II

A few days after his return from Halifax, I saw Richard standing at the edge of the hay croft south of the house. He gazed out at the horizon, lost in his thoughts. I came upon him unawares and took his hand in mine. He jumped, but did not take his hand away.

“You miss him, don’t you,” I said.

That was all it took. Moments later, he was sobbing like a child. I put my arms around him and let him weep. When his tears had stopped, I put my lips to his. After a moment, I led him to a spot behind the hedge where none would see us.

Some might cast stones at me for all that followed. And I will admit that my scheme did not proceed as I’d hoped. My own suffering is testament to that. At the outset, my intention had never been to kill anyone besides Mr. Hooke, and to this day I would swear that I never meant to harm Richard. Despite his doltishness, he was a kind boy, utterly without his father’s cruelty. If all had gone to plan, we would have married and I would have had a quiet, uneventful life. That was all I wanted. The mistake I made was in misjudging Mrs. Hooke entirely. I would lay the blame for all that followed at her door.

A few weeks after I lay with Richard for the first time, I took him by the hand and led him back to the croft.

“Richard, I must tell you something. I am with child.”

He took my hand and put it to his lips. “You are?” he asked in wonder.

“Aye,” I said. “What will we do?”

“We will marry,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. “We will tell my mother and we will marry. If we tell her we were betrothed before we lay together none would call our child a bastard. It is but a small lie and for the best.”

“Oh, Richard,” I cried out and took him in my arms. My relief and happiness both were genuine, for this–I thought–had been the one moment at which things might go wrong. If Richard had refused to marry me, all would have been lost.

We held hands as we walked back to the house so we could tell his mother of our betrothal and my pregnancy.

“Let me tell her alone,” Richard said. “Then I will send for you.”

I agreed, of course, and I could see no reason why she would not allow us to marry. The Hookes were not of any particular importance even among their neighbors, and Richard would hardly have been the first lad to marry his parents’ maidservant. I waited in the kitchen while Richard sought his mother. And that is when my scheme began to go awry.

Within moments I knew that we had misjudged her state, for the howling that echoed through the house could in no wise be confused with joy. I heard Mrs. Hooke’s footsteps as she tore through the parlor, and steeled myself for the clash that would follow.

When she entered the kitchen, I gasped aloud, for I’d never seen her–or anyone else for that matter–in such a furious humor. Her eyes bulged and rolled in their sockets, and her face had turned a most unnatural crimson.

“You common drab,” she hissed as she strode toward me. She seized a fire-shovel and raised it over her head like an executioner’s axe. “Do you think I’d let this pass? Do you think I’d let Richard marry his own father’s whore?” Drops of spittle flew from her mouth as she shouted and waved the shovel menacingly.

Not knowing what else I could do, I dropped to my knees before her.

“Please,” I cried. “Have mercy on me. I did nothing wrong.”

I do not know if she was struck by my audacity, but for some reason–and for the first time since I’d come to her house–Mrs. Hooke hesitated before striking me. She lowered the shovel and peered into my eyes, as if she were hoping to discern the nature of my soul.

And perhaps she succeeded, for without another word she swung the shovel at my head. I ducked, but too late, and she caught me above the ear. I fell to the ground and curled into a ball, wrapping my arms around my belly to protect my child. I do not know how many times she struck me–a dozen perhaps?–but in the end the bruises so overlapped they could not be counted. After a time I became aware of someone shouting, and realized that the beating had stopped. I looked up and saw that Richard had wrested the shovel from his mother’s hand and was pushing her away from me. I tried to stand, but the pain shot through me like lightning and I resolved to lay there for a bit longer. I closed my eyes and all became darkness.

When I awoke I found that it was night and someone had put me in my bed. For a time I lay there, not daring to move. My body felt as if it had been set alight, and I knew that if I tried to stand I would fail. I closed my eyes again and, despite the pain, fell back into the abyss.

*   *   *

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

My eyes snapped open and in an instant I was as awake as I’d ever been. Mrs. Hooke stood over me, staring into my face with a cold fury.

“You seduced my husband into your bed, and when you wearied of his attention, you poisoned him.”

“I never would.”

Mrs. Hooke raised her hand, and I flinched. Pain fired through my body and I cried out despite myself.

“Do not lie,” she hissed. “I know the kind of man my husband was. He could no more resist your temptations than Adam could resist Eve’s. I know that you’ve been meddling with him for months, and I know that the child in your belly is his, not Richard’s.”

Mrs. Hooke laughed at the surprised look on my face.

“Richard may be a fool,” she said. “But I am not. He told me when you lay together, and you have been with child for far longer than that.”

I dared not speak.

“I have found a neighbor girl and she will care for you until you are able to walk,” she continued. “As soon as you can, you will leave my home and you will never return. If you ever speak to Richard again, if I ever see you again, I will finish the beating I started yesterday.” Without waiting for a response she left my room.

