by Mary Hooper
I could not decide how to act or what to do. Having been instructed and ordered all my life, I now longed for someone to command me in this. I felt I was waiting for something to happen—but what this thing was, I didn’t know. Perhaps it was for someone to discover I was with child and help me, or for Master Geoffrey to return, own to his obligations, and give me a little money to aid me, or even to summon the strength to open the door of the house, walk out, and keep on walking—for I knew I wouldn’t be the first young woman to cross to a parish where she wasn’t known and beg aid for herself and her unborn child. In the meantime I went about my duties and tried not to think too much about my situation. With some little effort, I was able to pretend to myself that it wasn’t happening.
I hardly spoke to the other servants. On the fifth of November the household celebrated Gunpowder Plot Day and we were allowed to have a bonfire in the evening, but I didn’t care to be present. I began to be called Mistress Nose-in-Air by some, and knew that they were gossiping about me, but couldn’t bring myself to care. Now that I had a great concern in my life I marveled at the trivial things that had occupied me before, at how much I’d fretted about an uncompleted job, a torn petticoat, or a missing gewgaw, whereas now these trivialities hardly touched me, and I would go for several days with a piece of lace hanging from my gown or my hair awry.
My undoing came on the first day of December, however, for this day Mrs. Williams set me to work in the brew-house stirring a great quantity of malt in a barrel. This was feverish hard work and backbreaking, and the smell of the barley was cloying and sickening to my stomach besides. I stirred and stirred with the great wooden paddle until my back felt almost broken, and only paused at dinnertime, when Mr. Peakes sent in half a loaf and a chunk of cheese for me. After I’d eaten, I began stirring again—for every so often Mrs. Williams would look in on me to make sure I wasn’t slacking—and it was then that I began to get the pains.
At first I was full of joy, for these were low-down pains in my belly, as if my courses were beginning anew, so I felt that my prayers might have been answered. The cramps grew more severe, however, and I went out to the far privy, which was some distance off across the yard, and there came from me a quantity of liquid which did not seem to be urine and was, I thought (for I remember being told so by Ma), that certain watery substance that women lose when they are about to give birth. I became very anxious then, for I knew I had not gone full term with the child and wondered what it meant and if I was about to bleed to death.
I sat on the privy, still and anxious, and after a bit the pains seemed to pass. I went back into the brewhouse and stood for a while leaning on the paddle, and once, when Mrs. Williams passed by, pretended to stir the malt. After perhaps an hour the pains started again though, worse than before, and I went again to the house of office.
As the surges grew worse and came closer together, I became terrified, for I knew that delivering a child was hazardous, and without a midwife or anyone in attendance I might die. I tried to cast my mind back to the birth of a neighbor’s child that I’d attended with Ma, although I’d only been eleven years old then and could barely remember how things had been ordered. My duty had merely been to fetch warm water and sponge the woman’s face and hands, and I’d never once looked below at her private parts, nor wanted to, just been glad that this was the province of the midwife. That neighbor had had a bed to lie on, however, and old remedies to aid her safe delivery. She’d had a piece of jasper tied to her thigh, warming broths to sustain her, linen sheets beneath her, and gossips and goodwives to comfort her.
In the privy, I had none of these. And I know now that no woman should go through the perils of childbirth unaided, for it sets you in such a deal of terror that you almost lose your wits.
I undid my stomacher and removed my skirt, but after that could not think how I should conduct myself: should I stand or sit, or perhaps lie on the floor—although this was dirty and covered with blown-in leaves and other rubbish. I was afraid, though, that if I sat on the only available place, which was the privy itself, then the child might come from me and fall into the mire before I could catch it.
As the sun went down it got much colder, and I had not a shawl with me, nor a candle to see what I was doing, and I feared that someone might come into the adjoining privy and hear my moans and cries. I wondered how long my labor would last and thought of tales I’d heard from Mrs. Williams, one of a woman five days in labor, and another who’d been unable to give birth at all because the child had been lying across her belly instead of head down, so both mother and babe had died. I began to sob in fear then, and wanted my ma there, and wished even for Mrs. Williams or Susan to come and aid me. I thought about getting myself back to the house, but at this stage knew it would have been beyond me to walk across the cobbles. Those twenty yards might as well have been twenty miles.
In the end the pains got so bad that I picked up one of the sticks from the floor and bit it to stop myself from screaming out. And then the pains came all the time, with no gap between them to pause and think about what was happening, and I wanted to scream but could not even find the breath or the space to do so. My body felt it was being ripped, and I fell onto the ground and writhed about, and somehow found myself on my back with my legs against the privy door and at last, with one mighty effort, pushed the child within me out and onto the ground.
I had one short moment of blessed relief, and then I looked down at the child to see how it fared and was immediately filled with horror, for it was very small and blue in color, with a waxlike substance over its body. Maybe I should have picked it up—and I have heard of shepherds who will breathe into a dead lamb’s mouth to revive it—but in truth I was terrified of the sight of it, for it seemed such a frightening and unfamiliar thing, and not like any babe I had ever seen, nor hardly human at all. And even while I looked down at it the pains began again, and I knew I had to expel the afterbirth, and this, thankfully, came out from me quickly with a gush of blood.
