CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Those who fear the Lord are secure; he will be a place of refuge for their children. (Proverbs 14:26)

 

John Robinson, who said he’d been watching every ship for the past three days, greeted us on the dock, as we descended the gangplank. John and William had met this formidable leader for the Puritan cause at Scrooby several years ago, and the description they had given fit him perfectly: tall, lean and gangly.

“I told my wife, Bridget, that you’d arrive today. The Lord gave me indication that it would be so,” he said, as he pumped John’s hand and thumped him soundly on the back. “How was the crossing? Not rough, I hope.”

“It wasn’t too unpleasant,” John answered for us. “A storm two days ago, left me greatly indisposed, but all in all, it wasn’t an unpleasant experience.”

“I’ve always had difficulty sailing, myself. And how did you fare, Goodwife Keeney?” Mr. Robinson said, turning to me and grasping my gloved hand in his own.

“Very well, thank you,” I replied, smiling sweetly. “I’ve never been aggravated by seasickness.” Of course, since I’d only sailed this once, that wasn’t a very accurate statement.

“My wife is expecting our first child. I feared she would suffer, but she seems to have done far better than I,” my husband chuckled.

“Congratulations to you both. May the Lord fill your quiver with children: we have several, and they are truly blessings from our Heavenly Father.”

Mr. Robinson, who insisted that we address him as “Pastor John,” conducted us to his home near Peter’s Church. “On the way, I’ll give you a short tour of the city. Bridget will take you to market tomorrow, Goodwife Keeney.”

Turning left at the next corner, which Pastor John said was Kloksteeg in Dutch, we were directed to look at a modest building there. “This is the Basson Book Shop,” Pastor John said, pointing to a brown-stone storefront with over-sized diamond-paned windows. It’s owned by Thomas and Govert Basson. Govert supports Jacobus Arminius (I’ll tell you about him later), and has published many of his writings. The men, however, are still friends of ours, regardless of their erroneous beliefs. Across the street there is Thomas Brewer’s old house. Mr. Brewer was also a very dear friend of ours. He provided most of the financial support for William Brewster’s printing activities. Hugh Goodyear, the minister of the Reformed Church in Leiden, lives there now.”

Turning left on a small street, known as English Alley, we came upon a large tenement-looking building, similar to those I’d noticed in New York City so long ago. “On the right there is Thomas Rogers’ house. Thomas immigrated to the New World with Brewster’s group, but died the first winter. Mrs. Rogers still lives in the rear of the house with her children, Elizabeth, Gertie, and John. She’s preparing to sail to America in about three weeks. Anthony Clemens, a bombazine weaver lives in the front with his wife, Jane, and their children, Compassion and Hope. You’ll meet them at meeting on Sunday. Several orphans also live in the home,” Pastor John continued.

“Marcus Druven, his wife, Judith and son, Jan, live upstairs. Marcus is a serge worker at the mill. You’ll meet him tomorrow, John. You’ll be learning the trade from him. I know these names are meaningless to you now, but you’ll get acquainted with everyone eventually. We are really quite a mixed group.”

Finally arriving at Peter’s Church, Mr. Robinson told us a little about its history. “The church’s chapel was built in 1121, and the construction of the church building itself commenced in 1390. It’s a very ancient structure. When Bridget and I first arrived in Leiden, we used the garden area of the land here to build twenty-one small tenements for the English families fleeing from persecution. We’ve been blessed to live in the parsonage of the church ever since.”

I remembered from high school history class that the immigrants from England had gone to Amsterdam in 1609, but had moved to Leiden a year later. From my first visual inspection, Leiden appeared to be a very fair and striking city. Pastor John said that work was hard to find in the early years (and still was unless you had connections), and that had finally convinced the followers of William Brewster to immigrate to the New World in 1620.

“Those courageous men and women sailed from the same dock you came in on today.” It was humbling to realize that we were walking in their footsteps. It was a living history lesson.

The Robinson’s house was large and spacious. Coming into the front room, we were greeted by a beautiful woman, who clasped my hands in welcome. She appeared to be about 40 years old, of small stature and medium weight. Long pale lashes framed beautiful blue eyes that were enhanced by blond hair kept covered by the proverbial white, linen cap.

“This is my wife, Bridget,” John Robinson made the introduction, placing his arm around her shoulders. “We have six children; however, only two are living with us at the moment.”

“We are so happy to have you in Leiden,” Bridget smiled, showing snowy-white, even teeth, so unusual in these days, when dental hygiene was virtually unknown. I noticed a mahogany harp standing in her keeping room.

