“I’ve told you, Mary. There is no other life!”
On a wild impulse I pulled a straight pin from my dress and pushed its needle tip into the pad of my finger, drawing a dot of crimson blood.
“What are you doing?”
I turned my head to the clear evening sky and spread my arms wide. “From this day I declare that I shall never marry, because there is no man on this globe to whom I will bow down and surrender my soul, not ever!” I turned my pricked finger to her, and held up the pin in a dare. “Pledge with me, Jane. Please. Promise that you will never surrender your will, your happiness, to any man’s.”
She stepped away from me.
“Enough, Mary. This is the end of us.”
“No,” I pleaded. “You are my heart and soul.”
“You,” she said, “are nothing to me.”
She gathered her satin and turned to cross the lawn back to the glowing rooms. I thought of running after her, to press my case. But when she was close to the door, a man came lumbering out.
“Miss Wollstonecraft! Come at once!” Marmaduke Hewitt’s worried voice poured across the lawn, shattering the twilight. “It’s your father. Demanding to be let in!”
* * *
The rest, little bird, spins to nightmare. My father, so drunk he’d fallen into a bush, was slurring and cursing those trying to help him up. He even cursed Henry, saying the most awful things, and then turned his wrath on me. He wanted to fight the gentleman who’d refused to grant him entry, but only managed to punch the air. I don’t know what John Arden said to calm him down, nor how he got us into a carriage for the short ride home, refusing my frantic apologies, while a small crowd watched. I mostly remember Jane on the steps of Norwood, distraught but still dignified, and the last thing I saw.
My dearest Jane,
I don’t know how to ask your forgiveness. Your father gave me a book of essays that pictures the possibility of two people who would be guardian angels to each other and enjoy the benefit of a lifelong attachment that corrects our foibles and errors, refines the pleasures of sense, and improves the mind. You have now seen my “foibles and errors” in vivid presentation, but I will forever dream of a world away from the degradations of my home, from my own father’s violent temper and extravagant turn of mind, which I’ve been afraid to tell you are the principal cause of my unhappiness, with you my only respite.
But now I must bid you farewell, without the hoped-for forgiveness and forever friendship I so desire. We are to move to Hoxton within a fortnight, where it is my parents’ intention to commit my brother Henry to one of its insane asylums.…
* * *
“I thought I’d have a stroll on the Common,” said John Arden, when I ran into him on my last walk, the day before we left. “Are you going that way?”
We were soon passing a stand of trees that shimmered in the onset of evening. He seemed as taken by them as was I, though neither of us had said much to that point.
“Jane told me you know a good deal about trees.”
“Did she?” It seemed hopeful that she spoke to him of anything good in me. “I know some of their names, at least.”
“The thing about a tree that I often marvel at,” he went on, “is that when it’s young, well, it’s only natural that its first fragile branches die and fall off, buds don’t blossom, but burls seal their wounds like a scar.”
“What wounds?”
“Insects, floods, drought, an ax. Trees suffer more than we know.”
“And survive all that?”
“Yes. But even more cunning, the tree grows up around the dead spots, around its own scars, and makes new branches that are better branches, and nearer to the sun. While the dead places get pressed upon, and grow stronger.”
I linked my hands behind my back and looked at the ground. There was always a sense when he talked about the natural world that he was talking about the inside of us as well, one the echo of the other.
“They’re still dead places,” I said.
He stopped and faced me. “Yet cut open a burl, Miss Wollstonecraft, and instead of straight grain one finds waves and swirls of wood, marbled and feathered, even ‘eyes’ staring back at us. It’s the most prized wood, above everything.” He waited for me to meet his gaze. “Our knots are the strongest part of us. And our burls the place of our greatest beauty, if we but grow up around them, and reach for the sun.”
I willed away tears, grateful for his gentle wisdom. I understood that I was to let Jane go, and grow because of it. I’d decided as much myself. But in that final moment in his presence, I knew that as much as I would suffer giving her up, the absence of John Arden in my life would be by far the greater loss. I might never know such a man again.
