by Valerie Wood
She shuddered and closed her eyes, her small brown face puckered at the memory. ‘Then, while two of them held me, the other two pummelled my belly to make ’babby turn – but they killed him, and they nearly killed me. I was young and strong and I survived, but I vowed that though I couldn’t have any more bairns, on account of what they did, I would deliver other mothers of their babbies, and I wouldn’t use force, and I wouldn’t use brutality. I studied herbs and plants and found what was best to ease ’pain, and I found that I had strength in these hands, strength to ease ’babby out without hurting its mother.’
She looked down at her small brown hands for a moment and then looked up at Maria who was silently watching her, the baby fast asleep at her breast, her small rosebud mouth creamy with milk.
‘Only, mistress upstairs isn’t young – and she isn’t strong, not like thee and me, and I’m afeard of what they might do.’
Maria was afraid. She believed all that Mrs Scryven had told her, for she had heard similar stories, time and again. Not all the midwives were cruel, but most were ignorant, and many of them drank strong liquor and were quite incapable of helping a woman in difficulties.
‘What can we do?’ she asked, but before Mrs Scryven could answer the door flew open and Mrs Hawk stood there, leaning on the door frame unsteadily, her face flushed and her hair hanging greasily over her eyes.
‘Where’s that wood for ’fire,’ she demanded. ‘Mrs Moxon wants it immediately.’
Mrs Scryven rose without a word and went to the rear door where she called for Lizzie. ‘Fetch some logs in, Lizzie, bring big ’uns, not ’small brittle pieces.’ She turned back to Mrs Hawk who was about to return upstairs. ‘Hey, just wait on and help this bairn upstairs wi’ log basket.’
‘With a bit of luck,’ she said to Maria as she closed the door behind them, ‘them logs will smoulder and keep ’fire down, they’ll not give out much heat, being elm.’
All the late afternoon and early evening Isaac Masterson paced the hall floor, anxiously turning to the stairs and listening intently each time a door opened. He had been told by Mrs Moxon that his wife would be better without him, even though the baby wouldn’t be born for some time yet.
‘But surely I could see her just for a few moments,’ he begged, ‘just for reassurance?’
‘Madam doesn’t need reassurance,’ said Mrs Moxon firmly, and closed the door on him.
‘Stupid woman,’ he said under his breath. ‘I’m the one who needs it.’
Lizzie came through the kitchen door with yet another pan of hot water and he took it from her and carried it up the stairs. ‘What are they doing with all this water, Lizzie?’
She brushed the hair out of her eyes wearily. ‘It’s for giving Mrs Masterson hot drinks, sir, least that’s what ’midwife says.’
He looked at her sympathetically; the poor child was worn out. She’d been up and down the stairs dozens of times, fetching wood and coal and hot water, her name constantly being called by the women upstairs.
‘Is there no-one else in the kitchen to help you?’ he asked.
‘They won’t have Mrs Scryven upstairs, sir, and Mrs Scryven won’t let Maria lift owt heavy on account that she’s just had her babby.’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘But I can do it, sir, I’m not a bit tired, I’m ever so strong.’
‘I’m sure that you are.’ He smiled down at her. But you’re also so young and ought to be playing with your toys, he thought, not fetching and carrying like a work horse.
‘Lizzie, where’s that water?’ The bedroom door opened with a whoosh and Mrs Moxon, almost filling the doorway, breathed in sharply as she saw Mr Masterson standing there with Lizzie.
He handed the pan to her and looked beyond her into the room. What he saw filled him with dread. He pushed the woman to one side and went in. Isobel, in just her shift but with a heavy blanket around her, was being supported by Mrs Hawk, who was walking her up and down the room, forcing her on though her legs were collapsing and she was on the point of exhaustion. There was a stench of sweat and alcohol and foul air.
‘My dear.’ He took a step forward but his arm was held by Mrs Moxon in a grip as strong as any man’s.
‘Better go, sir, this ain’t any place for a gentleman. I’ve known men faint at a childbed, and not gentlemen like thee, sir, but great heavy brutes. Best be off.’