I lay there after, shivering and crying, and all the time I watched the child that I had given birth to, and it neither moved nor breathed. It was only as long as a man’s hand and its features were indefinite, although I could see it should have been born male. It looked very pitiful lying there so raw and cold and, though I couldn’t bring myself to take it up and hold it, I tore a strip of linen from my petticoat and wrapped it around its body so that it wouldn’t lie quite naked on the ground.
All this while I had been lying on the floor in a mess of blood, leaves, and debris, my mind a blur of confusion. I couldn’t think of how I was going to order things. What was I to do with the child? Once I’d had a puppy dog that had died, and my pa had dug a hole and buried it in the garden. Would I have the strength to dig a hole on my own, I wondered, with the ground froze so hard? Besides, shouldn’t this child have some little sanctity? It had never drawn breath, but surely it should be due more reverence than a puppy dog. Perhaps, I thought, I would hide it for now, then on the morrow, when I was feeling stronger, take it to a little spot in the churchyard and find a place to lay it down.
At this point someone came over to the privy next to mine—one of the men, for I heard him whistling—and I wondered whether to call out and ask for help, or for a woman to be sent to me. I did not, however, for I was thinking that it might be possible for me to hide all the evidence of what had happened so that it would not be discovered I’d ever been with child, and thus could go on as before.
Accordingly I sat there as still as a fallen pippin and did not make a sound, and when the fellow had gone, pushed the dead infant to the back of the privy and took up leaves and other material to cover it, for I was resolved by then to go back the next day and take its corpse into the graveyard. I’d wrap its body in a decent piece of cloth—I thought of my pretty bodice—say a prayer over it, and perhaps in the summer I’d plant a pansy or a daisy over where it lay in the ground, for they say that children like the friendly faces of these f
lowers. Thinking then on the poor dead babe (unwanted by anyone on Earth, which I believe was why it had died), I began to cry again but weakly, like a kitten cries, for I had hardly any strength left to do more.
When this ceased, I tidied myself as well as I could, shook out my skirt and put it back on, then resolved to go back in the house and hide myself away in my bedroom. When I came to stand, however, I discovered that my legs were as unsteady as sea legs, and I staggered and fell down again, and had to drag myself up and lean on the wall for some moments. When I felt ready to set off, I opened the privy door and took several deep breaths of frosty air before making my way across the cobbles in the darkness, shuffling my feet like some old woman.
At length I found myself at a back door of the house and, as I opened the door onto candlelight and warmth, felt immense relief at being among the living again; thankful that I had not perished giving birth but had come through my ordeal. I could not go and be churched as did other happy mothers, but I resolved that next Sunday I’d say a private prayer of thanks for my life, and another for the soul of the child who’d not lived.
Slow and timorous of step, I walked along the hall toward the back stairs, touching my palm against the wall every now and again to steady myself. As I did so, Susan came hurrying toward me, looking agitated.
“Why, wherever have you been? We’ve searched everywhere in the house for you!” I was surprised at this speech, which was more words than Susan had spoken to me in months. Before I had a chance to reply, however, she gave a scream. “But what disorder you’re in. What’s happened? Have you had an accident?”
I should have said yes, that I’d fallen outside or that a passing carriage had struck me in the dark, but I was not thinking properly or quickly enough.
A torch on the wall suddenly flared then, enabling her to see my appearance more clearly, and her face registered horror. “Why, Anne Green, whatever have you done?”
“Susan,” I began tentatively, and I took a step toward her, holding out my hand in entreaty, whereupon she screamed and moved away, staring at it in horror, for there was blood on it. “I can explain,” I said, though I had scarce thought of what I was going to say. “Give me a moment. Let me tell you . . .”
“No!” she said, seeming genuinely fearful.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” I protested.
“Mrs. Williams!” she screamed at the top of her voice. “Mrs. Williams—come here quickly!”
“No,” I said. “Please don’t . . .”
But Mrs. Williams hurried through within moments and, looking me up and down, seemed to take in the situation straightaway. She said with a gasp, “I thought you were with child. Didn’t I say that, Susan? You’ve just given birth, haven’t you?”
Susan gave a scream of horror.
“That’s right, isn’t it? But where’s the child?” Mrs. Williams asked, looking up and down the hallway as if I might have concealed it there.
I took a step, swayed, and almost fell over.
“You must tell us where it is,” Mrs. Williams demanded. “You must tell us now.”
I stared at her. This was not what I’d planned.
“Everyone will find out about it. You’ll not be able to keep it to yourself,” she said, and indeed I could see through to the kitchen, where Mr. Peakes and the other servants were, and they’d stopped going about the business of preparing supper and were looking at us with curiosity. I knew then that I wasn’t going to be able to keep what had occurred a secret—I’d not the strength to begin the construction of a story that would cover my present appearance and demeanor. Besides . . . oh, besides, I felt I’d been alone in this long enough and needed to share with someone all that I’d been through, to unburden myself to someone who’d help.
“Now, where have you left the child?” she asked again.
