Families of inmates often watched their loved ones thrown into debtor’s prison for want of money to pay bad debts, only to be further forced to watch them die inside for want of a crust of bread, and no monies to pay for necessities.
It was not unusual for scarce-found payments meant for food to jingle in the gaoler’s pocket against his keys, with no bread given. ‘Twas the same for water. No water without money, and sometimes none with it either. And since it was the bread-earners who most often found themselves locked up, so it was their fate, in turn, to see their families suffer and starve only to join them inside, leaving their brats to survive on the streets.
I saw these things with my own eyes. It was no less ill to see the lot of debtors, whose only crime was poverty, than to see that of Catholics, whose only crime was their faith. All were equally punished and bled dry for the privilege of being so trapped.
My daily visits alleviated their lot so little, at times I wished I had tears left to cry. When a man lay down determined to die, that he might end his and his family’s servitude to the prison leeches, he would refuse my alms and no argument could change his mind. I wished to alleviate his pain, but I understood his desire to die quickly rather than make his loved ones suffer longer. The plight of most would not change for want of time. Those would never have more funds, and what might come to them was best used to feed the children.
A prisoner could only pray his fortune might be changed by an unexpected sum of money coming to him, or by a wealthy gentleman paying his debts and taking him as a servant until the debt was repaid.
Since Willoughby’s prosperous family had cut him off from his inheritance, he was in no better position than a pauper that had spent his entire life surviving the street. Nay, perhaps worse, for he did never learn the street ways to cheat death that poverty taught, nor what character he should play in fate as it was dealt.
In a family of as good fortune as his own, Willoughby would have had expectations for a fair deal, and would never have needed to watch for the crooked croupier of life hiding the good cards by shuffling them up his sleeve. The scales against him to play straight would weigh heavier on this man than on one who knew a fixed game was inevitable and had no expectations honesty.
Willoughby clasped the coins as I straightened the front of his jacket, trying not to cringe as I touched something wet on the lapel, making certain to look as if we were caught in intimacy.
‘He might have been a passable catch when he came in, Mrs Cellier, but you would not want him now, if you know what I mean. Look to his hair, Missus, see if you can find better company in what crawls there!’
Unwillingly, I looked at Willoughby’s hair and indeed saw it move. My instinct was to recoil, but I made myself place a hand to his forehead and wipe a lock from his face.
‘There is a fair bit of game in this one yet, Harris.’ I laughed in a bawdy fashion. If they expected lewd behaviour from me then I would play that game, as if my only interest in this man was to bed him. At this time, there was naught further from the truth. Apart from his stink and mucky skin and lice crawling in matted hair, I had my Pierre at home to satisfy me. But as long as lewd thoughts filled the gatekeepers’ heads they would not suspect my true intentions.
‘Well, don’t mess the goods about, unless yer willing to pay, of course,’ he laughed with a baseness that put us on the same low level. ‘Give ‘im bread if you want,’ he added generously, ‘and be gone.’
With that, Harris walked back around the corner and away to make some other person’s life a misery. Finally, we were alone.
‘Captain Willoughby. Thomas,’ I tried, as the man’s eyes had glazed and he stared lifeless ahead, even standing as one of the living. ‘I am having you out of here.’
At this, there was a tiny flicker of something that might have been recognition, or might only have been him blinking at the piece of dirt caught on his long lashes.
‘You must find yourself, Thomas. I will pay your debt for you today, and you will be released as soon as I have that done.’ His dark brown eyes came to focus on my face, not yet in hope, for the news had not reached his heart, but the words were in his ears now, trying to reach his mind.
‘And I have my maid, Margaret, fetching some fresh clothes for you to wear.’ Only now realising his state, Willoughby slowly looked down at the filthy rags he had worn since pawning his own good clothes.
‘You have done this for me, Madam? Why would you do so?’
‘You have honoured your deal with me to collect important information. I believe you might be of further assistance to my husband and myself.’
‘As I once said to you, I will do anything to repay your kindness, my fair lady.’
It is no small wonder how, when hope reaches the heart, it gives life back to the body. Already a spark had returned to Willoughby’s eyes and flame to his cheeks. I silently thanked God’s hand for reaching inside him and relighting the fire; remembering that I was his instrument for doing so filled me with happiness.
I told Willoughby of my scheme, that he must pretend to be my plaything if I should show interest, so that they would not charge me twice over, or even thrice over, his worth to release him. I had other uses for my money than to add to a gaoler’s over-spilling coffer!
I looked at the state of him. Lady Powys would see him today, but not before he had the prison washed off him, and not before the creatures eating off his skin and scalp were scrubbed away. If we must shave his head to rid the infestation, then a periwig would have to be found. He could not stand before the Lady like that!
‘I will come back for you shortly, when Margaret gets here, and you will come with me, clean yourself and put on your clothes. Then I will take you to Lady Powys, who wishes to see you.’
‘Indeed, I am forever indebted to you, madam.’
‘As I have told you, your payment for this kindness was given in advance, and will perhaps save many from worse treatment. It is I who owes you for your labour on the article, and also for your aid in exposing the design to fix the plot against the king onto our faith!’