She turned him around and directed him towards the door, but not before he saw the mute appeal in his wife’s eyes. His elegant, regal wife, her face pale and haggard and wet with perspiration, and her fair curls straggling and knotted and hanging damp with her own sweat down her back.
‘Isaac.’ Her voice was weak and breathless. ‘For God’s sake do something. I’m going to die.’
He was propelled out of the room and the door shut fast behind him. He heard Isobel wail, a terrifying, despairing cry which chilled him to the bone. Bewildered, he went down the stairs and, not knowing what he was doing, he followed a frightened Lizzie down into the kitchen.
‘She’s going to die,’ he said, his voice flat and dull.
Maria took him by the arm and sat him down. ‘It’s a difficult time, sir, especially for ’first. Tha can only trust in God and providence.’
‘But can I trust in those women?’ He shook his head. ‘It’s like Hell up there, and just as hot.’ He wiped his own sweat from his face. ‘There’s no air, the windows are blocked up with blankets, and the fire is roaring up the chimney. It doesn’t seem right.’ He looked at her imploringly, begging for help. ‘There must be something – somebody!’
Maria looked at Mrs Scryven for a moment, then decided. ‘I’m going up, I’ll see what’s happening. I’ve had enough bairns of my own to know.’
She opened the door quietly without knocking and stood unobserved. The room was as Mr Masterson had said, hot and airless. Only one rush light was burning and the flickering firelight threw out black, grotesque shadows which leapt and danced eerily over the walls and ceiling.
Her eyes were drawn to the bed where Mrs Masterson lay motionless, her pale legs and belly exposed, her eyes closed and her arms stretched wide in supplication. Only her fingers moved, clasping and unclasping in silent entreaty.
The two women had their backs to her and Maria saw Mrs Moxon sink down into a chair and reach for a bottle close by and lift it to her lips. Mrs Hawk was rummaging in the bottom of a large baize bag, then with an exclamation brought out first one object and then another. Maria drew in her breath sharply as she saw the flash and glint of metal caught by the flames of the fire.
She moved back, silently closing the door, and sped down the stairs, holding her skirts high lest she should fall, and the women upstairs hear her.
‘Tha must go up, Mrs Scryven. They’re going to use them new instruments!’ She looked in alarm from Mrs Scryven to Mr Masterson, who had risen to his feet, his face pale and drawn.
‘Forceps! Nay, only ’doctor should use them.’ Mrs Scryven shook her head, then turning to Mr Masterson. ‘Begging thy pardon, sir, wilt tha give me permission to attend ’mistress?’
He looked in bewilderment from one to another, speechless in his anxiety.
‘Say yes, sir. She knows how. Look at my bairn, safely delivered.’ Maria pointed to the sleeping baby in her crib under the table. ‘Thy wife is in danger. ’Doctor must be sent for.’ She shook his arm gently.
At her touch, he seemed to awaken from his vacant state and jumped nervously. ‘Yes, yes. Please go up, Mrs Scryven, but first tell me where to find the doctor and I’ll send Walters straight away.’
‘He’s in Tillington, sir, but it’ll not take long to ride there. And he’ll come straight away if he knows who it is.’
Mrs Scryven moved quickly, filling a bowl with hot water and washing her hands, calling to Lizzie to fetch down cotton sheets and towels from the press upstairs. Then, with a determined look set on her face, she climbed the stairs.
The women were bent over Mrs Masterson, their sleeves rolled up and their
hands bloody as Maria and Mrs Scryven came into the room.
‘Hey, what’s going on? I said I wouldn’t have thee in here!’
‘Well, tha’s not giving out orders any more,’ said Maria softly. ‘Tha’s to go downstairs. Mr Masterson wants to see thee. Go on, both of thee.’
Mrs Moxon blustered. ‘I can’t leave my patient now, she’s having a very difficult time. ’Child might be dead. We can’t move it.’
‘Aye, it might well be dead if tha’s been using them on it.’ Mrs Scryven nodded towards the forceps, which lay on the floor where they had been dropped. ‘Go on – out!’
‘I’ll not be responsible – if owt happens to either of ’em, it’ll not be my doing!’
Maria held the door wide as an invitation for them to step through it, and hurriedly, as they saw her impassive expression, they picked up their bags and went down the stairs.
