CHAPTER TWO

 

Long ago, even before he made the world, God loved us and chose us in Christ to be holy and without fault in his eyes.

(Ephesians 1:4)

 

September, 1621

On August 20, 1620, John and I were married in Lady Elizabeth’s rose garden. It was a beautiful late summer day. My nerves kept me from recalling too many of the details, but I do remember that the swans Sir Thomas kept in the pond trumpeted loudly as I stepped onto the back veranda, startling everyone and eliciting a chuckle from many of the two hundred guests who had gathered to see us wed. As I took the arm of my future father-in-law, I glanced up once to see the smiling face of my beloved waiting for me under the arch that William had constructed and which overflowed with an abundance of snowy-white peonies and yellow beech drops. Lady Elizabeth was quietly weeping, and Grandmother Fionna was smiling broadly as I walked down the make-shift aisle, little Lizzie tossing rose petals in front of me.

Once the explanation of my appearance had settled into John’s psyche, and he had come to understand why I had felt the need to keep my identity a secret, our relationship deepened and blossomed, drawing us into a great spiritual bond that naturally progressed into marriage. It was decided not to immediately inform Lady Elizabeth, Sir Thomas, and Grandmother Fionna of my past (or really future, however, one wanted to look at). Keeping “the secret,” as it came to be known, just between our little group (Mary, William and ourselves) brought all of us closer together, which would prove to be very crucial later on, when times got tougher.

After the wedding, John and I settled down to the business of living, and for the first year, my life proceeded smoothly until that fateful day in September, when the men traveled to a little town called Scrooby in the East Midlands, to hear the great Puritan preacher, John Robinson.

By them, I had learned to speak the proper ‘Queen’s English.’ to wear the awful, bone-breaking stays that threatened to squeeze my insides out, to ride sidesaddle (after several non-injurious falls taught me how to hang on with my ankles), and to act and behave like the traditional Englishwoman. I missed microwaves, music on the radio, enclosed vehicles in the winter, indoor plumbing, and my furnace and washing machine, most of all. But, gradually, my old mannerisms and ways of thinking faded into the past(?), and I took on the thought patterns of my new life. Occasionally, new challenges presented themselves, and I was again forced to adjust. But, living with the man I’d come to love more than life itself was worth all I’d forsaken.

For many years, John Robinson had been the curate of a church in Norwich. At the time the men met him in Scrooby, he was in the company of William Brewster, the leader of a small fraction of the Scrooby group that had removed to Amsterdam in 1608 to worship without interference from the Crown. In 1609, Mr. Robinson and his flock relocated to Leiden, Holland. In addition to propagating the Puritan faith, Brewster and Robinson were also encouraging people to immigrate to the New World, as America was now being called.

As a family unit, the Keeneys had historically attended the Church of England, since coming to this country from Ireland (forsaking their Catholic lineage), and I was becoming comfortable with the Episcopal rituals and beliefs, even though they differed greatly from my Baptist heritage. The Puritan doctrine, however, was more akin to the way I had worshiped in my ‘other life’.

The evening of their return from Scrooby, we gathered into the drawing room to hear of their travels and the things they had learned.

“They appear to be a very pure sect,” Sir Thomas began, “and they have very conservative church laws. The Puritans are calling for the Church of England to be reformed.”

“Reformed!” Lady Elizabeth said, shock and confusion clearly showing on her beautiful face. “What’s wrong with the way we’ve always worshiped?”

“They feel, my dear, that the ecclesiastical establishment is too political, too compromising, and too ‘Catholic’ in its liturgy, vestments, and hierarchy, and are demanding that there be a scriptural basis and authority for every detail of public worship. They also hold that the Scriptures do not sanction the setting up of bishops and churches by the state.”

John took over: “I whole-heartedly agree with them that God’s people should relentlessly strive against every manifestation of sin in their behavior and thoughts. Neither the absolution of priests nor the devotion to ritual should replace the obligation of each person to act in a moral fashion. But, I don’t understand their belief that individual sins be expiated by public humiliation. I can’t see but where that might cause more resentment than reformation.”