I lay in the bed for a full week. Twice a day a girl brought me broth, ale, and bread, but she refused to speak to me. And so it was that I had endless hours to consider what had gone wrong with my plan, and to mediate upon all the wrongs that Mrs. Hooke had visited on me. How long had she known that Mr. Hooke had been using me so barbarously? And why had she allowed it to continue? To my surprise, the fury that I’d felt toward Mr. Hooke–fury which I thought had died with him–flared back to life like the embers in a well-banked fire. But as I lay there in bed, I knew that such thoughts were of no use. I could not take revenge on Mrs. Hooke without risking my own life, and even a simple lad such as Richard would become suspicious if both his parents died in my presence. So the following week I gathered my few belongings and started for York. Where else could I go?

*   *   *

Because it was not yet obvious that I was with child, I had no trouble finding employment. A washer-woman in St. Wilfred’s parish took me in, and in exchange for food and a bed I helped her in her work. I thanked the Lord that even as my belly grew the weather turned cold, and I could wear a coat to hide my condition without attracting notice. Even my new mistress did not know.

But as the weeks passed, I knew that I would soon have to make a decision about my travail. I did not want to bear the child alone, but if I sought out a midwife, she would see me whipped for bastardy, and I refused to suffer yet again for Mr. Hooke’s crimes. I did my best to find a woman who might aid me in my labor without summoning the churchwardens, but a single woman–especially one whose belly was growing by the day–had to be careful when asking such questions.

In the end I tarried too long, and early one Saturday morning I felt the first pangs of my travail. I tried to quiet myself, but could not help crying out. My mistress burst into my room, and knew in an instant what was happening.

“What, a whore in my home?” she snarled. In two steps she had crossed the room and seized me by my hair. She dragged me into the street and started crying for her neighbors. Within seconds I found myself surrounded by the parish matrons, all poking and pinching at me, calling me whore, putain, trug, and foul slattern.

One matron, a barrel-chested woman who’d married a butcher–stepped forward and seized me by the ear.

“We must see her out of the parish before she brings her bastard into the world,” she cried. “I’ll not support such a strumpet’s child.”

The other women cried out in agreement, and I found myself being pushed, pulled, and dragged toward the parish’s boundary with St. Helen’s. I might have given birth there, but with all the commotion, the women of St. Helen’s realized what was happening and rose up in defense of their parish.

I do not know how many neighborhoods and parishes I passed through on that day, pushed one way, pulled another, pinched purple in between. One group of women drove me into their neighbors’ church and told me to stay there. I tried to do so, but another group dragged me out and threatened to throw me in the river if I did not leave their parish.

As horribly as I was abused on that day, the most terrible moment came when I realized how typical Mr. and Mrs. Hooke were in their cruelty. I had heard the preachers say that man was born in sin, and remained sinful to his marrow. Now I had seen such depravity with my own eyes and felt it in my bones. Now I knew that my suffering at the Hookes’ hands was not at all unusual, nor was it the result of their peculiar evil. Rather it was in perfect tune with the rest of the world. The abuse of innocent girls like me lay at the heart of all of the city’s “honorable” folk. I just had not seen it until that afternoon.

On that day, my belief in goodness and charity turned to ash, burned by the fire that the Hookes had set and that the women of York stoked through their deliberate and wanton viciousness. These women, so loving toward their own, knew nothing of true Christianity, and cared nothing for the poor and miserable. The Lord said that on Judgment Day those who showed no mercy would receive no mercy. I resolved that if I had the chance, I would help Him in taking His vengeance on this unsparing mob.

By the time I became aware of the world around me, I had somehow found my way to the River Foss. The women pushed me across the bridge and then stood in the street daring me to return. I dragged myself out of the street, sat against the side of a building and, for the first time that day, allowed myself to cry.

I was still weeping when someone took my arms and lifted me to my feet. I resigned myself to more taunts, kicks, and punches, but I was led away without any abuse at all. The woman who had helped me stand seemed no different from those who had driven me from parish to parish, but instead of taking me out of the city she took me to her home. Once there she put me in a bed, and ordered her maid to bring me a drink of ale and spices.

“How long have you been in travail?” she asked.

“Since this morning,” I replied.

“And are the pains close together?”

“Not yet,” I said. “An hour or more.”

“From the way the harridans were treating you, I take it you are a single-woman?”

I nodded.

“I’ll care for you now, but you’ll have to tell me who the father is. If you tell me, I’ll see that he maintains both you and your child. If you don’t tell me, you’ll have to birth the child by yourself.” She produced a bottle of oil and put some on her hands. I realized that she must be a midwife.

“Lie back so I can examine you,” she said.

I did as I was told, and used the time to gather my thoughts. Telling the truth about my child’s father would do me no good at all, for Mr. Hooke was in no position to support his son. The midwife looked at me and raised her eyebrow. I turned away and said nothing.

“Your matrix is still closed,” she announced. “You’ll be in travail for some hours still. Is this your first child?”

“Yes, my lady,” I said.

The woman’s laugh was loud and warm. “I’m no gentlewoman,” she said. “You can call me Mrs. Bairstow.”