“Do you play?” I asked her.

“Somewhat,” she answered.

“Now, Bridget, don’t be modest,” Pastor John said. “Actually, she plays beautifully. Maybe later, we could coax her into playing something for us?”

“We’ll see,” she replied, smiling demurely at her husband.

Later in the evening, she agreed to favor us with a selection of hymns, her long fingers plucking the strings gracefully. Closing my eyes as she played, I could well imagine I was standing in heaven listening to the angels strumming harps of gold.

As night descended, John and I were shown to a modest, but comfortable, bedchamber, with the promise that we would be taken to our new home on the morrow. We were to be given a small cottage recently vacated by one of those courageous souls that had sailed on the Mayflower to America. Sleep came easily to both of us that night. It was nice to be on solid ground again. At last, we felt safe from the clutches of Bishop Laud and the long arm of King James.

In the morning, after a leisurely breakfast and morning prayers, Pastor John took us to our new home, just a few steps from his own residence. While he and John spoke in the yard, I ventured inside. It was humble, to say the least. There was very little in the way of furniture, just an old table and two chairs, a rocking chair by the fireplace, and an overstuffed, green sofa that had seen better days sitting under the window. The cottage had only three rooms: keeping room, an eating area and a bedroom. In the bedroom, stood only a bedstead and a small chest. Pegs on the wall were for hanging up clothing. Peering out the back window, I saw a tiny yard with a fenced-in garden area and, of course, the privy. Oh, how I miss indoor plumbing.

Fortunately, the cottage was well-supplied with all the utensils needed for housekeeping: pots, pans, dishes and cups, and linens. Leaving so quickly, I had been unable to bring much of anything. The glassless windows had very simple white curtains that blew inward with the cool breeze from the ocean. Once it got cold outside, I would have to cover them to hold in the heat. The house was basic, but inviting. I knew I would have no trouble making this our home, but I wondered how long we would have to stay. Will I ever see my beloved America—or was that only a dream?

I was coming out of the bedroom, just as John was dragging in our trunks. Sitting them down on the floor, he bent over and sat down on one of them to catch his breath. Taking a huge gulp of air, he stood up and came to take me in his arms.

“I hope you’ll be happy here,” he said. “I know that it isn’t what you are accustomed to. Pastor John said that tomorrow, after we’ve had time to settle in a bit, he’ll take me to my new job. It seems I am to become a fustian worker.”

“A what?” I asked, removing my prayer cap and brushing back some wisps of hair that had escaped my bun. “What in the world is a fustian worker?”

“A weaver of thick-twilled cloth,” John answered, proudly, evidently repeating the definition he’d acquired from Pastor John. “I don’t know exactly what a ‘weaver of thick-twilled cloth’ does, but I suppose I’ll learn, won’t I?”

“I suppose you will,” I laughed. “And you will be the best ‘weaver of thick-twilled cloth’ in the city, I’ll wager.”

Mrs. Robinson had sent along a few provisions for our supper that night, and Pastor John had given us some money to tide us over, until my husband could receive his first wages. Dutch money looked nothing at all like ours at home. The coins were all odd sizes. I still had some American money stuffed away with my old clothes. John had laughed at what he called “sausage rolls” on George Washington’s head on the American dollar bill. All in all, we settled in nicely and retired that night on full stomachs—a feeling that would become increasingly precious during the months to come.

 

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

 

The entire first week in our new home, John spent at the woolen mill learning the trade. Each night, he returned home bone-tired and exhausted, ready for a good meal and a soft bed. Each day seemed to get easier for him, and soon he was able to spend some time with me in the evenings, reading the Bible and praying for our family back home. Having received his first pay, we decided on Saturday to go to the market. Bridget had taken me on an extended tour of the city on Wednesday and had shown me where to purchase food. She was quickly becoming a very dear friend.

“So, how are you and Goodwife Robinson getting along?” John inquired, as we ambled along hand-in-hand.

“We’re getting to know each other. She’s helping me hone my housekeeping skills.”

“But, I think you’re a fabulous housekeeper. Why, you take care of me almost as good as my mother.”

“Almost as good?” I whirled on him, punching him in the arm. “I’ll have you know I’ve always kept a clean house. Of course, with washing machines, dishwashers, and SOS pads, it’s a whole lot easier than this.”