My husband was a humble, but outspoken man with very definite convictions. He knew his Bible well, as did we all, thanks to Sir Thomas’ strict adherence to daily scripture reading and study. Very seldom did a day pass without family devotions being performed in the evenings. No sooner had I joined the family than instruction in biblical principles became a part of my life. Early in her children’s lives, Lady Elizabeth hired a tutor from France to instruct them. He was a kind man, well-versed in classical literature and science, as well as Latin, religion and musical studies. He remained with the family for many years, even after the children were grown, and became an integral part of the family, instructing young Thomas and Lizzie, who were the babies of the family (what I knew as ‘change-of-life’ babies). Jacque’s death at 83, three weeks before my wedding affected us all very deeply and left a cavity in our hearts.

“I agree with you, brother,” William stepped in, rising from his seat and going to stand before the hearth in which a bright fire burned, casting shadows into the corners of the room and warding off the chill of the rain that was falling outside that evening. “But one thing I have difficulty with is their belief in, what did they call it, Father, predestination?”

“What’s predestination?” I asked, looking to my father-in-law for direction. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!” In actuality, I had heard of the term, and had, in fact, attended a church back in my future, (as I had come to think of my past life) where it was preached from the pulpit as sound and solid doctrine of the True New Testament Church. What I wanted to see was the early Puritan’s conception of the term.

“The Puritans believe that God has predestined some for salvation and others for damnation, not specifically because of anything good or bad inherent in their souls, but simply of His own volition. The tricky bit is that only God knows for certain which people are ‘the elect’. Therefore, all believers need to lead devout lives as they continue to search their hearts for the signs of God’s grace that will indicate their membership in the company of saints.”

“But, that would mean that every moment of one’s life is subject to a spiritual accounting,” Lady Elizabeth remarked. “And how can a good and merciful God pick and choose like that? I thought God accepted all who came to him with a contrite heart.”

“He does accept all who come,” Sir Thomas explained. “But Robinson said that because of man’s total depravity and being dead in trespasses and sins, he cannot come to God—in fact, he’s incapable of it. He preached that a dead man can do absolutely nothing—and I believe that, because it’s true in real life. A corpse is hindered by its own nature. He then explained that unless God chooses some to salvation and makes them willing to come, none would come at all. The Bible does say in John 5:40 that ‘ye will not come unto me that ye might have life.’”

“Well, I don’t know,” Mary said. “Is all this in the Bible, or is it just something the Puritans thought up on their own?” John’s eldest sister (though younger than he by several years—all the children were very spaced out due to numerous miscarriages in Lady Elizabeth’s birthing history) was a very precocious young woman, whose blond hair turned to a red-gold in the winter. We never saw her without a book in her hands, able to walk anywhere with her nose buried deep within its pages. I constantly wondered how she managed to get around without running into walls and door jambs. She questioned nearly everything that was put to her, needing to ponder things before committing herself to any course of action.

“It’s in the Bible, Mary,” John said. “In fact, it’s all through the Scriptures. John Robinson gave us many, many references pertaining to predestination and election.”

“That’s right, John,” his father confirmed.

“So, John, when was all this supposed to have happened? Does God just sit around all day in Heaven picking and choosing this one or that one at random?” I tried to appear really puzzled by this new revelation, when in fact, I knew all the mechanics of this peculiar doctrine.

“The Bible says in Ephesians 1:4 that God chose those for salvation before the foundation of the world. That means that before God even created the world, He chose His elect.”

“But how could God choose us, if we hadn’t even been born yet?” Mary said, throwing up her hands. “I just don’t understand this.”

“God knew you would be born, Mary. After all, He is God,” William quipped, shaking his head and rolling his eyes heavenward. “Boy! Sometimes you can be really dense.”

“Now, William, let’s be patient. Mary’s questions are sound. She’s trying hard to understand, as we all are,” Sir Thomas admonished his son.

“I’m sorry, Father. You’re right. Please forgive me, Mary,” William apologized, crossing the room to give his little sister a squeeze.

“Well, I have one more question,” I persisted, rising to stand behind my husband.

“And what is that, my dear?” John said, looking up at me and smiling.

“What do you do with a statement, like John 3:16, that says Jesus died for everyone?”

“Ah, that was one of my questions, also, daughter,” my father-in-law chuckled, grinning at me. This stern man had blossomed into a caring father after my marriage to his son.

“And how did John Robinson answer that one?”

“He said that in the original Greek language (in which the New Testament was written), the word ‘world’ rarely ever means every individual in the human race. Take the passage in John 12:19 for instance, where the Pharisees say that “the world is gone after him,” speaking of Christ. The whole entire world hadn’t really ‘gone after Christ.’ for there were some people even in Israel who hadn’t adhered to Christ’s teachings. Brother Robinson explained that passages like John 3:16 and 1 John 2:2 teach that Christ died for Gentiles, as well as Jews. He died for men as sinners, not as any class or kind of sinner.”

