‘I did not know you were a turncoat. How did you come to the Roman Catholic faith?’
‘Tis a story too long to tell at this time. I have a woman heavy with twins I must visit,’ I said as I stood, not wanting to think of my young days. ‘I told her I would call before dark.’
I thanked the Corrals for their hospitality and bade them goodbye. Before I closed the door on the way out, I turned back to Mr Corral and asked him if he would write an account of his ordeal. He told me he did not know how to write, so I said I would come and be his scribe, if that was satisfactory to him. At his agreement, I nodded my approval and left.
Walking home, I pondered on the rightness of doing a thing so provoking. Our Almighty Father had brought me in the way of this cause, and it was not my place to question my place in it, only to divine what I should do about it. It was right that a person knowing something wrong should speak out, but I had children, and a husband I might put at risk by doing so.
The ones that had the reins of this had shown over and over they did not care about such things. They deprived prisoners of seeing their spouse or parent or child without compunction. It was true my family had need of me, but was their need more than those poor wretches in gaol, separated from their own families, and tortured in body and mind until they could stand this life no longer?
My knowledge of this atrocity made it my duty to make something of it.
I had an urge to see Pierre. I fondly pictured his face yesterday after we had bid good night to the boys from St Omers, the witnesses brought over for the trials at the Duchess of York’s bidding and staying with us. I could not deny the pleasure as he spoke of his home country.
Still wanting me to return to France with him, he told me stories of his childhood, and of how he came to be such a fine merchant. At times such as these he reminded me he was not always the old man he had now become – he was once a strong man with a thriving business – and I loved to listen to his joyful tales of a youth so different from my own. As he spoke, the flickering light of the fire could not match the warmth memories that lit his face, and I happily borrowed them and made them part of mine.
I would take counsel with Pierre when I came home. He was a wise man and would know whether it was right or not I should do as I intended.
6
28th day of March 1679
‘Will I ever carry again?’ asked Lady Cholmley, trying to see what I did.
I held firm my thoughts and gently swabbed her female secrets with the oil of early summer Garden Tansy, then wiped down my hands with some rags I had in my bag for that purpose. The likes of this work brought to mind that done on poor Mrs Potter a year ago. The gentry were no more safe from inept practice than the poor.
‘The Lord does not take me into his counsel, My Lady. If ever I discover the answer, you will surely know of it but, until then, we can but pray.’
‘I see. I did imagine it was that bad,’ she said. I knew her understanding was full.
Changing the subject, I said, ‘How does your wet-nurse seem to you? Is she suitable?’
Having nursed all my own infants, I normally disapproved of the common practice in the higher classes taking a wet-nurse without reason, but sometimes necessity demanded it. This mother was still too weak to feed her own, having suffered greatly during the birthing.
‘I believe she does a fine job, but I fear the infant is ailing.’
‘Oh?’ I asked. ‘In what way?’
‘Maryanne says she has digestive trouble.’
‘Does the infant yet eat meat?’ I asked. Perhaps the nurse had not followed my instructions on what victuals the infant ought to have.
I thought of the meal that was being prepared for my family and our guests at home and a groan echoed throughout my empty belly. I did not break the night’s fast when I woke, being fearful for Father Lewis on trial this day for his life. Word was that some malicious persons in Newgate spoke out against him, and if it were to be proved he practised as a priest he would surely be hanged for treason, as was the law.
‘She does. I watched her prepare wheatgrass bread, soaked overnight, and boiled in a little milk as you instructed.’
‘Has she eaten any other thing?’ I asked.
‘I believe the nurse follows your instructions implicitly,’ she said with little enthusiasm.
‘I will talk to her on the way out. Perhaps it is herself she does not care for.’
Payment for service was left in the usual place for me to collect as I left, so I wished Lady Cholmley well and went looking for Maryanne. I found her on her own in the nursery, holding a sleeping babe. I had mind to be quick here so I could return home and have news from Master Townley, who this morning had plans to attend the trial at The King’s Bench.
‘Good morning, Maryanne. How fare you today? I understand the infant child is ailing?’
‘It is not much, Mrs Cellier, but a little looseness.’
‘I see. Have you any soiled clothing I may see?’
Maryanne looked around the room, then pointed to a few items at the cot-side that had not yet been washed. I went over and picked them up.
‘The colour is wrong. Are you unhappy?’
‘No ma’am, I am not.’
‘Have you eaten any such thing I instructed you not to?
‘No, I have done as you said.’
What about your husband, have you laid with him lately?’
‘You mean, in the intimate way?’
‘I do.’
‘No ma’am. You told me I must not, and so I have not. I would not do a thing to forfeit this job you found for me. Nor would I ever do any thing that would harm the infant.’
‘I must inspect you.’ Another time, any woman of breeding might have been shy to show herself, but Maryanne had been opening and closing her upper garments for over a year, suckling first her own infant, and now Lady Cholmley’s, and was used to me checking all worked as it should.
She faced me with her top open, and I saw she was full and well-shaped. I walked over and took one protruding nipple between forefinger and thumb, and squeezed until a few drops of milk trickled out and caught them on my nail.