“Although I don’t have a clue what SOS pads are, I’m only teasing,” he said, hugging me. “You’re the best wife a man could have, Sarah. I don’t know what I would ever do without you.”

I’d learned to cook simplistic meals and to hand-sew a few things. But Bridget was teaching me the finer points of housekeeping, cooking, and sewing in which I was not very accomplished. Living in the 21st century had spoiled me. Basic 15th century housekeeping was vastly different, especially when one lacked all the modern conveniences I was accustomed to using. Learning to keep a clean, organized house in this environment was fast becoming an accomplishment and not just an everyday thing for me.

“She’s promised to teach me how to spin thread and weave cloth. She said it’s much cheaper to make one’s own than to buy it at the mills, and there are very few ready-made clothing shops in the city. And besides, with the baby coming, I’ll need to make gowns and shifts….”

“And some little pants for him, too,” John chimed in.

“How do you know it’ll be a boy? It could just as well be a wee girl, you know.”

“No, it’s a boy. I’m sure of it. And we’re going to name him Henry.”

“Oh, so you’ve already picked out a name, have you?”

“Henry’s all right, isn’t it?” He suddenly looked like a small boy asking if he could keep the puppy that had followed him home.

“Henry’s a fine name. If it’s a boy, that is.”

“Oh, it’s a boy.” He seemed so certain that I chuckled.

I took John past the almshouses (or hof) that Bridget had told me accommodated the elderly poor of the city. Built as a collection of 35 small houses around a central garden, it had only one entrance and exit, which opened onto the public road. There was a caretaker that was responsible for manning the gate, and the residents lived there free of charge.

“Bridget and several ladies come here once or twice a month to supply the residents with bread and used shirts and shoes,” I explained. “She said that the next time they go, I may come along. I’ll be so glad to be able to give something back to the city that has sheltered us from harm.”

“What a grand idea, Sarah,” John said, patting my hand where it lay on his broad arm. “The Lord will bless you for helping those in need.” My heart swelled with love for this kind and generous man.

Passing Leiden University, John said: “Pastor John said that I might take classes there. I’d like to learn more of the Scriptures. But I fear the cost is mighty expensive.”

“Well, if it’s that important to you, we’ll just have to tighten our belts to come up with the necessary funds,” I replied. Such grand notions I had. Little did I realize that we would have to “tighten our belts” just to eat in the very near future.

Reaching the market area near the center of town, I pointed out the Butter Hall, where Bridget and I had purchased the sweet, creamy butter we had eaten with that morning’s breakfast. On Maarsmansteeg Street, stalls were set up selling all types of foodstuffs, linens, pots and pans, and an array of utensils. We bought meat, some chicken, and a rabbit, plus enough staples to tide us over until John received his next pay. I was amazed at the prices—things were more expensive than I had dreamed possible, and I began to wonder whether John’s meager salary at the mill would be able to keep us. I also wondered whether there wasn’t something I might do to bring in some extra money. Back in the future, I’d worked in an office, but I doubted anyone would have need of a secretary here. However, I was not going to let our financial worries ruin our first outing together in Leiden. I pushed the reservations to the back of my mind, intending to deal with them later. John, of course, would have rather I’d dealt with them now, but today was adventure day, not a day to be “getting to the origins of things.”

On our return trip, we passed Jacobus Arminius’ house and came to a small street. Tugging on John’s arm, I hauled him down the alley.

“What’s down here?”

“William Brewster’s house. It’s the last one on the right. It’s where he and his assistant printed books that were forbidden in England. Bridget said Mr. Brewster was arrested by Leiden’s sheriff, but was released, which greatly angered the Crown back home. He eventually went into hiding in Leiderdorp and escaped further pursuit by immigrating to America. That has me worried, John, that we might not be as safe from Bishop Laud as we first thought.”

“It’ll be all right, Sarah. Just trust in the Lord.”

“Well, you aren’t going to be writing any more pamphlets, anyway, are you? So, we really don’t have anything to worry about. Am I right?”

John didn’t answer me, just smiled. I took that for a “yes” and continued on.

We turned left on Kloksteeg and passed the Cloth Guild, where John toiled every day earning the necessary funds to keep us afloat.

“Is it a nice place to work?” I asked.

“It’s noisy and dusty. But, I can endure it.”

“Over on the next street, called Beginhoff, is the chapel where we’ll worship tomorrow,” I told John, pointing in the general direction. “Bridget said they used to meet in homes, but Leiden outlawed that recently. Fortunately, a good soul provided a chapel for us.”

