by Wendy Lawton
Bets’s anger seemed to deflate. Her breathing slowed; she seemed to gain control for a moment, but the built-up tension exploded in tears.
“Forgive me for getting so angry.” Bets was crying. “’Tis sometimes too much for me.”
Mary moved closer to her sister and reached out to put an arm around her. This time the gesture was not rejected.
“I just don’t know how we are to get on,” sobbed Bets. “We have no way of earning a living. Elizabeth is ill now and she’s the one who must see to father’s release. Jake is getting to be a regular rogue. Much of the time I don’t know where he is … he could be running with that group of young ruffians.” Bets was sobbing.
“You cannot start worrying now, little sister. You are my brick—as solid as they come.” Mary took a square of neatly hemstitched Irish linen from inside the sleeve of her chemise and reached out to wipe the young girl’s face.
Bets laughed weakly. “It’s hard to stay mad at someone who tries to wipe tears from your ears.” She guided Mary’s handkerchief to her eyes. “So, tell me, wise sister, whatever are we to do?”
“Why not follow your own recipe? Leave tomorrow’s problems for tomorrow. Doesn’t Papa’s Bible even tell us, ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof’?” Mary could tell from the tenseness in Bets’s shoulders that she needed more encouragement than that, but when it came to encouragement from the Bible, Mary was not the one to give it. Oh, why are things in such a muddle? Why is Papa not here to make everything better?
“Very well,” Mary lowered her voice, “I shall tell you a secret. I am close to lighting upon the perfect plan to keep salt on our table and fresh thatch over our heads.” Mary hoped it wasn’t obvious that she was making this tale up as she spoke. “More than that, I cannot say right now. Just trust me for a few more days.”
“Hallo?” Both girls heard the midwife’s call at the same time. “Mary? Bets?”
“Aye, Midwife Dunkirk. We’re coming,” answered Mary. They made their way into the common room. From the tone of the midwife’s voice, the news was not good.
“We lost the little one, but young Elizabeth will live.” The woman didn’t temper her news. Throughout the shire, she was known for her plain speaking. “Would ye like to see yer stepmama? Mind now, ’twill not be good to overtire her.” The sisters assured her that they would make their visit a short one.
Not knowing what to say to Elizabeth, Mary only knew that for the first time, she needed to be near her stepmother.
Elizabeth spoke first as they drew near to her bed. “I grieve that I have lost your little brother, but I trust he is in God’s hands now.” Mary felt Elizabeth tremble as their hands touched. “Mary, thank you for bringing Midwife Dunkirk to help me. You are so very brave.” She also spoke to Bets. “And I thank you for staying with me. How frightening it was until you came to be by my side.” Her voice sounded frail from exhaustion. “’Tis a great loss, but ’twould be so much harder to bear would it not be for having four dear children already.”
Mary realized that Elizabeth never used the word step when referring to the Bunyan children.
Smoothing down Mary’s curls, Elizabeth said, “I had hoped the little one would have springy curls like you, Mary.”
Mary felt that lump rising in her throat again.
“And I do love the soft gold of your hair, but I confess I was wishing to see Bets’s coppery color on the babe.”
Mary felt Elizabeth shift toward the cradle that had been placed between the bed and the far wall by Papa before his arrest. A tiny linen-wrapped bundle must be lying there, waiting for burial.
“Would he have had blue eyes, Elizabeth?” Bets asked. Mary could have kicked her sister’s shin had she any idea where to aim.
“Most likely, though being my first child, it is hard to be certain.”
Elizabeth was beginning to sound drowsy. “We hardly know any other color in this Bunyan clan, though Bets’s eyes seem more green than blue most days.” She squeezed Mary’s hand. “Now, Mary, do not be impatient with Bets. I know you think ’twould be better not to mention the little one, but I tell you truth, it surely does help to talk about him.”
“It doesn’t hurt too much?” Mary wanted to be sure.
“No. I’ve learned that grieving is harder when ’tis not shared.” Elizabeth’s voice seemed to fade. “I do wish your father were here.”