“My, my, my, this is peculiar doctrine, indeed,” said Lady Elizabeth, shaking her head. “What are you going to do now, Husband, with what you’ve learned?”

“I need to pray and seek God’s will in this matter, and I suggest all of you do the same. These new doctrines are sound and scriptural, and as such, warrant our prayerful consideration.”

And Sir Thomas did exactly that. Several times that following week, I caught glimpses of him walking alone in the fields, and I knew he was communing with God, trying to understand the things that had been revealed to him. Finally, about a week later we were all called together again, and Sir Thomas disclosed his personal decision on the matter.

“I have decided that I shall adopt the faith of the Puritans. Of course, it will be up to each one of you, individually, to decide for himself or herself.” He bowed his head in the ladies’ direction. “But as for this house, we shall serve the Lord in the manner and custom He has prescribed, as we always have.”

As a well-bred lady did in that time period, Lady Elizabeth followed her husband’s lead, and John and I also decided that we would go along in declaring ourselves Puritans. William was not entirely convinced that the new doctrine was to his liking; however, he agreed to tag along for the ride for the time being. Mary, of course, had to ponder the question, but in the end, made her own profession after about three weeks. Lizzie, our silent sister, unable to speak since a bout with scarlet fever at the age of two, made her decision with a nod of the head, as did Thomas Junior.

The only holdout was Grandmother Fionna. Sir Thomas’ mother was a staunch Irish Catholic, who had been enraged at her son’s initial conversion to the Church of England thirty years previously. Now, his further defection from the faith of his birth only succeeded in inflaming her all the more. Vowing never to speak to her son again, she angrily retreated with her companion, Molly, to the west wing of the manor, and remained in seclusion for nearly a month, before finally making an appearance at table, apologizing for her actions. Stating that she would never leave the Catholic faith, she did relent, however, and agreed that each of us had to make our own decisions. Her son was very saddened at her obstinacy, for he believed that in refusing to come over to our way of thinking, she had damned her soul for all eternity.

Our conversion to the Puritan faith changed many things in our lives: first, there would be no more of the latest fashions. We would henceforth dress soberly and modestly, which included head coverings for the women, that were to be worn at all times; we would attend the nearest Puritan meeting every Sunday and on Lecture Day; and, we would endeavor to live, as we always had, according to the dictates of Scripture and to obey the rules of the church. However, there were to be many instances in the years to come, when I wondered whether we had made the right decision. Becoming Puritan was to eventually bring down the wrath of England upon our heads and it changed our lives in ways we had no way of conceiving at the time.

 

*************

 

A few nights later, a fierce, persistent pounding sounded on the front door, interrupting our evening meal.

“Who in the world could that be? Are we expecting company, Elizabeth?” Sir Thomas inquired, as he pushed away from the table.

“Not that I’m aware of, my dear.”

“Well, whoever it is must certainly be determined to cleave the door in two!” He disappeared through the pocket doors separating the two rooms. A few moments passed during which we heard muted conversation coming from the entry hall. Presently, Sir Thomas appeared in the doorway with a short, stocky, white-haired man, who was nervously twisting a tattered felt cap in his shaking hands.

“It seems that Mrs. Taylor’s infant has chosen tonight to make its entrance into the world, Elizabeth, and they have need of you.”

“Sorry to ‘ave interrupted your dinner, but me wife’s ‘aving mighty terrible pains, ma’am and a-bleedin’ somethin’ fierce,” Mr. Taylor said, his dark eyes darting uneasily around the opulently-furnished room. The Taylors were from the poorer section of Lynn, down near the wharves, and the mister made his living there loading Sir Thomas’ ships.

Lady Elizabeth blotted her lips and rose from the table. “I’ll be just a moment, Mr. Taylor. I need to get my things. Please wait on the front step. You may ride back with us in the cart.”

“Oh, no, mum. I mean, um, uh, it wouldn’t be fittin’. I’ve me own mount. I’ll just go on back ‘ome. You come along when you can.”

