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and a little bit drunk—climbed into our bed and slept.
    *   *   *
    Martha and I awoke the next morning to a knock on our door and the consequent creak as it swung open.
    â€œHello? Martha? Aunt Bridget?” Will’s voice rang through our rooms.
    I sat up and every muscle cried out in protest. The night had been a cold one, and while I’d fallen asleep readily enough, my rest had been interrupted by frequent bouts of shivering whenever the wind made its way beneath our meager covering. I looked about the room. In the dim morning light it seemed no better than it had the night before.
    â€œMrs. Evelyn,” Will called out, louder now. “I don’t think this is right. I’m looking for Mrs. Hodgson. She is a midwife.”
    â€œWe’re in here, Will,” Martha called as we rolled out of bed.
    Will poked his head into our chamber, his eyes wide with wonder. “This can’t be right. These are the quarters that Mr. Marlowe found for you?”
    â€œIt seems my husband was not much of a clothier,” I replied.
    â€œApparently not,” Will said. “You should have married better.”
    â€œIf you’re going to be so impudent to a poor widow, you can get to work,” Martha replied. “I’ll start the cleaning, and you see to fixing the table and stool. Get those back together, and perhaps Mrs. Hodgson will bring you some breakfast.”
    Will was trapped and he knew it, though I doubt he minded very much. I think all three of us welcomed the prospect of a morning together, even if it was spent cleaning our little tenement. We had been apart for too long. Martha borrowed a bucket from Mrs. Evelyn and went for water, while I started for Cheapside Street. Even at this early hour the streets were thronged with people, horses, carts, and goods. I wound my way through the crowd, buying charcoal for our hearth, cheese, bread, and a few dishes from which to eat our meals. It pained me to buy the roughest plates and bowls I could find, but our new dishes should match my new rank; anything too fine would seem out of place.
    I returned to find that Will had reassembled our furniture and now he and Martha were making good progress, scrubbing away the worst of the dirt. Slowly, slowly, with each passing hour, our rooms didn’t seem so bad. The three of us worked through the day, cleaning and furnishing the rooms as best we could. By the time afternoon came, I’d decided I would not tolerate another miserable night. I could not buy a feather bed—Mrs. Evelyn would surely notice, and wonder where I’d gotten so much money—but there were a few things that I could do. While Martha sought food for our supper, I returned to Cheapside Street and purchased a down quilt, a coverlet of fine linen for the mattress, and two chairs for our parlor.
    When I returned, Will went out for ale, and Martha and I sewed our new quilt into the filthy coverlet that came with the bed. From the parlor it looked miserable, but it would keep us warm. Martha set to roasting the fowl she’d bought, and soon enough we three were gathered around the table, pots of ale in our hands, and a fine meal before us. And on that night, except for Elizabeth’s absence, London didn’t seem like such a bad place after all.
    *   *   *
    Martha and I had not been asleep for long when a pounding on our door dragged us to wakefulness.
    â€œMrs. Hodgson! Mrs. Hodgson!” Even through my fuzzed head I knew it was Mrs. Evelyn. “You must come right away.” She burst into our chamber and started pulling on my arm as if she meant to drag me from my bed. A maidservant stood behind her holding a taper, and in the flickering light I could see that Mrs. Evelyn was on the edge of panic.
    â€œWhat is it? What is wrong?” I climbed out of bed and began to pull on my dress.
    â€œIt is Grace Ramsden,” she said. “I was attending her in her