Proceeding on down Kloksteeg, we turned right on English Alley to our own little home, and so ended our first adventure in Leiden. We were to have many more outings, as we explored our new home and became familiar with the sights and sounds of that beautiful country.

 

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

 

Over the next few months, John spent a great deal of time with Pastor John, learning more about the Bible and Puritan doctrine, and I learned from Bridget Robinson how to keep a house more economically. Living on a minimal income was not something I was used to doing, and I needed to learn many ways to cut corners. John’s income was adequate, but we still lacked many things. My dressmaking skills were not that commendable, but would eventually improve with practice. A shopping mall with scads of dresses ready-made would be very welcome right about now, I thought to myself, as I threaded the small loom Bridget had loaned me upon which to learn.

In the evenings, John would relate conversations he’d had that day with Pastor John and what he was gleaning from the Holy Scriptures. I so wished we had been able to afford his going to the university, but the money had just not been there for that luxury. There were no such things as student loans in this place.

One such night, we had just finished dinner, evening Bible study, and prayers, when John brought up a conversation he’d had with Pastor John earlier in the day.

“He believes that we should go on to America, Sarah,” he began. “I told him that I hoped to return to England, once the situation cooled down. But, he said I might discover that I can never return to England safely. Bishop Laud is a very vindictive man and won’t stop until he finds me and prosecutes me. It has me very concerned about our future.”

“We must do as God wills, my dear.”

“Yes, you’re right. I must pray about this. Will you pray about it also?”

“Of course, I always pray for you, every day that you will make the proper decisions for our lives.”

“How did I get so fortunate as to find a good woman like you that loves Jesus so much? I am, of all men, most blessed. And now, to become a father. My cup surely runneth over.”

 

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

 

Life soon took on a routine and time passed swiftly. Before I knew it, spring had come to Holland, and the flowers and trees blossomed. I had blossomed also, my girth increasing with a growing baby. Having spent so much time in the English countryside, I’d forgotten how beautiful (and busy) a city could be. However, Leiden was clean and very well maintained by its citizens. The Dutch truly seemed to take pride in their country. Nearly every house had fine-looking gardens, with numerous flora and fauna. Bridget had given me several types of flower bulbs after our arrival. The resulting tulip blooms that spring were some of the most attractive I have ever seen. They looked like miniature cups in every color of the rainbow. I’d planted the bulbs beside the walk in front of our cottage, and now they bloomed in an array of shades: pinks, reds, and vibrant yellows. There were even a couple of the rare black ones. And the best part was that they would return every year to brighten my home and grace my table.

One stormy night, I awoke to find John’s place beside me vacant. Concerned that he might be ill, I crawled from beneath the covers and went out into the keeping room. Lightning crashed and thunder boomed all around me—the result of a late summer storm which had risen up out of the west in the afternoon and had continued all evening.

Hunched over a burning candle, John was engrossed in something and did not hear me approach. Coming up behind him, I peered over his shoulder and discovered that he was writing another of those dreaded pamphlets.

“What are you doing?” I said, startling him. His hand slammed into the bottle of black India ink, causing it to turn over. The liquid black flowed over the pages of his written notes.

“What...!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “Oh, goodness, Sarah, you nearly frightened me out of half my life!”

“I’m sorry,” I replied, as I stumbled back to avoid a collision, clutching my swollen stomach. “I was just so shocked to see you writing those things again. I thought you had left that enterprise behind us in England. How can we ever hope to return, if you continue to goad Bishop Laud with still more pamphlets?”

“I just can’t sit here in safety and do nothing, Sarah,” John said, with a concerned look in his eyes. “My country is dying spiritually, and I must do something about it. Pastor John said that he still writes many pamphlets and ships them to England for distribution. So, I thought I would help him by writing some of my own.”

“But, you promised!”

“Now, I never said I wouldn’t write again.”

“Well, I just wish you wouldn’t do this, although I can understand why you feel you must. I wish we could just go on to America, now. Please be careful, won’t you?”

“Oh, sweetheart, nothing can hurt us here—we’re safe in Leiden.”

So, John continued to write and ship the missives back home, and I continued to fret about it. Time passed, and soon I was waddling around like a duck. The baby was very active and kept me awake some nights kicking and poking his (her?) tiny fingers between my ribs. Even though I was in dread of the coming travail without the aid of drugs and epidurals, I wanted it to be over.