The midwife took Mary’s hand, indicating that they should let Elizabeth rest. “Ye girls must lie down and try to get some sleep before yer young brothers get up.”
Elizabeth was drifting off. “We will have to get word to John.”
They helped the Dunkirks gather their things and load their baskets. Mary knew Bets would be tucking some of Elizabeth’s tart apple pommage into the basket as well.
The midwife recited a litany of instructions to them. “Do not let those boys tire her. Get word to me if she becomes peaky or feverish. Make sure she rests. Dunkirk will be back on the morrow to help bury the little one. And worry not about my fee. Yer father’s congregation will take care of it.”
Mary grimaced, wishing she had the coin to pay the midwife then and there.
As soon as the horse-drawn cart rolled away, Bets checked on Elizabeth one last time, then the sisters made their way upstairs to catch what little slumber was left to them. It had been an exhausting night.
As they drifted off to sleep, Bets turned to Mary and said, “I am so thankful you told me that you have a plan. Now I will not have as much to worry about.” She rolled over. “Good night, Mary.”
“Good night, Bets.”
The plan. She was relieved that the quarrel was over, but now she must come up with the plan she had promised Bets—any plan. Mary was too tired to worry about it. I-can-do-all-things … I-can-do-all-things … but I am ever so glad I can do them tomorrow.
Slough of Despond
“Mary.”
“Ummm.”
“Mary, it’s way past dawn.”
Mary could feel Bets gently shaking her. “I’m so tired.”
“We’ve only been asleep for a few hours, but Thomas woke crying. He’s cutting teeth again.” Bets sounded weary. “I didn’t want him to wake Elizabeth. She’s still sleeping.”
“Elizabeth is still sleeping and it’s after dawn?” Mary asked, still groggy.
“Mary.” Bets was getting impatient. “Don’t you remember that she lost the baby in the night?”
Mary sat up. “Oh, Bets, how could I have forgotten? I’m sorry I didn’t wake up with Thomas.”
“It’s no wonder you are so tired. You walked all the way to get the midwife.” Bets bustled around the loft, tidying the boys’ pallets.
“Where is Jake? Why are you making his bed?”
“He took off early this morning. I’m not really making his bed, it’s just that—”
“Bets, I can hear exactly what you are doing. Did he say where he was going?” Mary scooted over to where Bets was kneeling and put her hands on her sister’s shoulders. She felt the tenseness of the muscles. It was difficult to hide feelings from Mary’s sensitive fingers.
“No.”
“But you are worried, aren’t you?” Mary asked.
“Yes.” Bets exhaled long and slowly. Her shoulders dropped. “I don’t know what to do about Jake. I needed him to take soup to Papa and now he’s gone. I don’t want Elizabeth worrying about Papa on top of everything else. The Dunkirks said that they would see that the arrangements are made for the baby’s burial, but it will take all of Elizabeth’s strength to do it.”
“When did they say they would come?” Mary helped Bets smooth the boys’ bedcovers. It went twice as fast when they worked together.
“The midwife didn’t say. But with Thomas so fussy, I can’t leave.” Bets moved over to their own bed and began straightening the blankets.
Mary took her pantalets off the shelf and balanced on one leg and then the other as she pulled them on. She quickly cinched the drawstrin
g, securing it at the waist, then reached for her woolen dress hanging on the peg nearby. She pulled it over her chemise, tying all the laces. Next came a fresh apron, then a woolen vest, which was laced tightly. She reached under her pillow, found Mama’s blue ribbon, and slipped it into her apron pocket. “Of course you can’t leave. Where is Thomas now?”
“He woke so early that he fell back asleep downstairs. To be safe, I tied his leading strings to the leg of the table.” Bets chuckled. “I knew we would hear the movement of the table long before he could get into any mischief.”
“You should have wakened me earlier.” Mary finished straightening the loft. “How long have you been up?”
“Long enough to start the soup. With all the comings and goings today, I knew we’d need a well-stocked soup pot, with enough to take a hearty meal to Papa.”
“Oh, Bets,” Mary said, hugging her sister, “what would I ever do without you?”