“I have no right, no place,” I said, wiping my eyes. “But may I ask of you one last thing?”
* * *
“He’s not mad,” I told Marmaduke Hewitt the next day, moving day. “He’s not stupid. He can learn and do things. Maybe in his own way, not the way we would, but in a way that works somehow. And he adores the natural world, the bugs and birds and trees, the way you do.”
I stood in the middle of Hewitt’s drawing room, pleading for my brother. We both looked out the window to where Henry was clapping at spits of rain that shone in a narrow glimmer of sun.
“John Arden says I should take you at your word. And your brother looks like a lightsome young man,” said Hewitt.
“He’s always in good spirits. Always willing. And I know you to be a good man. Not like—”
He put up his hand to save me. “I understand,” he said. “You needn’t say it.”
I shook his hand with both of mine, thanking him with tears instead of words.
When I went outside to fetch Henry, I explained the best I could.
“Where are my aggies?” he asked me. “And my doll?”
“In your bag. I’ve given it to Mr. Hewitt. He’ll make sure you have anything you need. Just be helpful in return, that’s all. You’re going to be an apprentice!”
“But where are you going? I want to go with you, Mary. To Hoxton.”
“No. Hoxton is a terrible place, Henry. Not good enough for you.”
“Please, Mary. I don’t care. I want to be with you.”
I couldn’t remember when he’d become taller than I was, but I pulled him toward me in a fierce embrace, my chest heaving against his. Sweet Henry patted me on the back.
“Don’t cry, sister. Shhh.”
Soon he was whistling a song in my ear.
* * *
“Where is he?” Father demanded, when I got in the carriage without my brother in tow.
“Safe,” I said. “But I’ll tell you nothing more. And will never speak another word of Henry. Not to you. Not to anyone.”
Mother sniffled once and leaned her head against the glass. Eliza started to wail, then stifled it with her kerchief. Everina bit her quivering lip. My face was stone as I looked at Father, expecting to see his bulging anger, the way it strained at his collar. But what I felt instead was his weakness. And I saw that what’s as pitiable as a man who misuses his power is a man with no power at all.
I knew I had his anger in me, the hurry of my heart, my head sometimes on fire. This, my inescapable lot—my knot, my burl. But I wondered how I might grow around it, what good might I do, what bad undo, in myself, in the world? Even without that one perfect friend, or any friend at all, to ease my way.
All I knew in that moment, little bird, was that the buttering of toast is nothing compared to what we would do—what we must do—for those whose scars we share.
My brother would not be the last.
Mrs. B
September 2, 1797
How she wished the little girl had a name.
Mrs. B found Mary next morning sitting up in bed, bright-eyed, with color in her cheeks, asking for the infant, and for Fanny, wondering whether there might be some food for herself, and couldn’t she sit in a chair now—she’d had quite
enough of her bed, was eager to receive visitors, and so on. It was as if she’d returned from a long, difficult journey at sea, and had her feet beneath her once more. The midwife felt her pulse, and drew her breasts just enough to tell her milk had come in. Mary wanted to try suckling again right away—to keep trying as long as it took.
Mrs. B changed Mary’s linen, settled her into a chair, pulled her shawl around her shoulders, and went to gather the little one into her arms. The poor babe was light as a twig in her swaddling cloth. The midwife couldn’t help but return to the notion that newborn children were like young trees scarce raised out of the soil, with nothing but their cries to tell their sufferings. Her pulse was feeble and slow, as if as her mother gained strength, the child’s drained away.
Mary coaxed the babe to her nipple. She rubbed the top of her head, stroked her cheek, but still she wouldn’t latch. Mrs. B worried that she’d soon lose the will to nurse at any breast.
“I could make up a thin gruel boiled in beer with a little honey,” she said. “I’ve brought my own pewter bubby pot. Lots of babes have suckled from its nipple.”