On July 8th, I was weeding our small vegetable garden when the first contractions of labor began. Initially, they were just minor aches in my back, which I put off as the normal pain of bending over for hours at a time. But, soon I knew that something was happening and sent a neighboring lad running after Bridget. After examining me, she went to wash her hands in the pan of dishwater I’d readied to wash the vegetables I had been collecting.

“You’re definitely in the first stages of labor. I’ll send young Aaron to the mill for your husband.”

By the time John arrived, I was already in bed, and the pains were coming closer together. With an anxious look on his face, he bent over the bed and kissed my forehead.

“Are you going to be alright? You seem to be in an enormous amount of pain.”

“Of course, I’m in an enormous amount of pain. I’m about to have a baby, honey,” I chuckled at his consternation, as another wave of pain rose up to attack me. “Women have babies every day, John.” I huffed and puffed through another contraction. “And Bridget assures me that I am healthy and stro-o-o-o-o-o-ong! Oh, my!”

“Does it hurt that much?” He seemed truly alarmed now.

“It’s getting worse with every passing hour, but I’m certain I’ll survive. (I was to feast on those words very soon, and boy, were they bitter!) Why don’t you go into the keeping room for a cup of lemonade, honey. Don’t worry about me. Oh, dear!” I shrieked, as a particularly strong pain slammed me squarely in the back, causing me to arch upwards.

“I……think that’s a very good idea,” he said, quickly backing out of the room.

By the time Bridget told me I could begin pushing, I certain whether or not I would live to tell the tale and silently wished for the comforting presence of Lady Elizabeth and an anesthesiologist with a very long needle. Doctors in Holland were very expensive, and birthings were usually handled by midwives or caring neighbors, like Bridget Robinson—God bless her soul. In the back of my mind, lingered the memory of poor Huldah Taylor so many years ago, dying to bring life to her son. I prayed that Jesus would see me through the coming travail and silently cursed Eve for starting all of this in the first place.

At any rate, John was right, and Henry Thomas Keeney came squalling into the world just after sunset. He had a great mound of fuzzy, red hair and tiny, pink ears that stuck out from his head. And he was just as active out of the womb, as he was inside, his little arms waving wildly in the air. I loved him instantly.

“Oh, Bridget,” I wept, smiling up at her, holding the tiny infant in the crook of my arm. “Isn’t he just about the prettiest baby you’ve ever seen?”

She readily agreed with me and took him after he had suckled some and gone to sleep, saying that I needed my rest, too. Reluctantly, I relinquished my son to her care and closed my eyes for some much-deserved sleep. I had been through one of the most difficult times a woman can experience—sleep was needed to help me heal. The last thing I heard was her cooing to Henry as she changed his napkin. Sometime later in the night, she brought him to me again to nurse, but I quickly fell asleep immediately thereafter and didn’t awaken again, until his cries near dawn caused my breasts to ache. When she brought Henry to me again, I noticed that his head was bound with a linen cloth and asked Bridget about it.

“I have wrapped his head in the linen to pin his ears back, so they won’t stick out. You need to leave this on for several months, changing it frequently, of course. This will prevent his having what is known as ‘elephant ears.’” How absolutely archaic and unnecessary, I thought.

Once she was gone, I removed the binding and discarded it. If Bridget ever noticed, she didn’t say.

After a couple of days of coming and going, Bridget returned to her home and husband, and John and I were left with the rearing of young Henry. He was a gentle, easy baby, rarely crying unless something was wrong. He smiled a great deal, which John believed was because the baby loved his father.

“See how he smiles at me when I tickle his cheek? I think he really loves me.”

I assured him it was just gas. He didn’t believe me, so I left him alone with his delusions.

During the day, I placed Henry in a basket and took him outside into the garden with me as I did my chores, harvesting our meager crop of vegetables. He played with his fingers and toes, cooing and baby-talking to the birds. I, on the other hand, had found my calling in the farming business. I’d planted an extra-large garden that year and had been able to sell the excess produce at a small stall I’d set up in the front yard, bringing in some much-needed income. In the evening, John would play with his son and watch me feed him, remarking at what a wonderful thing it was to be a father.

“I never knew I could love someone so much,” he said one evening, as he held our sleeping son in his arms. “I mean, I love you Sarah, but this is a different kind of love, almost an obsession. I want to make sure he has everything he needs and wants in this world. I want to assure him of a good future.” He face took on a different look, as he gazed down at our son. “But I don’t know how I’m going to do that here in Leiden. We barely get by on what I make at the mill.”