‘I am glad to have been of assistance in those matters. May all men of all faiths one day walk free!’
‘Aye, and may we be a small part of the history of it!’ It was indeed an uplifting idea, that what we did today might shape the future, even if only in some small way. ‘Now, I have bread to feed to some that need it. I will be back to see you soon.’ I gave him a chunk, and left him staring sightlessly down at his open palms, bread sitting on one and coins on the other.
11
26th day of April, 1679 (evening)
What a sight we were that evening: I, a midwife, stood with my husband, a merchant, and Willoughby, an ex-convict, outside the grand Powys House at the northwest corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Great Queen Street. The magnificent mansion was prominent in London’s largest square, only rivalled by Lord Lindsey’s splendid home further around the common. Never having visited the residence before, Pierre was suitably impressed and Willoughby was so affected by the size of it that he took time to count the windows.
‘Twenty six including the two on street level,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘One, two, three, four, five floors! Odd’s fish, in truth this is a palace!’
Noting his improved demeanour, and ignoring his expletive, one that I had heard the king himself use, I turned to look at the building, a thing I had not done since first I visited it. The imposing front did indeed seem fit for royalty rather than an Earl, but I was witness that, besides their seat in Wales, Lord and Lady Powys had possessed this town house for seven years and were quite comfortable here.
To both the left and to the right of the ornate iron gate and railings was set an arched entrance into a stone passage, each leading to an inside side door for trade callers and servants. We stood outside the closed gates considering if we should use the dignified front door at
the top of the broad stone steps normally reserved for callers of their own class, or whether, as I was wont to do when I came on matters of philanthropy, we used one of the two arched passageways.
‘We should call at the front entrance as is fitting for dinner guests,’ I decided.
The three of us approached the immense fine-carved door that five persons might walk through side by side without touching shoulders, and Pierre took the wooden hand pull and tugged hard until it came from the wall. Three times he pulled and three times the bell beyond the door rang. Seeing Willoughby waiting tall and clean and handsome beside us on the steps brought forth images of that afternoon tumbling one after the other through my head.
Bargaining for Willoughby’s release surprised me as being the most effortless part of the day. The lewd comments of the turnkeys gave credence to how well I acted the part of a doxy, made easy by how little was already commonly thought of a midwife and her life. So long as they received a slice of the fees that went to the king they cared little for any other thing! As I expected, thinking I wanted the man as a plaything, they demanded over the payment of his debt but, as I hoped, did not consider him important enough to charge double, or even triple.
Once we reached the street and both breathed deeply of the spring air that smelled sweet after the cells, I found even I could not bear the smell he carried with him. I determined that, if I was somewhat used to the stench inside of the prison, out here it was too overbearing. The delicate nose of Lady Powys would be affronted by such abhorrence. It was fortunate that I had earlier begged of Pierre his permission to take Willoughby home and clean him thoroughly before this night!
It was further fortunate I had the good sense to dismiss the household staff that afternoon to prevent the wagging tongues of the tattle-tales10 and twattlers11 amongst them. They might talk too free of this man’s presence here and ask questions too complicated to answer simply. With luck, none of the boys from St Omer would be returned home and we might make free with the house.
10 scandalmonger
11 someone that chatters/talks a lot
Soon my arms ached from carrying pots of boiling water enough to fill two bathtubs, then from emptying the water away again. The first full tub, and a good deal of soap, took the most dirt from Willoughby and his under clothing. I could not help but be satisfied by the many crawling creatures swimming in the greasy scum on top of the foul water I tipped into the gutter. At the least there would be less lice to comb out after. Into the second tub I splashed some of my expensive oil of lavender from Paris to cloak the stubborn prison smell.
I thought of the captain undressing.
Without shame, and with his back to me, the captain had unbuttoned a still grey shirt and removed it so that he stood in the tub wearing only baggy breeches tied at his skinny middle and that clung to every scraggy part of him. As he dropped the soggy shirt to the floor, I gasped at his back covered from neck to waist with ribbon scars that could only be made by the bite of lashes. Some wounds were yet unhealed.
Turning his head at my noise and seeing how I looked at him, he turned his full body so I could not see more and said, ‘You are shocked, madam. Does your husband not take penance from his flesh? I have found it the singular most satisfying means of atoning for my sins.’
I shook my head. I had seen skin stripped from flesh by the tails before, but this man’s back was more discoloured skin than that of sun-browned youth. I swallowed hard and tried to regain a more dispassionate disposition.
‘Does not confession to a priest absolve your sin?’ I said.
‘The extent of my wrongs cannot be undone by confession alone.’
Once the bath was empty and Willoughby had on fresh, dry underclothes and Pierre’s nightgown, I had him sit whilst I worked on his hair. Some goose grease aided me in untangling some of the matted knots but, even after much heavy combing, his hair still moved in a way it should not, so I resolved it must be short in order to use my fine-toothed comb and remove what insects held fast. Finally, what was left of his hair no longer had life of its own and some more lavender oil removed any last smell of confinement.
