plump cheeks dimpled with her smile. “How is our Sarah?”

  Maggie glanced around, making sure no one could overhear. “I beg of you to honor this confidence. It is as if she is trapped in a nightmare. She lies like a corpse at times, then thrashes violently. She hit Samuel across the face.”

  “Our Sarah?”

  “Yes, she was senseless, but her strength is alarming when she is agitated, as if she is aided by—something. She has not eaten, has not awoken. She is not present.”

  Her friend nodded. “They say that God has resurrected her, or it’s the devil’s work.”

  Maggie sat up. “Oh Lena, surely you cannot believe such talk. You are a sensible woman. You know there must be a logical explanation for this, that she must not have died at all. Who can be resurrected but our Lord Jesus? First of all, I must find out about the birth. What have you heard? What do you know about Edward Carter? He delivered Sarah’s babe.”

  Lena frowned as she refilled her mug. “They say the doctor is from London or Hastings, or both. He comes here often.” She grinned. “He is handsome and as smooth as our finest brandy. He has a different fraulein on his arm each time he comes in. But in the last week since he’s been here, I have already heard talk about him that is not so good, that he charms you into the chair and pulls three teeth when he could pull one, and rough about it, too.”

  Maggie nodded. “I have just been to see the poor girl upstairs. He delivered her and most inhumanely.”

  Lena wiped sweat off her forehead with a corner of her apron. “I was going to fetch you today to see to her. I have seen Edward Carter in the company of that Gerard Blanc often. Constable Stowe has been alerted, but he says it is not his concern, that he does not involve himself in the doctor’s affairs. He says we should be thankful we have a real doctor trained in London. It’s one thing when you hear one bad thing about someone. But when you hear many—”

  This news did not bode well. “He told Samuel my sister had brain fever. Have you heard of any cases, Lena?”

  She resumed her stirring. “No, I have not. The flux, yes. The morbid sore throat, yes.”

  “What if there have not been any cases? Samuel said she had a horrible headache. People stricken with brain fever indeed have a headache most severe. I do not know if she had a fever. What if she did not have brain fever, Lena?”

  “I don’t understand. Why would he say she had brain fever when she did not?”

  “I don’t know,” Maggie said. “But I am going to find out. It sounds as if his intentions toward his patients bear ill will. Why would a doctor do such things? Will you keep your eyes and ears open for me?”

  “You know that I will, Liebchen. How is the baby?”

  “Oh. God be praised, she is beautiful and thriving, though tiny.”

  “Ach, das is good.”

  Maggie could not help but see the dreamy look in her eyes and asked her if she could check on the girl and administer the medicines she would bring over later.

  Then she staggered to her feet, her head spinning a bit as she straightened. “Lands, Lena, what did you put in this batch?”

  She smiled. “Das is called the baby maker.”

  She laughed and embraced her. “Thank you, my good friend.”

  She opened the heavy oak doors, comforted but a little inebriated.

  Chapter Seven

  Maggie emerged from the inn to find the fog had dissipated into wisps that parted like lace curtains. A weak sun hinted at warmth. There seemed to be an unusual amount of noise at this time of the morning, and she belatedly recalled it was market day. She hastened down Market Street, intent on finding Ian, who surely must be there, to procure the herbs and simples needed for her mothers, particularly poor Sabine. Now it would be impossible to complete the task without rubbing elbows with the townspeople. She had not the energy or the desire to socialize.

  Her limbs felt numb from lack of sleep or perhaps the ale. Tendrils of anxiety wound their way into her stomach at being gone from Sarah, and most of all, not knowing how to help her. She could be fevered right now—and tomorrow her milk would likely be coming in, and Joannie could not feed her babe forever. And Samuel had not named the babe. He must name her, for Sarah could not. How to help Ruthie? Never before had she so desperately needed sleep, to just, for a few hours, escape the heavy burden of responsibilities. But how to do so?

  The closer she got to the market, the more difficult it was to walk properly. What had Lena put in that ale? It would not do to be less than alert when she would be barraged with questions. She eyed the uneven cobblestones at the end of the street, taking care for her numb foot, a sure sign of exhaustion. She soldiered on.

  Soon the racket of a well-attended event surrounded her: the cry of the rippiers selling herring, yelling and cajoling; the slap of the fish on their counter and the smell of meat roasting on the spit; the yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread and the spice of gingerbread from the baker. Weekly market day was a celebration of sorts, a break from day-to-day labors, an opportunity to exchange new recipes, and a chance to catch up on gossip. She knew what the gossip would be today and steeled herself against questions about Sarah.

  It seemed something else captured their attention at the moment. A voice drifted over the marketplace, Ian’s rusty tenor calling out, the cultur
ed tones gone and replaced with a rich exotic accent. She combed the square and found him wedged between the beekeeper selling honey and the farmer’s wife with her hens in cages. The hens, to Maggie’s muffled ears, seemed to cluck in harmony to his dulcet tones.

  He had tied his nutmeg-colored hair back, the curls escaping onto his tanned and muscled neck. A gaggle of women surrounded his stall, faces upraised to him, as if to the sun. He vibrated with energy and good cheer, and appeared taller, more powerful than she had last seen him. He wore a dove grey suit that shone like silk and emphasized his wide shoulders. A vest underneath the coat met in two sharp points in the center, and peacock blue embroidery bordered both the vest and coat.

  For the life of her, she did not know how he could be so lively. Had he not been awake standing sentinel with her last eve? His vitality was most unnatural, she fumed. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, he gave every impression of having slept from sundown to sunup.

  He held a bottle in his long fingers. “My ladies, as beauteous as indeed thou art, I have in my hand”—he displayed it with a flourish—“Argan oil from Arabia, used by women in the harem of the sultan himself.”

  Gasps echoed round the group.

  “Yes.” He grinned. “Wicked infidels indeed, but with the most luxuriant, silky hair.”

  Putting his hand to his heart, he intoned, “I, myself, risked life and limb invading the sheik’s harem to bring to you this special elixir that will only enhance your already breathtaking beauty.”

  The women tittered. He reached down, cupped the face of old Widow Jenkins, and she sighed. He took her hand and rubbed a bit of the oil on it, eyes alight on her face.

  “I promise thee, for three pence, a mere pittance, your hair will shine like the sun and glow like the moon.” The purses opened, and the coins came out.

  She stood at the edge of the square, swaying slightly, incredulous. What was he about?

  “My ladies,” he announced, “and gentlemen,” and bowed to the disgruntled husbands and fathers standing with their arms folded. “I am your new apothecary, ready to serve you. I will pull teeth, I will supply you with the medicines you require, and last but not least, I will make you tonics that are famous the world over.”