“I know.” I stepped up behind him and hugged his neck. “But, know that we are comfortable - at least, right now. Sure, we might not have a luxurious life, but we have what we need, albeit barely. And we have each other and Jesus, John. He’ll provide for us, of that I’m certain, for His Word promises us that. Try not to worry.”

I knew that John would be a very devoted father, and so, I was not dismayed when I discovered in October that I was to bear a second child. My doting husband, of course, was overjoyed. But. I also detected in him a sense of anxiety.

 

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

 

The year 1624 began with a severe winter storm that blanketed the city with nearly a foot of snow. John had a terrible time trudging back and forth to the mill that entire week and came home frozen and exhausted. Henry had taken a slight fever, which Bridget assured me was due to his cutting teeth (he was slobbering all over me and everything else). Having attained the grand old age of six months, he had learned to sit up on his own, and John was trying to teach him to crawl. It was comical to watch the father creeping around on the floor in front of the baby, trying to instruct the infant by showing him what to do. Secretly, I wished he would let the boy alone—for I knew that when Henry became mobile, a whole new set of worries would assail me—He would be into everything.

By the first of May, I looked like I had swallowed a watermelon. I was certainly larger with this child than with Henry, and I began to wonder whether I might be carrying two babies, instead of just one. I’d had to let out many of my dresses to accommodate my added girth.

News from England was sparse and sporadic. At the end of May, we learned that the House of Commons had impeached King James’ treasurer for corruption in office and for his opposition to the coming war with Spain. And on June 9th, I gave birth to Alexander Charles Keeney, our second son. He was a very large baby, which accounted for my greater size. However, unlike Henry, he was quiet and reserved, with absolutely no hair on his small, pointed head. Bridget helped me again through the difficult birth, which took a total of 39 hours, and she stayed with us for over a week tending to Henry and Alexander, while I recovered my strength. Alexander’s birth had taken a great deal out of me, and I prayed that I wouldn’t conceive again for a while.

Occasionally, we were able to send letters back to England via merchant ships which docked in Leiden, and sometimes we would receive letters in return from Lady Elizabeth, relating how things were at home, sending us news that we couldn’t get otherwise. Pastor John was a wealth of information about the politics of the day and the goings-on at Court. How he came by the news was a mystery, until we learned that he was receiving newspapers from home. I wasn’t even aware that a newspaper even existed yet, until John told me that the first one was started in 1622, nearly two years ago. I realized that stay-at-home moms really do miss out on what’s going on in the world.

On Sundays, John and I would pack up the boys and attend services in the tiny chapel. Between the morning and afternoon meetings, our small congregation trudged to the Robinson house for the noon meal. Bridget made us all feel welcome, and John and I began to make friends with the other families in the area. All the ladies brought a dish to help Bridget with the meal.

Pastor John normally selected a passage of scripture and then expounded upon it. He was a very good speaker and an excellent teacher. He explained every little detail, so that even a babe in Christ could understand the teachings of our Lord. He was, however, a fire-and-brimstone preacher, and sometimes he frightened us with his talk of Satan and evil-doers appearing amongst the flock of God, pretending to be sheep. I was reminded of Jeremy Tibbets, and how he had ingratiated himself into our lives, only to betray us in the end.

One Sunday in the Spring, after the morning service, several of the ladies were helping Bridget clean up after the meal and talking about various topics. I’d wandered away to change Alexander’s napkin. When I returned, I came upon the tail-end of a conversation going on between Bridget and Emaline Watson, who had recently come over from England with her husband, Troy, and seven children.

“I heard from Rosalee Garner that when she died, the King didn’t even attend her funeral,” Emaline sniffed, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “How anyone could be so callous, I’ll never know.”

“Well, Emaline,” Bridget said. “The Queen had become a Catholic and had forsaken the true faith and went to worshiping idols. I’m certain that angered the King greatly.”

“I just think he could have at least attended her funeral,” she replied, obviously annoyed.

Not wanting to get in on that conversation, I strolled away towards the blanket I’d laid under the apple tree in the Robinson’s yard. Alexander had fallen asleep. I placed him in the shade and covered him with my shawl, hoping he would sleep for a while. I really needed a break. Sitting down beside the peacefully sleeping infant, I looked around for John and Henry. Since our oldest son had begun walking, John had taken charge of him, leaving me time to care for Alexander. Henry was becoming quite a little man. He was a year old now and toddling around very well for his age. I’d been trying to wean him from nappies, but so far he’d vehemently resisted my efforts. My only other concern was his appetite, which was virtually non-existent. All he ever ate willing was bread. Everything else we had to tempt and cajole into him. Nothing would induce him to eat vegetables or meat, unless it was encased in bread. Oh, well, I thought, Bridget says he’ll eat when he gets hungry enough. I hope she’s right. Looking around, I finally spotted father and son marching through the crowd, Henry riding high upon his father’s shoulders.