‘You whey is too thin. I believe there is rhubarb in the garden. Eat some cooked for breakfast for three days and you will find the little one happier.’ I looked at the young woman. A wet-nurse was at her best after the second child. This one was on her third, but she was healthy and robust, and I knew her brats well. She tended them lovingly as a gardener cared for his flowerbeds, and they grew strong.
‘I give you thanks, Mrs Cellier. I will do that,’ she said with respect.
I took my leave of her then, and walked home fast.
Momentarily, shining silver veins flashed beneath dark clouds and then there was a long low rumble. A storm approached.
By the time I reached home I was drenched. I handed our housekeeper, Susan, my dripping cloak to hang in the closet to dry and, in the absence of Anne, my maid, instructed her to join me in the bed chamber to help me dress for dinner. Before she left, I asked her if Peter was already laid to sleep.
‘Yes madam,’ she bobbed. ‘The babe crawled himself to sleep.’ With that she was gone and I went to my room.
My clinking bag of medicines and ointments seemed heavier than usual today. I dropped it on the bed and opened the large, carved oak wardrobe doors.
A loud crackle of thunder came fast on the heels of blue light that filled my room and called to attention the ravages of my full fifty years in the looking glass over the fireplace. It passed as quickly as it came, though the impression in my mind did not, even when I tried to shake it away.
I chose an evening dress suitable for company and struggled free from the wet fabric that clung fast to my cold skin. As I turned to drop my wet clothes onto the bed I fair jumped in fright. I did not see my youngest daughter enter. S
he stood by my bag, fiddling with the leather handles.
‘Hello Maggie. What have you done today?’
‘Only playing. What is this?’ Having undone the catch of the bag, my child of four years proceeded to pick out items one at the time, and inspect them.
I could not wait longer for Susan. Struggling to squeeze my arms into the tight sleeves of the spring blue evening dress I had chosen, my eyes finally emerged from the lace rim neck to see Maggie holding in one hand the bulging purse of soft brown kid leather I always carried with me. She opened the string tying the top and from it took a plain white, egg-shaped stone and held it in the air between finger and thumb to inspect it.
‘That is called an eagle stone, dearest, from Africa, fetched out from beneath a nesting eagle.’ I came and leaned over her to look at the stone she held in her hand. ‘It is special. There are others in there from different places. Shake it.’ She shook it, and was surprised to hear the rattle. ‘It carries an infant in its belly,’ I told her as she puzzled over it, ‘a small stone within the larger stone.’
‘Will you birth it?’
‘No, but hung round the neck of a woman with child, it will protect her from miscarrying and keep her safe.’
‘What is in this one?’ She took another leather purse, bound with threads, from my bag and opened it.
‘Lodestones. They have power the unborn child cannot resist. Sometimes an infant is too comfortable and does not want to leave the mother’s womb, so I show it the stone to change its mind. It is drawn to it, see?’
From the bag, Maggie then took one of the grey, noduled stones, speckled with red iron and placed it onto her upturned curved palm, studied it, then held it to her cheek. I did not expect what next she said, ‘I would not leave your belly for this. So ugly.’ I held out my hand for the stone and also studied it, though I had seen it, or one the like of it, since the day I followed my mother from house to house, dreaming I would one day follow in her footsteps. Seeing it through my daughter’s eyes, it did indeed look plain.
‘Do you wish to see some power of the stone?’ Maggie nodded, staring at it as though it would grow wings and fly like a bird.
I went to my bedside and opened my wicker sewing box lined with red silk, and drew forth the fine needle I had last night used to fix an indignant button Pierre’s new-grown girth caused to jump from a shirt that was happier in his younger days.
‘Give it to me,’ I said holding out my hand. Maggie placed the innocuous looking stone on my flat palm. Here,’ I indicated to her to follow. I cleared a space on the dressing table and put the stone on its surface. Then I placed the needle nearby. Nothing happened. I rolled it gently closer; not much, only enough. Suddenly the tip took on a life of its own and spun round to touch the stone. Maggie’s mouth hung open, her eyes wide, then she exclaimed, ‘Such magic!’
‘Nay, Maggie. A midwife does not cast spells. We need no magic to care for mother and child, but nature’s own garden: herbs and spices for ointment, medicine and poultice, and stones such as these to assist us in our task, or ward off bad happenings. The Lord’s garden holds all we need for our work, we do not borrow the Devil’s hand.’
‘But… but… this is magic! Are you a witch?’
‘This is nature, child, a midwife’s instrument. I am not a witch, and I’ll thank you never to say such thing again! Those of our craft are often tasked to expose witches and give evidence at the town counsel of our findings.’
‘Do you use this low stone to discover them?’
‘Lode-stone,’ I corrected.’ No, our privilege to visit a woman’s bedchamber gives us this position.’ Susan came in then, and I asked her to fasten my dress, turning my back so she might do so. ‘And also the trust and respect a good midwife gains for herself,’ I added to Maggie, speaking over my shoulder. ‘And, between us in this room, I am not certain any woman has that kind of power. Only the Lord.’
‘Do the men from Flanders come to find a witch?’