“You’d be as lost as I would be without you. Now let’s put our heads together and decide what to do.”
“I’ll take the soup to Papa.” Mary didn’t wait for Bets to protest. They both knew there was no alternative. “How I hate to tell him about Elizabeth and the baby.”
“I will stay here and see to Elizabeth and Thomas. The bread must be baked first so that we can offer a meal when the Dunkirks come. People from Papa’s congregation might also stop in.” Bets grabbed Mary’s hands. “I wasn’t worried about using the last of the eggs and the milk to make a light custard for Elizabeth, thanks to you.”
“To me?” Mary didn’t understand.
“Yes, you goose.” Bets tugged one of Mary’s curls playfully. “Because of your plan.”
Mary had forgotten all about the plan.
“This morning, as I was cooking, I decided to make you tell me the whole plan—every single detail.”
Mary sensed excitement through Bets’s fingers. “You did?”
“Yes, but then I remembered how much you like to work things out on your own.” Bets paused. “Remember how angry I was last night when I said that you think you can do everything all by yourself?”
“Yes. You don’t often get that mad. I’ll not soon forget last night.”
“Well, I was right. Oh, not in the mean way it came out, but I realized there was truth in what I said. You can do just about anything by yourself.”
Mary loved hearing those words. “Thank you for that, Bets.”
“So, I decided to let you surprise me with the plan. I know it will work out and I need not worry again about how we are to survive while Papa is away.”
The plan. What have I done? Mary thought. I have to come up with a plan.
“By the time Elizabeth is well she can put her energy toward getting Papa released, and not have to worry about how we are to put food on the table.” Bets hugged Mary. Her voice sounded lighter than any time since Papa’s arrest.
Mary was glad for the load lifted off her sister, but her own burden now weighed heavily. She welcomed Bets’s faith in her, but could she live up to her rash promises? What kind of plan could she devise?
And where was Jake? Bets was worried. Since Papa’s arrest Jake was a lost soul. Mary knew he missed Papa. She also knew he hated, as he so often said, “being surrounded by women.” Bets was probably right that he was in danger of being led astray by Gifre and his cronies. Tonight, she would just have to lay down the law to Jake. Yes, she was worried too.
Mary made her way once again through the streets of Bedford. It was midday, though the only difference to Mary was the welcome warmth of the late autumn sun and the bustle of traffic on Mill Lane. The Bunyan cottage was a little more than two furlongs from Bedford Gaol.
Mary’s cane tapped out the cobbled rhythm of the road. She passed to the right of the plat that was so familiar. Sitting back from the road was the large barn called Dissenting Meeting—the name for her father’s church. They used to meet in beautiful St. John’s, but along with the Restoration came an eviction notice. This barn suits our growing congregation, Mary thought. She could not see it as she passed, but the sound of the late autumn wind whipping the branches of the ancient beech was as familiar to her as the songs that rang from the timbers of the meetinghouse every Sunday.
“Hallo, Mary.”
“Good day to you, Elder Owens.” Mary recognized the citizens of Bedford easily by their voices. Many she distinguished by their footfall or their scent.
“I am heading over to see your stepmama. How is she faring?”
“She is tired and sad, but the midwife says that she will recover. Will you be saying words over the baby?”
“Aye. With your father in prison, I am trying to care for the congregation as best I can.”
“I’ll tell Papa. He’ll be so glad to hear.”
“Are you heading there now, Mary?”
“Yes, we are to bring midday meal each day.” Mary lifted the jug of soup. She had a cloth knotted over her arm, cradling a warm loaf of Bets’s bread. Bets wanted to put a small crock of custard in the cloth as well, but Mary told her it would not fare well next to the warm loaf. The truth was that she was afraid her father would think they were being lavish with supplies. If he saw so much food offered at one meal, he would be concerned. Until Mary had a plan, she needed to be cautious.
“Tell your Papa we are praying for him.”
“Aye.”
“How is the family faring?” The elder coughed slightly, enough to let Mary know he was embarrassed to ask. He, as well as the rest of the congregation, had a hard enough time feeding their own children. She also knew that they must have taken up a collection to pay for the midwife and the burial costs for the baby.