“Very well, Mr. Taylor. Mary, you and Sarah get your cloaks. You’re coming with me. I’m going to need your help, if what I suspect is occurring,” Elizabeth said, a sharp frown between her eyes. She hurried to the still room on the second floor, where she worked with herbs and concocted the medicines she used to treat the sick. Mary and I exchanged surprised looks. We had never before been invited to accompany her on any medical emergency, although we were being trained in the use of herbs for healing. I already knew some medical procedures from my previous life, but, I was forced to stifle much of it. Seventeenth century medicine was archaic, to say the least, and down-right dangerous in many instances. Many of the methods I witnessed would have appalled my own family doctor back (or ahead, however one wished to look at it) in 1984. Lady Elizabeth usually tended the sick in the area by herself, rather than expose us to the various diseases she treated.

Mary, her mass of red-gold curls bouncing, lifted her skirts and scampered upstairs to get our cloaks and was back before her mother returned. Sir Thomas had brought the dog cart around and we all climbed aboard. Then he assisted his wife onto the narrow seat. Lady Elizabeth clucked and kissed at the horse, which instantly broke into a gallop. Mary and I had to hang on for dear life to avoid being bounced right out. It was at these moments when I missed my automobile the most.

“I hope we arrive in time!” Lady Elizabeth shouted in order to be heard over the wind, as we flew along the rutted path toward the main road. Tension and worry was evident in her voice, as she called to the horse to “giddy-up, there, Pilar!” It was dreadful watching her toil and fret over the slightest illness, knowing that had I been able to apprise her of the proper methods or the correct medicines, I could have helped her save many lives.

It was an icy evening, with a clear sky and a big yellow moon hanging over the Fens.

The air whistled into my ears, making them ache. I covered them with the hood of my cloak to keep them warm. Trees and bushes rushed by, as we thundered along, trying to get to the Taylors’ before it was “too late.”

I had always thought the coming of babies to be a joyous occasion. But in a time when the slightest illness could kill, bringing a new life into the world was dangerous business. It was then that I remembered how old in age Mr. Taylor had appeared and wondered about Mrs. Taylor’s age.

As the sun lowered in the sky, we shot past Gaywood Manor, the ancestral home of the Bagge family, and came out onto the road that split east to Norwich and west to King’s Lynn. Within a few minutes, we could see the East Gate, one of the two main land-routes into town. It was manned by an old, bald-headed chap, who acted as gatekeeper and collected tolls on merchandise coming in and going out. With a shocked expression and a wave of his ragged, woolen cap, he gestured us on through the gateway.

Flying by Roundeshill, the dog cart clattered across the drawbridge and shot through the wooden gates and under the portcullis, as Lady Elizabeth slowed the horse to a trot. The hollow sound of his hooves on the drawbridge made Pilar pick up his feet smartly, and he danced a little sideways, causing the cart to shift to the left. Mary let out a startled squeak, as we grabbed hold of each other. We crossed another smaller bridge and trotted down Damgate toward the quays that lined the River Great Ouse, passing what would one day become the Hospital of St. John and several inns near Gresemarket. Finally, we pulled up in front of a small, thatched cottage badly in need of repair. A nervous Mr. Taylor ran out of the house, catching hold of the lathered horse, while Mary and I pulled our cloaks closer and jumped from the back of the cart, hastily grabbing the satchels.

“Don’t give him any water, Mr. Taylor,” Lady Elizabeth cautioned, “until he’s cooled down a bit. I don’t want to have to administer to a sick horse, as well as your poor wife tonight.”

“Yes, mum,” he replied, dipping his head and fastening the reins to a ring in the rail. Shall I ‘obble him, mum?”

“No, he should be fine.”

The stars were just starting to pop out—tiny silver dots in the dark sky above us.

“Come along, girls,” my mother-in-law prompted. “No dawdling now. We’ve work to do.” The three of us hurried up to the front door. Mr. Taylor trotted back to hold the door and ushered us up a series of tiny winding stairs to the bedroom, where we found Mrs. Taylor laying in a tangled mess of sheets, bathed in sweat and blood. She had a white-knuckled death grip on the old wooden bedstead, and was moaning and crying in agony, twisting her head this way and that. Two twin girls, who appeared to be about ten or twelve, cowered in the corner crying hysterically.

Lady Elizabeth took one look around and exploded. “Why didn’t you come for me sooner?!” she shouted over the cries of the laboring mother. “She may very well die because of your neglect. Get out of here, all of you!” I had never seen her so angry.

Looking back warily, the two sobbing girls, dressed in fading print frocks, leaped up and bolted from the room. Mr. Taylor, appearing shocked and distraught, backed slowly out the door.