“Yes, Mrs. Bairstow,” I said.

“Good. Now finish your caudle, and I’ll have my maid look to those cuts and bruises. None seem too serious, but they could use cleaning.”

For the first time in months–perhaps for the first time since I left home–I felt safe. I closed my eyes and slept, waking once for a labor pang, but quickly finding my way back to sleep.

I awoke from dreams I could not remember to the sound of pounding in the distance. I climbed out of bed and opened the door just a crack. From my room I could see Mrs. Bairstow standing at the front door, her back to me.

“We’ll not support some other parish’s bastard,” a woman shouted. “You must give her to us so we can drive her out.” I heard a chorus of women in the background agreeing to these demands.

“Remember your place, Sarah Cooper.” Mrs. Bairstow’s voice lacked all the warmth I’d heard when she spoke to me. It sounded like an unsheathed dagger. “You’ll not meddle between me and one of my mothers, single or not.”

“I’ll be back with more women,” Sarah Cooper said.

“You have six with you now, but you think twelve will convince me? I’ll say the same thing to them as I’m saying to you, you wrinkled shrew. Whatever you say or do, I am a midwife and I’ll care for this woman. You should go on your way. Ruin someone else’s day.” Without waiting for a response, Mrs. Bairstow slammed the door and dropped the bar into place.

I eased my door closed and climbed back into bed. A few moments later, Mrs. Bairstow returned and checked my matrix again.

“You’re coming along slowly, but well enough,” she said. “Will you tell me who the father is? You will tell me eventually, or I’ll have to turn you out. The street is no place for a woman to give birth.”

I remained silent and avoided her gaze.

“Fair enough, but you should remember: There are no secrets from me,” she said. “Not yours or anyone else’s. And you’ll change your mind. Single-women always do. I’ll return in a bit.”

I lay back and gazed out the window at the small courtyard that lay behind Mrs. Bairstow’s house. Dreams and possibilities flooded my mind. A half-dozen matrons–the “honorable” women of the parish–had demanded my head, and Mrs. Bairstow had sent them away with a few harsh words. She did not fear her neighbors and she did as she pleased. What power that was! I tried to imagine what having such authority meant, and my mind reeled. For all my life I’d been someone’s something: my father’s daughter, Mr. Hooke’s secret prey, Mrs. Hooke’s victim, and very nearly Richard Hooke’s wife. But Mrs. Bairstow was no man’s anything. She told people what to do. She knew her neighbor’s secrets. Was it possible I could gain such power? If I did, none would ever dare challenge me. I did not know how I could attain such lofty heights, but knew that someday I would do so.

As the afternoon wore on, I turned to the question of who I would name as my child’s father. I could not name Mr. Hooke, for it would bring me nothing but grief. And if I said Richard was the father, Mrs. Hooke would gainsay my claim, and she could prove me a liar. I could name another man in the Hookes’ neighborhood, of course, for some were wealthy enough to afford a child, but I refused that path as well. I wanted more for my son and for myself than the mere pennies that such men would pay. Suddenly the answer to my problems came to me in its terrible simplicity. I ran from it as best I could, but as night fell it became clear that I had but one bloody and brutal path before me. So I took it.

When midnight came, so too did my child. The birthing pangs were a wonder I cannot begin to describe. But the strength with which my child struggled to be born gave me hope beyond measure. Surely so mighty a lad would not fall into so poor a life as I had endured. Mrs. Bairstow was very loving and treated me kindly until the moment that she judged that my travail had reached its height.

“Rebecca, you must tell me who the father of your child is,” she demanded. “If you will not tell me, I will put you into the alley and you’ll give birth alone.” She reached up and pinched my breast to accent her point. I gasped at the pain, but refused to speak a word. She pressed me further and again, as the pain grew worse. But I still refused to speak the father’s name.

When Mrs. Bairstow’s fury had reached its limit, she turned to her maid.

“Get her up,” she ordered. “We’ll see her out. If she wishes to have this child in the filth of a city street it is her choice.”

When the two women had me by the arms I relented. “I’ll tell you!” I cried. “Please don’t send me away.”

Mrs. Bairstow stared into my eyes, clearly unconvinced.

“I’ll tell you.” And I told her the name of the man I would have as my child’s father.

“Rebecca, you must father this child rightly,” Mrs. Bairstow insisted. “Travail is a perilous time, and you might die. Do not make your final words a lie. The Lord will be a harsh judge if you so mock Him.”

“I did not lie. I swear he is the father.”

Mrs. Bairstow asked me a few more times, and on each occasion I gave her the same answer. Eventually I must have satisfied her, for she settled into the work of delivering my child. When my son finally came shouting and bawling into the world, I held him in my arms and gave him my breast. When I gazed into his beautiful face as he fed, I found myself overcome with a love more terrible and strong than anything I had felt in my life. He had been born in wrath, but what would I not do for this child? In that moment I could not understand why the choice that I had made that afternoon had seemed so difficult. Now that I held him in my arms, the venture–however dangerous–seemed like the only thing to do.