September brought torrential rains to Holland that resulted in a great deal of flooding. Our small yard was under water for a great many days, but John filled old flour sacks and pillowcases with dirt and piled them in front of the door. These kept the water at bay, until the rain finally stopped. He also laid wooden planks between the back door and the privy, so we wouldn’t have to trudge through the mud—which was good, because Henry had finally decided to forgo his napkins and made frequent trips to the privy. That month also brought a scare to our little community of believers.

I was folding laundry one Monday afternoon, when John suddenly rushed into the house.

“They just brought Pastor John home suffering severe chest pains. Can you come to the house to help Bridget? I’ll watch the boys.”

I rushed over and found my friend beside herself with worry. Together, we got Pastor John into bed and within a few days, he was back to his old self, returning to work—without her blessing, of course. I also believed that he should have taken a few more days off. But that was like asking the sun not to shine, as he was so devoted in his service to the Lord.

The Christmas holidays, which as Puritans, we did not celebrate, was a grand affair in Holland. Carolers toured the city singing carols. Employers let their employees off from work early on Christmas Eve and didn’t require them to return until after the beginning of January. This did nothing for our finances, which were always stretched to the limit. If John didn’t work, we didn’t eat. Fortunately, our winter store of food and the small amount of money I’d horded from my garden sales would hold us over until John got back to work. Christmas Eve was spent at meeting (it was Lecture Day), with Pastor John extolling the virtues of purity and damning all pagans to Hell. I missed putting up the tree and stringing the electric lights that had lit up my home back in the future. Christmas had always been a magical time for me as a child. Not celebrating the birth of Jesus didn’t seem right. But I also realized that I was in different times now, with very different beliefs and customs. However, when I was alone with my babies, I made certain they heard their mother singing the old carols with relish.

The new year brought distressing news to me. I discovered that I was again with child. I dearly enjoyed being a mother, and I loved my two sons with all my heart. But, after Alexander’s complicated birth, I’d hoped to space my children a little farther apart. However, without birth control pills and other measures, it was a difficult thing to do in that day and age. I guessed the Lord had other plans and bowed to His will. Praying that He would preserve me, I told my husband, who grinned like a Cheshire cat. Of course, I thought, he’s not the one who has to birth them.

As spring descended upon us and my tulips began blooming beside the walk, we learned that King James had died of kidney failure at Theobalds in Hertfordshire, his favorite residence, on March 6th. His son, Charles I, ascended the throne. It was said that Charles was a shy, serious young man, who shared his father’s vanity and belief in the divine right of kings. This was a definite blow for the Puritan reform plan. I did, however, wonder whether with James dead and buried, we might finally return to England safely.

In April, our new king married Princess Henrietta Maria of France by proxy—the Duke of Buckingham standing in for him. And a few weeks later, the new 16-year-old Queen of England landed in Dover with a formidable retinue, including her own personal priests. It appeared that she was a devout Catholic, which also did not set well with the Puritans.

One hot, steamy day in early August, Bridget Robinson came to visit me in the late afternoon. I was just putting Alexander and Henry down for naps, when she knocked at my door. Soon, we were seated at my small, rickety table, sipping cups of steaming tea and nibbling on the raisin cakes I’d made fresh that morning.

“I have some exciting news,” she said, setting down her cup and blotting her lips. “Do you remember last winter when I told you about that painter, Rembrandt van Rijn, who was born in Leiden and went to Amsterdam to study painting?”

“Yes, I remember.” I set down my own cup and took a bite of my cake.

“Well, he’s returned to the city and opened his own studio. My husband is going to have him paint a miniature of me.”

“That’s wonderful, Bridget. I’d love to have one done for John. It must be terribly expensive, though. I doubt whether we could afford such an extravagance.”

“Actually,” Bridget replied, with a twinkle in her eye. “He’s trying to establish himself and is offering miniatures without cost to Leiden residents. Why don’t you surprise John with one?”

“Well, his birthday’s coming soon. It would be a wonderful surprise. Would you go with me?”