‘How is she?’ breathed Maria as they bent over the silent woman, her face ashen in the gloomy light.
‘She’s exhausted, poor lady. They’ve wore her out. I told her to rest between pains, but I don’t suppose they let her. They’ve sweated her so she’s no energy left.’
She ran her hands gently over Isobel’s body, her small fingers moving delicately.
‘Babby’s still alive, I can feel it. But missus is almost gone. I can’t feel her heart and her body’s that still.’
She turned to Maria. ‘Can tha help me get her out of bed if I take ’strain?’
‘There’s no need to take ’strain,’ said Maria, ‘I’m as strong as an ox. If we’d been back in Hull, I’d have been shifting barrels of fish by now.’
‘Mebbe so, but tha’s not in Hull, so I’ll take ’strain,’ Mrs Scryven answered sharply. ‘First of all, put some blankets on ’floor. Ah, here’s Lizzie. Look sharp, Lizzie, and spread out these blankets so that ’floor isn’t hard.’
Lizzie did as she was told, then gently they eased Mrs Masterson down on to the floor, lying her on to her side. She moaned as they moved her and Maria felt relief. There was still some hope.
Mrs Scryven patted Mrs Masterson’s face gently but firmly. ‘Wake up, ma-am, don’t sleep.’
Isobel opened her eyes narrowly. They were bloodshot and painwracked. ‘Leave me, let me die in peace,’ she whispered.
‘Tha’s not going to die, ma-am, we’re going to help thee. But tha must try to help thaself.’ Maria put her face close to hers. ‘Please try, Mrs Masterson, please!’
She didn’t answer but lay still; then her face wrinkled, her eyes opened wide with suffering, she opened her mouth and cried out.
‘Quick, turn her on to her knees, support her arms and shoulders!’ Mrs Scryven with vigorous strength turned her over into a kneeling position whilst Maria put both arms around her mistress from behind and held her in a supportive embrace.
They heard the cries as they waited downstairs, the two women shuffling their feet nervously, and Isaac with dulled eyes gazing up to the top of the stairs. Two cries, one piercing, tormented, torn out of agony, and another, fragile and imploring, as it was drawn reluctantly into its new life.
The doctor said there was no more that he could do. The next few days would determine if Isobel would live or die. He told them to keep her comfortable and quiet, and to keep the baby away from her in case she should turn against it.
‘What rubbish,’ said Maria to Mrs Scryven the next morning. ‘I should want my babby with me, that would be one thing that would bring me back to life.’
‘Happen it would with thee, Maria, but not with someone like ’mistress. She might well turn against ’poor bairn if she thought it had brought her such pain.’
‘Poor little mite.’ Maria bent to look at the infant, which was tightly swaddled as the doctor had directed.
Mrs Scryven came to her side. ‘Aye. We’ll have those bindings off soon, once she’s feeding and used to ’feel of this big, bad world.’
Maria nodded. She hadn’t allowed Sarah to be put into swaddling clouts, she hated to think of the delicate limbs being fettered and restrained by the tight bindings so approved by doctors and midwives.
‘Will that mark disappear?’ An ugly red weal showed on the baby’s forehead where the brutal forceps had been used.
‘Aye, I reckon so, though there might be a small scar. But her hair will cover it, never fear.
‘Wilt tha be willing to nurse her, Maria? It’d save sending for a wet nurse. We’ll get extra help for ’house. Master says to do what’s necessary, he doesn’t mind ’expense. Poor man, he’s been almost out of his mind.’
‘I’ll nurse her gladly, I’ve plenty of milk for two, thanks to thee.’
Mrs Scryven was still plying her with eggs and milk beaten up to a froth with honey and caraway seeds. Junkets and jellies made from the dried wild fruits of summer slipped down her throat, giving her vitality and energy so that she felt better than she had ever felt in her life.
They heard a low moaning from the next room where their mistress was lying and hurried in. Mrs Masterson’s face was pale and bloodless and she lay very still, but her eyes opened as they leant over her. She tried to speak but her mouth was dry.