“Useless twits!” my mother-in-law spat after them with disgust. She quickly examined the mother and pronounced: “The baby is breach, just like last time. I knew this was going to happen.”

“What can we do, Mother?” Mary asked, handing her one of the dark leather satchels.

“You and Sarah get on the other side of the bed, take her arms, and let’s slide her up a bit. I’m going to need to turn the baby, if I can.” Then she muttered: “I don’t understand why all of her babies are breach.”

I silently wished that a 21^st century gynecologist was in attendance to save this poor woman the pain and anguish she was certain to endure this night, if she lived to tell of it at all. Between the three of us, we managed to maneuver Mrs. Taylor closer to the head of the bed. She was a dead weight and so weakened, that she was unable to help us much. The stench of blood saturated the tiny room, and twice I gagged from the overpowering odor. Mary’s face was a ghastly shade of green, and I wondered if mine looked the same.

“I know, Sarah. I’m sorry you girls have to witness this, but I knew I would need every pair of hands I could get,” Lady Elizabeth apologized. “This is bad, and it’s probably going to be a lot worse before it gets better.”

My mother-in-law labored several minutes trying desperately to turn the infant into a more suitable position for birth, heaving and grunting with the effort. Finally, wiping beads of sweat from her forehead and pushing back a stray lock of hair with a bloodied hand, she heaved a great sigh of relief and stood back. Mrs. Taylor had mercifully fainted, so the room was quiet, except for the labored breathing of Lady Elizabeth, who picked up a corner of the sheet to wipe her reddened hands.

“Well, we should be able to deliver the baby, now,” she panted.

Just then, Mrs. Taylor revived and began to sob.

“Huldah, can you hear me?” Lady Elizabeth asked, leaning close.

“What…yes…I,” the woman gasped, her lids fluttering, revealing pale gray eyes.

“Huldah, can you push? Can you help your baby? Push, Huldah.”

Mrs. Taylor took a mouthful of air, squeezed shut her eyes, and pushed with everything she had, her face becoming crimson with the strain. But that one push was enough, and the tiny, wrinkled infant slid onto the sheets. It was a little boy. Lady Elizabeth handed me the tiny bundle to clean, and I took him over to the dresser. When I laid him down, he started squalling, his tiny fists flailing in the air and his face screwing up in a scowl. I had never seen a newborn before, and the sight of the blood and mucous covering his little body nearly caused me to gag again.

“Huldah, you have a….,” I heard Lady Elizabeth begin. She never finished, but instead breathed: “Oh, my.”

“What’s wrong?” I inquired from across the room, as I carried the infant back to the bed.

“She’s dead, isn’t she, Mother?” Mary asked, glancing from the woman to meet her mother’s eyes.

“Yes, she’s gone, God rest her soul,” Lady Elizabeth responded dejectedly, pulling the sheet over the poor woman’s face. “Well, her husband should be a happy man now. He’s finally gotten his boy, even if it did kill his wife to give him one. She was 48 years old—too old to have had any more babies. I told her after the last stillbirth to stop this madness, but she wouldn’t listen. ‘My husband wants a son,’ she’d said. Well, he’s got one now. I hope he’s satisfied.”

Lady Elizabeth hated to see things wasted, and this woman’s life had certainly been that. If only we were back home in my own time. This poor family would be celebrating the birth of a son, instead of mourning the death of a mother.

The grieving husband was sent down the street to April Winnow’s house. She had lost her own child two weeks ago and would be a good wet nurse for the little boy with a mass of coal-black hair. He would need sustenance, if he was to survive. No formula here in this period of history.

By the time he returned with Mrs. Winnows, we had everything put to rights. Lady Elizabeth dressed Huldah Taylor in a pretty, albeit faded, organdy night rail, with small pink flowers embroidered around the neckline that Mary had discovered in one of the dresser drawers. I finished tending to the infant, and he was asleep when the wet nurse took him downstairs to suckle. It was a sad and defeated trio who rode back to the manor that night. My first experience with birthing had been a disaster. Our return trip wasn’t so rushed, and Mary and I soon drifted off to sleep as the dog cart slowly rocked back and forth. I came awake once to hear Lady Elizabeth praying for “poor, greedy old Mr. Taylor,” whose determined quest for a son had cost him the life of his wife. As I nodded back to sleep, I prayed for the baby boy, who would never know the woman that had given her life to birth him.