“Of course, my dear, I wouldn’t dare let you go alone. A good painter he might be, but tis said he has a way with the ladies. What do you say we stop by his studio next Tuesday when we go to the fish market? That way, John won’t be the wiser.”

“That’s a wonderful idea.” I was excited to be able to do something for my husband for all the joy he’d brought into my life.

I learned that Rembrandt was the son of a miller that had wanted his son to learn a decent trade. But the only thing the son had a passion for was painting—mostly still life and religious themes. I was looking forward to our next market day.

That next Tuesday, Bridget and I succeeded in convincing our friend, Emaline Watson, to stay with Henry, Alexander, and Bridget’s two children, while she and I went to see Rembrandt. My third pregnancy was nearly at full term, but Bridget assured me that the artist would only paint my head and shoulders. I had again ballooned to an enormous size. I hoped that Rembrandt was accomplished enough to successfully hide my condition. I certainly didn’t want to be memorialized in a state of blimpyness.

The studio was just down the street from our home, but still with my slow waddling, it took some time for us to get there.

“I’m sorry that I’m so slow,” I apologized to Bridget, as we ambled along.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve been pregnant, you know. I remember well my own waddling days.” We giggled at that like two school girls.

I was surprised when the artist opened the door to admit us. He looked little more than a boy of about fourteen years, although I knew he had to be much older. Attired in a black suit with a studded leather collar and white lace shirt, he was extremely attractive. He stood only about five-and-a-half feet tall, with diminutive features, and dark curling hair, which he wore relatively long. He also sported something I had never before seen on a man in this time period: a brilliant, ruby earring in his right earlobe. I wondered whether he might be homosexual, as the wearing of earrings back in the future was an indication of this. In addition, he spoke English flawlessly.

“I’m so glad to have you ladies sit for me,” he said in a strong Dutch accent, as he positioned my head. “Not many have come forward to accept my offer.”

“Well, I’m sure once word gets out about your expertise, you’ll be flooded with clients.” Bridget assured him.

“I hope you’re right, madam.”

Sitting for the portrait was time-consuming and physically exhausting, which surprised me, as I would have never dreamed that simply sitting still for a couple of hours could cause one’s body to ache so. It took four days of escapes from John and the children to accomplish my mission. I hated deceiving my husband, but Bridget convinced me that it was for a good cause.

The final sitting was completed on Friday morning, August 15th, and it was a fortunate thing, because by three o’clock that afternoon, I was in the early stages of labor. After a surprising seven hours, the twins, Mary Elizabeth and Arthur William, were born at 10:30 and 10:33, respectively, in the evening. It was a quick travail, but made more difficult because I’d delivered two babies instead of only one. Both of the infants were extremely small, but Bridget proclaimed them healthy. It wasn’t until later that we learned Arthur had been born with a slight tendency towards Down’s Syndrome.

“Mary has your eyes,” John said, as he looked down at his first daughter. “And, I believe she has Mother’s little nose, doesn’t she? Arthur, on the other hand, looks just like little Thomas when he was born.”

“Funny isn’t it how family features are passed on to the next generation?” I could feel my eyes sagging with weariness, as I nursed Arthur. He would forever be a child, although later, as I watched him grow, I didn’t believe that he was as bad off as little Thomas had been.

It took nearly two weeks to get back to my old self, and then another tragedy hit us: on Thursday, September 4, Pastor John collapsed at the university and died. Bridget was absolutely devastated. He was laid to rest in the cemetery of Peter’s Church. His funeral was attended by such a crowd of people, that it was difficult to get them all inside. The Robinsons had made countless friends during their stay in Holland. Even Rembrandt attended the funeral, taking me aside to surreptitiously deliver the miniature he had painted, carefully wrapped in linen. I hurriedly put the small parcel out of sight in my skirt pocket to give to John on the morrow, which was his 25th birthday. He would be astonished at the likeness. What a pity that Bridget had been unable to give her husband her own portrait before his untimely death.

When I presented John with the painting the next day, he was enthralled.

“My, goodness, it’s amazing how he’s captured your very essence,” he said, as we walked home from the funeral, each carrying a baby in one arm and towing a toddler with the other.

“He did do a wonderful job, didn’t he?”

“You’re just as beautiful in this portrait, as you are in real life. I’ll treasure it always.” He placed the miniature on the mantle. Many times in the coming years, I’d catch him gazing at it.

John spent several days praying with Bridget to help her overcome her loss. In the end, she began to come out of herself and live again, but never had the passion for life that she’d had before her husband’s death.