“I’m afraid if she did, she wouldn’t want mine.” Mary looked up at Mrs. B with crinkled eyes. “My own mother didn’t nurse me. She did my oldest brother but thought it too much trouble for the rest of us. I was sent away to a wet nurse my first year of life. I’ve no memory of her, and I doubt she has any of me. But I’ve always thought it’s why my mother and I were strangers to each other. I’ve seen the way a sucking newborn sees herself in her mother’s eyes, nourished by a love that can be found nowhere else.” She ran a finger across her daughter’s forehead, as if to soothe her scowls and frowns. “That’s why I made you promise, Mrs. B. I mean for her to have no nipple but mine.”
Mrs. B was used to making promises to women in the throes and never knowing why, but this one, well, she’d seen it herself: Breast milk started a child right in the world, helped it along with a robust and healthy constitution, and prevented ailments of all kinds. She’d never considered that love might pass between mother and child through milk, though she’d seen that look between them, lots of times. She felt a sting of regret that she’d never known it herself.
A knock announced shy little Fanny, who, Marguerite explained through the door, missed her mother terribly, and insisted on seeing her with her own eyes, in fact, refused to eat or drink until she did. When Mrs. B let them in, Fanny clung tight to Marguerite’s skirts, almost frightened of the bundle in her mother’s arms.
“Do you want to meet your sister?”
Fanny nodded and tiptoed to her mother, wedging herself lightly between her welcoming knees. Mary pulled the cotton cloth lightly away. The baby’s fists were tight up against her furrowed face. Fanny gasped, with both hands to her mouth.
“She’s so small, Mama. And quite ugly.”
“She’s had a difficult journey.”
“But why is she so wrinkled?”
“It means she’s lots of growing left to do.”
“When can I play with her?”
“Soon, Fanny, darling.” She blinked at Mrs. B. “We must have a little patience.”
“I don’t know how to think about patience,” said Fanny, with a scrunched-up nose.
Mary swept a lock of hair away from her little girl’s face. “Well, then, think about spiders.”
Across the veil of her own weariness, Mrs. B wanted to hear about spiders. She herself never killed one in the house, remembering the nursery rhyme from her own girlhood: “If you wish to live and thrive, let a spider run alive.” It wasn’t superstition so much as a “do unto others” way of being good to all living things.
Marguerite stepped near to peek at the baby, and without a word between them, Mary placed the bundle gently into her arms. As soon as she saw the little face, Marguerite’s eyes glossed with tears. She turned away so Mary wouldn’t see.
“Do you remember that we watch spiders sometimes, through my quizzer,” said Mary, pulling Fanny onto her lap. “How steady and careful they are, silk by silk, one stitch at a time, knitting their home just right?”
“I remember, Mama,” said Fanny, throwing an easy arm around her mother’s neck.
“That is a kind of patience. And we must admire it very much.”
Fanny nuzzled her mother’s neck, and twisted the indigo fringe of her shawl in her fingers. Mary rested her chin against Fanny’s fine hair and breathed her in.
“Does she have a name?” asked Marguerite, fretting over the wee one in her arms.
“Not yet,” said Mary. “Maybe Mr. Godwin and I can discuss it at dinner. Will you tell him I’ll be down to join him, as promised, only one day late.”
“Something light, mind you,” said Mrs. B. “A little boiled bread pudding and vegetables, fresh fruit. And could the missus have some dry toast and chamomile for now?”
“I’ll see to it,” said Marguerite, walking close to Mrs. B.
While Fanny whispered and giggled into her mother’s ear, Marguerite leaned in to the midwife, carefully passing her the swaddled child.
“Should we pray for her?” she whispered.
“Sooner the better,” Mrs. B whispered back.
Marguerite let out a small sad sigh. “Tell your Mama good-bye until later, Fanny.”
Fanny kissed her mother on the lips, natural as could be, and took to Marguerite’s arms. When they’d gone, Mrs. B helped Mary change into a clean muslin gown.