Maria lifted her head and gave her a sip of spring water. She smiled down at her. ‘Just rest easy, ma-am, everything’s going to be all right and you’ve got a right bonny little babby.’
Isobel Masterson closed her eyes and turned her head away with a shudder. Then she turned back again and asked in a whisper, ‘Boy?’
‘No, ma-am, it’s a lovely little girl.’
Mrs Masterson closed her eyes again and murmured weakly, ‘Mr Masterson, please.’
Mrs Scryven rushed off to fetch Mr Masterson, who had been persuaded to lie down and take some rest. He had spent all night at his wife’s bedside, watching over her, willing her to live and blaming himself for putting her life in danger.
He took hold of her limp white hand now and gently stroked it. ‘Are you feeling a little better, my dear?’
She nodded and gave a deep sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Isaac,’ she whispered. ‘I know how disappointed you must be.’
‘Disappointed? Because it’s a girl, you mean? Not a bit,’ he said heartily. ‘She’s going to be a little beauty, just like her mother. Fair hair, though not much of it at the moment, and beautiful blue eyes!’
She nodded her head wearily and closed her eyes. Then with a supreme effort she opened them wide and said huskily, ‘No more, Isaac. Promise me!’
Isaac, in relief and thanksgiving that his wife felt well enough to even consider the matter, promised most profoundly.
12
It seemed a bit hasty, thought Will, as they stood, cold and damp, the next morning at the graveside, the parson mumbling into his prayer book. No period of mourning to smooth the bed of death. No weeping mother to bless the short life of a child. Just himself, the two shivering boys and the matron to say farewell.
‘Come on,’ he said as they finally turned away. ‘We’ll go across to Masterson’s and make ourselves useful. Then tomorrow, if my boots are ready, we’ll set off home.’
They spent another night with the Hardwicks, and the next morning Will left the boys at the Masterson yard whilst he went to the bootmaker.
‘Is Mr John here?’ he asked one of the clerks as he left. ‘I wondered if there was any message from Garston Hall?’
The man shook his head. ‘He’s down at ’dock side with Customs. He won’t be back till late.’ Masterson’s have flitted already, did tha know? There’s some boxes and stuff here for thee to take back with thee.’
The boots were ready. They felt soft and comfortable though the strap around his knee and thigh chafed.
He stood up and looked in the mirror that the bootmaker placed in front of him. ‘What a dandy,’ he said, to hide his emotion, as he saw two seemingly normal legs reflected in the glass.
‘Nobody would guess,’ the man said. ‘But tha should take this stick, just till tha gets used to ’feel of it.’
* * *
‘When we’ve unpacked ’cart, put ’hoss into ’bottom field, Tom, and me and Jimmy will go across to ’Hall to see thy ma.’
He was disappointed that she wasn’t at home at Field House. He’d wanted to surprise her, to see the look on her face as he stood in front of her without his crutch. The house was empty, though it was warm and welcoming. Clean rushes had been strewn on the floor and a fire burned in the grate. He felt a satisfying warmth enveloping him. She was a good homemaker, was Maria.
Jimmy ran on his short little legs to keep up with him as he strode steadily across the fields. This was a testing time; he wanted to see if he could keep upright on the rutted surface. The boots fitted well and he walked firmly with barely a sway save for the natural roll of a seaman.
‘Wait here a minute, Jim. I’ll find Lizzie and send her out to thee. Surprise her, eh?’
Jimmy nodded and sat wearily on the kitchen doorstep like a tired old man. Will tousled his hair. He knew he was worn out with the devastating events of the last few days, with the shock of finding his brother’s bed empty, and of being locked up in the cold bare room, and he was quite unprepared for the long journey down the endless road to Monkston, for he’d questioned Will and Tom constantly as to how much longer they would be.
‘Is it as far as ’Shetlands, Will? Or as far as Greenland?’ he’d asked, for those two places were the limits of his geography.
No-one heard Will as he quietly entered the kitchen door, ducking his head at the lintel above the low entrance. Lizzie was standing at the table diligently cleaning knives and Mrs Scryven was sitrring something in a pot over the fire, whilst Maria, with her back to him, was bent low, lifting up something from a basket on the floor. Alice was sleeping soundly in a chair.