‘Though I might oft call it a witch hunt, for it is surely that in deed, nay, these young men come overseas to save the lives of their friends.’
‘Are they witches, the ones they come to save?’ Impressed as she was by the stone, she could not seem to let go the idea of magic.
‘They are some of our faith, and for that they are condemned to gaol. Their only crime was to befriend a snake, to take him in and care for him, and for that they are accused by him of ungodly things, even knowing them to be untrue.’
‘What did the snake say? Was it the snake in the Bible, the one that spoke to Eve?’
‘You should ready yourself for supper.’ This was not for a young child’s ears.
‘But Mam, was it? Was it the same snake?’
‘A different snake, the same fork tongue. He accused them of trying to kill the king, though his proof is imaginary.’ I spoke my thoughts out loud but, as usual, I spoke too openly. ‘Enough now. Go ready yourself for supper, Maggie.’
‘Yes Mam.’ Maggie looked at the lodestone again. She raised her finger and went to touch the needle but, some distance from it, withdrew her finger as if it were burnt.
‘It will not hurt you, Maggie. It holds only good spirits.’
‘But Mam, why did Master Palmer cry? Did his friends die?’
The question took me aback; I had thought she would ask further about the stone.
‘Did he cry?’ I asked Susan. At her nod, I pursed my lips. That did not bode well for news of Father Lewis.
I must raise the spirits of these young men. If they stood in court with heavy heart, it was sure to be read as guilt, or desperation to save their friends. Their testimony would be thrown out. It was how the mind of the accusers worked. The boys must be confident in their Testaments, not fearful of failure, though failure was the most common outcome these days.
‘I will talk to him,’ I said more to myself than any other. ‘Go now Maggie, or you will have no supper!’ Maggie skipped out fast at that.
‘Why did master Palmer cry, Susan?’
‘I know not, Madam Cellier, I did not ask him.’
‘Perhaps we shall find out soon enough.’
Susan nodded. ‘‘Tis dangerous to talk of Mr Oates so openly. You should be more careful.’ Then, suddenly remembering, said, ‘There is a message from My Lady, The Duchess of York, Madam.’
‘What? Where is it?’
I should admonish Susan for her impertinence in chiding me, but she was right. She fetched the letter from beside my bag on the bed, where she must have laid it down when she fastened my dress.
‘Here it is, Madam Cellier. A messenger delivered it this afternoon.’
I took the letter eagerly. Any message from the Royal Court was cause for excitement, but to be singled out by the king’s sister in law was a great distinction.
‘Thank you, Susan. That will be all.’ She did not hide her disappointment as she left.
I took a thick, blue woollen shawl that matched my dress from the top drawer of the curved fronted walnut chest and drew it close round my shoulders. But it was not the chill evening air that caused me to shiver.
My mind had returned to Father Lewis and all those cooped up in gaol for no other reason but the lies of that evil man, Mr Oates, and his cronies. How many more were to suffer for that dark man’s work I could not know, but plenty with his beliefs would readily point their finger at any priest that dared to take communion. The Welsh priest was on trial for no more than being saviour to the poor and holding mass for his congregation.
Squinting my eyes so that I might better see the words in the firelight, I read the instruction to come to St James’s Palace in the morning. Perhaps the Duchess had discovered I tended her husband’s first wife, and would ask me to tend her also, for Fortune did not smile on her child bearing. I held the letter to my chest with momentary pleasure that I might have been singled ou
t for such honour. I would have Margaret lay out a dress for the occasion.
A short while later, I had to hold my news close as we sat at the table to eat. I wished to tell my husband of it first.
Before we could begin, the bell to the outside door rang. My family were used to the harsh sound, but the young masters from St Omers that did not live there winced. I made note to have the blacksmith fix that broken bell casing. He had twice promised to do so, and twice he had failed to do so. If it weren’t for that the man was in need of work to support his large family, we would take our business elsewhere.
We waited to see who had come before we said grace. We did not have long to wait. Very soon the door to the dining room was opened by one of the boys from St Omer, with Susan following close behind.
‘Come, Master Townley. Come forth and dry yourself. Tell us the news while we eat,’ said Pierre to the dripping youth silhouetted in the doorway. A gust of damp air reached the table from the hall, accentuating the cool spring rain splashing against the window.
‘My news may remove your appetite.’
‘Then we will eat first, talk after. We have had little enough appetite today as it is,’ I said, needing food in my belly.
‘What, are our manners hiding along with our good humour? Susan, be so good as to take our young friend’s cloak,’ said Pierre.
Patiently, we waited while Susan took the wet cloak from Townley’s shoulders, deftly folding it in three to cross the hall and hang it in the closet without, I suspected, a single drop wetting the floor. Townley trod heavily on the stone floor to the empty place laid for him and leaned on the back of the chair for support, catching neither the eyes of the other young French visitors, nor mine, nor Pierre’s.
‘A wet evening, my friend,’ stated my husband unnecessarily.
Townley paused before sighing. ‘The weather is rougher out there than you dare imagine.’
His tone said he talked of other than the weather. He blinked twice then wiped the drops from his lashes.
The Popish Midwife Page 6