“Sweet girl, Marguerite,” she said.
“Oh, even sweeter than Fanny. Worries over every little thing.”
“Not all worries are wrong ones,” said Mrs. B, settling Mary back in her chair.
“Let me try again?” said Mary, reaching for her child.
Mrs. B settled the babe into her mother’s arms, while Mary freed her bosom. The child was still, with so little breath.
“She ought to have a name,” said Mrs. B, ginger on the subject. “You can’t call her ‘little bird’ forever.”
“Why can’t I?” Mary said, soft-pressing her lips to the crown of her daughter’s head. “What name could possibly contain her?”
Mrs. B couldn’t bear to bring up baptism. A baptism at home could mean only one thing. The midwife had seen monsters born of normal people, and normal babies born of monsters, but the desperation of a mother to preserve and nurture whatever issued from her own body she had seen everywhere. If the child was loved before it was born, as this one was, its death was inconceivable. Even when she knew it was no use, Mrs. B had done everything to revive expiring life: light tobacco and hold onion juices under a newborn’s nose, frictions with hot cloths, rub cold brandy on the chest, and on and on, as parents grew frantic, peered over her shoulder, paced the room, or buried their heads in their hands.
At the sound of Mary’s cooing, the little one finally opened her beak, but turned away from her mother’s nipple, too weak to search for it. Mary lifted her chin to the midwife, her brandy-colored eyes deep with tenderness. “Don’t give up on us, Mrs. B. One more day.”
The way the light played, Mrs. B could see the room reflected in Mary’s eyes.
“One more day,” she said, and then under her breath, “God willing.”
* * *
When Mary took visitors in the parlor that afternoon, the midwife tried to rest on the settee while the child slept in its cradle, but her old legs throbbed and crawled with pins and needles. Her eyes, too, stung with tiredness, but she feared that if she closed them, the child might take a final breath and be gone. Mrs. B had faith, but she also had experience. She’d always thought it her duty to preserve the life of mother and child however she could, but she knew that death keeps no calendar. She felt desperate to baptize the little girl, before it was too late. An innocent babe, baptized, could alight straight to Heaven only if she had a name, so that God could hear it. But it wasn’t her place to do it.
As a way to pass the time, she tried to remember the why of names, the honoring, the order. The first so
n should be named for the father’s father, second for the mother’s, third for the father himself, fourth for the oldest uncle, and so on; for daughters, first for the mother’s mother. Is that who Fanny’d been named for? Second daughter, the father’s mother? But Mr. Godwin, not a believer, might choose never to baptize the child, and wouldn’t be bound by custom or rules, she thought. And the way her mind was all mixed up and weary, she couldn’t be sure she had them straight in any case.
How many hundreds, maybe thousands of namings had she witnessed in her time? Some with great forethought, some under duress, some that’d come from dreams, a handful by whim alone. Mrs. B had seen babies named for kings, the Henrys and Georges, and names that would change four times in a night, even before she’d left her post. She’d seen husbands and wives argue, especially over first and second children, who would carry forward whatever legacy they believed theirs was. Wives, weak in body but strong in cause, often won the day. She could always tell a man who doted on his wife by the deference he gave her in naming the child. It still surprised her that parents thought nothing of replacing one dead child with another, but took it to be a sort of honoring in itself, a way to remember: Johns and Janes, till one survived to give the name full life. But it was the naming of dead children, and the near-dead who needed a name to be baptized, that moved her most.
Mrs. B took the child into her fleshy arms. She carried her to the freshly filled water basin in the far corner of the room, and held the baby on the length of her forearm, the small head fitting like an apple in the palm of her hand. She pulled off the cap and cradled the little head over the basin, cupped her other hand into the water, then held it over the baby’s forehead.
“Who are you?” she whispered to the child. “What legacy is yours?” She knew no names of relatives; it didn’t matter. The child’s eyes opened wide.
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