“’Tis in the privy . . .” I answered up obediently.
“The privy? It’s still there?” On a nod from me, Mrs. Williams patted Susan on the shoulder. “Go out there with a candle and a shawl and bring the babe inside, for ‘tis a bitter cold night and e’en a bastard child deserves warmth and succor.” Addressing me, she added, “Why, whatever were you thinking of, leaving a newborn babe outside?”
I know I should have told her the truth of it then, but could not because my body had begun to shake and my teeth to chatter violently. As Susan hurried off, Mrs. Williams put her arm about me, led me into the kitchen, and sat me down close to the fire, and this unusual and unexpected kindness on her part so affected me that I began to weep and could not stop.
“Now,” she said, beckoning to Mr. Peakes with some urgency, “you must tell us who the father is, and tell us truly, and we will try to help you.”
But before I could consider what I should say to this, there was a scream from outside. A terrible scream. And I knew that Susan had discovered the infant’s corpse.
A moment later she came running in, crashing through the door, her hands raised, high and shaking, as if she was trying to dislodge what she’d just seen from her mind and body.
Mrs. Williams stood and gaped at her.
“The babe is dead!” she shrieked. “Dead and on the floor in the dirt!”
Mrs. Williams uttered a cry of horror. Mr. Peakes and the rest of the servants stood staring and gasping.
I was terribly affrighted and didn’t know what to do next, bar continue weeping.
“You killed it, Anne Green, didn’t you?” Susan said. “You went and killed it so that no one would find out about it!”
“Oh, you wicked creature!” said Mrs. Williams, and there was no kindness in her voice then. She looked at me as if I’d crawled out of hell and still bore the marks of the devil on my skin.
“I did not . . . did not kill it!” I said, choking on my sobs. “I gave birth to it out there, but it never drew breath. On my mother’s life I promise that it didn’t breathe.”
No one spoke, but Susan screamed again, high-pitched. “What a sight! I never want to see the like again!”
“I didn’t kill my own child!” I protested, tears running down my face. “That would be wicked—the devil’s work. No girl could do such a thing as that!”
Mr. Peakes stepped forward. “That’s enough said. ’Tis the first I’ve heard of this, but ‘tis a bad business, a terrible business.”
“I suspected . . . I thought all along she was with child,” Mrs. Williams said.
“But I didn’t—” I began.
Mr. Peakes stopped me. “Before you say any more, Anne, Sir Thomas will have to be told of this.”
“No! Please . . .”
“Indeed he will. And it will have to be investigated properly, for a dead child is a shocking thing, whatever the cause.”
I think I lost consciousness then, for the kitchen swayed around me, and I fell into a welcome blackness where I did not have to think more. The last thing I heard was Susan screaming, “Oh, I’ll never forget the sight of it as long as I live!”
When I opened my eyes, Mrs. Williams was waving a singed bunch of rosemary under my nose, and the smoke from it was in my eyes and mouth, making me cough.
“She’s back with us now,” she said. “Back and can answer to the wicked deed she’s done.”
I coughed again, rubbing my eyes, and when I fully came to was alarmed to discover that Sir Thomas and Lady Mary had been summoned to the kitchen and stood there in front of me. I was so disquieted by this that I felt my head swim and was like to have fainted again, except that Mr. Peakes was holding a cordial to my lips and telling me to take sips of it. This drink restored me somewhat, but did not lessen my terror, for I’d never seen both my master and mistress together in the kitchens before, and to know that I was the one who’d caused them to be there was most alarming.
“She’s back with us, sir,” said Mr. Peakes.
Sir Thomas bent down until his florid face was just inches from mine. “What is this terrible, shocking tale I’ve heard?” he asked, while Lady Mary, wh
o was wearing a bolero fashioned from white doves’ feathers sewn onto silk, stood a little behind him. She looked, I thought, most indignant at finding herself in the domicile of her servants. “Answer me, girl.”
“And you must tell Sir Thomas the truth, mind,” Mr. Peakes said.
“Or it will surely be the worse for you,” Mrs. Williams added.
I merely blinked around at them. I saw that, apart from these, all the other servants were grouped at the far end of the kitchen, watching us intently, and that work on the family’s supper had stopped completely. The only sound was the rhythmical clanging of the wheel in the fireplace where the dog ran to turn a pig on the spit.
“You have had a child . . . in the privy?” Sir Thomas asked. “Can this shocking thing be true?”
I didn’t reply, and Mrs. Williams said, “’Tis true indeed, sir. Susan found the dead infant concealed under some leaves.”
Sir Thomas addressed the room. “And did any of you here know that she was with child?”
Everyone shook their heads.
“Although I had my suspicions,” Mrs. Williams said roundly, “because she’s a secretive jade. Though it’s not something as you can ask a girl who’s unmarried.”
“I thought she was!” Susan called over, very self-righteous. “For she’s been mighty private when she’s been getting dressed of a morning.”
“Then all this should have been reported to Mr. Peakes,” said Sir Thomas, “and he would have told me, and arrangements could have been made for her admittance to a suitable establishment.” He cleared his throat. “And the child is dead, you say?”