“Thank you for asking, Elder.” Mary tried to muster a confident voice. “We are getting along fine, so far.” Before he could question her further, she said, “I’ll need to be on my way before the soup cools.”
“Good day, Mary.”
I hate being poor. I hate being frightened. I hate having Papa in prison. I hate … Her litany was interrupted by a sound behind her. Faintly, she heard two sets of footsteps, one with the extra slap of a loose sole. “Jake?”
Nothing. She listened as hard as she could and finally she heard the sound of them running off. Could that have been Jake? Why would he hide his identity from her? Who was with him? Oh, Papa, how we need you at home!
Mary continued to make her way to the Bedford Gaol.
Mary knocked on the jailer’s door. After a time, he opened the door to let her in. The jailer was a quiet fellow, but Mary knew that he had befriended her father. The key rasped into the padlock and she listened for the resolute clicks of the tumbler. The bolt jammed against the door hasp and she heard the creak of the bolt arm turning. The heavily studded door groaned as it opened. Mary knew the jailer must be a sturdy fellow to open this door several times each day.
The overwhelming stench of slop buckets jolted Mary’s sensitive nose. She knew from the intense odor that they were not emptied regularly. That mingled with the stink of unwashed bodies and sickness and mildewed straw. If the door had not been locked after her, Mary would have turned around and left. Her heart hammered as if she had run the whole way.
She reached into her pocket to pull a sprig off the rosemary she always carried. Crushing it to release the powerful scent, she put her hand by her nose. Ahhh. Better.
“Papa?” With so much rustling and movement in the room, she didn’t dare move out lest she stumble over someone.
“Bunyan, yer little girl is here,” said a voice from the room.
“Mary?”
The voice she loved so well! Strong arms wrapped around her, carrying her over to his place.
“Oh, wee Mary, you don’t know how beautiful you look. I’m sorry I didn’t see you at first, but I was sleeping. I have been having the most extraordinary dreams.” Papa put her down on a box near a bed of straw. He sat on something and pulled it close to Mary so that they touched.
“I brought yo
u some of Bets’s soup, Papa. And a loaf of freshly baked bread.”
“Thank you, little daughter. ’Tis most welcome, but not as welcome as your sweet face.”
She gave him the crock with soup and slid the knotted cloth off her arm. Papa put his hand underneath to support it while she untied it. Inside was a spoon and the small loaf of bread. “Eat while it is still warm. I need to take the empty crock and spoon back with me.”
“I’d rather just visit with you, but we don’t want Bets to feel that her gift was not appreciated, do we?” He took a spoonful, slurping a little so that Mary knew he liked it. It was an old routine from the days when she was small and would bring him a pretend bowl of soup.
“Ummm. This is good. Hearty. Give our little Bets my thanks. Don’t bring the bread next time. I doubt not that I will enjoy this home-baked loaf, but they provide each prisoner a quarter loaf of maslin each day. I must pay a half-groat each month whether I take it or not.”
“Papa, are you well?”
“Hmm, yes,” he said between spoons of soup. “I have the constitution of an ox. It will stand me in good stead here in prison. Thanks be to God you are hearty too, or I could not allow you to visit me.” He paused. “This place is not a good place for the weak or the infirm.” He gave her back the crock and spoon and helped her tie them into the cloth. “Now tell me about my precious Elizabeth and the family.” He tore off a piece of bread, releasing a yeasty odor.
“I have bad news, Papa.” Mary could feel that familiar lump lodge in her throat. Don’t cry, Mary. Don’t cry.
“What, Mary?” Papa put down the bread and took both her hands. “Tell me child, what is it?” Mary could hear the rising fear in his voice.
“Elizabeth lost the baby last night.”
“Oh, Father, be with Elizabeth …”
Mary knew her father wasn’t speaking to her. He was talking to his heavenly Father. A lot of good that does now, Mary thought. The time God could have helped was before Elizabeth lost the little one. She would never say that to her Father, though. He seemed to believe that God was always in control, even when horrible things happened, like jail or death. Mary did not understand.