To distract us while we worked on his ablutions, Willoughby told me how he came to have torn ears, having had nails hammered through them into the pillory for counterfeiting. I resolved the periwig he should have must hide such shame.
I then told Willoughby of my meeting with Percival Willoughby, a man-midwife of Derbyshire. Despite interfering a little much in the business of a trade meant for women, he struck me as having more wisdom than I normally gave a man credit for. He would be about eighty now, and probably long in the ground, but I had met this worthy man when he practiced in London in the late fifties.
We had both been called to deliver a lady of standing, my mind cloaks the identity of her. I had been impressed by his uncommon sense in waiting ‘til the baby was ready to come, unlike some midwifes, who would as soon wrench it from the womb, rip open a mother’s body than wait for Dame Nature. He did not hold with many traditional midwife customs that I was taught by my mother, but the reasons he gave were sensible, and his influence on me had since saved, I believe, many babies and their mothers.
The man still held my greatest respect and I would have be honoured to know Willoughby as a relative of him, but the answer was still ‘no’. He did not know any such a man, though he may be distant by blood, he imagined.
A knock on the door admitted Margaret; back from completing a task for me.
‘Do you have them? ‘
Instead of answering, Margaret took in the half-dressed, hairless young man behind me, and nodded curtly. It was unlike her to be silent. Like Susan, he usually had much to say on any matter, whether desired or not. I held out my hand for the clothes she held in hers.
Finally she answered, ‘Yes madam, but they are overmuch large.’ This, I presumed, was after a fast assessment of how little flesh was left on Willoughby’s bones.
‘They will have to do. A few good meals is what he needs.’
‘My coat! Where did you find it!’
‘In the pawn shop, where you left it.’ I answered him. I showed him our bedchamber, and then Margaret and I left him to dress.
A short while after, a young gentleman emerged from my room. Margaret and I stopped to appraise him. His clothes were obviously fitted in better days when his body had some flesh; there was no single place he now filled them as they should be filled and they hung on him as if he was a stick. But still, the difference from when he arrived two hours since was as a tree in spring is to a tree in winter. In his finery, he was a gentleman once more.
‘Close your mouth, Margaret,’ I told my maid the moment I remembered to close my own. ‘You will do, Captain. Are you hungry?’ We were to meet Pierre at Lady Powys’s house in half an hour, and we appeared to be ready.
‘I most certainly am, My Lady. It is a delight to be my own self once more!’ he said, eying his reflection in the looking glass above the fireplace.
‘Mrs Cellier,’ I answered absently, watching as he turned first one way then the other, pleased with what he saw. Indeed, his graceful movement was a delight on the eyes.
By happy chance, the arrival of our coach at Powys House had coincided with Pierre’s and, after introducing Pierre and Willoughby, we proceeded to the door where we now waited. I had allowed Margaret the rest of the day for her own entertainment, once she had taken care of one last message to Lord Castlemaine, asking him if we might meet to discuss the best way to place my petition about the prisons in front of the Government.
Eventually an old, bowed man, who I owned must regularly walk beside the reaper, opened the door and showed us the parlour, where the Countess of Powys stood to greet us.
‘Mrs Cellier! It gives me rare pleasure to reacquaint myself with you.’
‘The pleasure is wholly mine, Lady Powys. If it so please you, m
ay I introduce Monsieur Pierre Cellier, my husband?’ Pierre took Lady Powys’ proffered hand and bowed charmingly over it.
‘Bon soir, My Lady,’ he said. ‘I could not be more delighted to make the acquaintance of both beauty and Samaritan in one fell swoop.’
‘And this must be our friend from Newgate.’ Lady Powys was too impatient for me to introduce him properly.
‘Indeed, My Lady. This is Captain Thomas Willoughby. Captain Willoughby, Lady Powys.’
‘Enchanted, to be sure,’ said Willoughby, echoing how Pierre took Lady Powys’ hand and leaned over it; but he bowed so low and with such an embellished flourish of his hands even I, who had seen him there, could not imagine that this afternoon he had graced Newgate with his presence and was in such a sorry state. His shakiness did nothing to reduce his charm. Then he raised her small white-gloved fingers back to his full standing height and kissed them elaborately. Lady Powys should have grabbed her hand back at his audaciousness, but it was obvious his flamboyancy and charm, as it did me, captured her straight away. ‘It will be my eternal happiness to repay the kindnesses you have shown me,’ he said, echoing the words he had told me over and again.
After the requisite pleasantries, Lady Powys said. ‘Shall we adjourn to the dining room? Dinner is, I believe, ready to be served,’ and proffered her arm for Willoughby to take in his. Pierre, in turn, took my arm and we followed a few steps behind our hostess.
We ate a sumptuous meal of soup served with bread rolls, followed by divers meats, such as pheasant, pork and lamb from the countryside, and the season’s first asparagus served in verjuice12 dressing, made from the last season’s crab-apples, as well as some pickled vegetables and sauces. Each course was served in the finest ornate silver dishes, the likes of which we were not so advantaged to have in our own home. The closing course was a jam rolled sponge covered with sweet fruit sauce bottled last autumn.
The Popish Midwife Page 11