purse under the straw in the bed next to all that other money, as the widow came in with her candle. “My, you do look awful,” she said cheerfully, holding her light up to inspect my features. Her daughter was behind her, holding a soup tureen, which she set on our table. “I thought you might not be cooking tonight, so we’ve brought what’s left from supper—that is, what I managed to hide from that hungry friar.”
“You certainly sound cheerful,” said Nan.
“And why shouldn’t I be? He scattered money about him like a gentleman. And interesting! Why, he goes every day to Saint Paul’s to hear what’s new. What a tale he can tell! How the great Wolsey schemes every day to be made a cardinal, and that the queen in France is now dead, and she without a son, and a most marvelous storm that—oh, and they say women are gossips! You should have seen his face when I told him that those were great gentlemen upstairs, who had come to inquire after Master Dallet. Then I showed him how nicely I had laid out Master Dallet in the buttery, with two candles, and very expensive ones, I might add, all to keep his master’s wicked secret, and he vowed to have him out of here and buried tomorrow, and I said just as well, even in this cold weather, he won’t keep much longer. Oh, yes—a man of the world—What’s this? You aren’t eating?” I had just turned away the bowl of soup that Nan had offered.
“I don’t feel well. Tell me, what are labor pains like?”
“You’ll know ’em when you have ’em. That’s something no woman has to ask about. Goodness, your eyes look swollen—I thought you’d been crying for the good friar’s benefit. Let’s see your hand. That’s swollen, too—just look at how that ring cuts into the finger! Tell me, do you have headaches?”
“Ever so many. How did you know?”
“Never mind, I know what I know.” Nan looked troubled. “Oh, don’t carry on so,” said the widow to her. “I just want her to look after these talented little hands. Girls shouldn’t fill their heads with worries when they’re expecting. Now, you must try to eat a bit. Send the tureen down later.” But I could hear Nan and the widow whispering at the door.
“It doesn’t look good for that child, does it?” said Nan.
“She will be lucky if she loses it now. I know the signs. The infant is poisoning her.” The widow’s voice sank lower. “I lost my oldest girl that way. Newly wed, newly dead. We buried her in her wedding shift.”
“Should I call Goody Forster?”
“It’s too late. There’s nothing for it.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Pray, Mistress Littleton, pray with all your might that that girl comes through safe, or we’ll all be on the street.” My head was splitting. One foot felt as if it wished to twitch and jump of its own accord. Was that one of the signs? How dreadful, how unfair. Death, you deceiver. Mother had only felt a little fever, and then the sweating sickness came and took her away and Father, too, only a week later. Who would have thought it, when only a few months before they had been planning my wedding feast? I could still see Mother in my mind, giving orders to the pastry cooks and serving women in their white aprons who swarmed into our little house, setting down the extra dishes and platters among the drying canvases in Father’s workroom. And then there was Father, his graying hair uncombed, wandering around all grumpy while he surveyed the preparations, for once in his life, useless. Their only comfort was that I was safely wedded to Master Dallet, who said he was rich and promised to take care of me like a queen. And now Death had come again, this time in the form of a baby, making my ankles as thick as tree trunks and my face coarse and swollen in the mirror so that I wouldn’t even look beautiful on my bier and make people sorrow at the great tragedy of it all. No fair, no fair, dying ugly.
I didn’t want to die. My whole body said it wanted to
“You certainly sound cheerful,” said Nan.
“And why shouldn’t I be? He scattered money about him like a gentleman. And interesting! Why, he goes every day to Saint Paul’s to hear what’s new. What a tale he can tell! How the great Wolsey schemes every day to be made a cardinal, and that the queen in France is now dead, and she without a son, and a most marvelous storm that—oh, and they say women are gossips! You should have seen his face when I told him that those were great gentlemen upstairs, who had come to inquire after Master Dallet. Then I showed him how nicely I had laid out Master Dallet in the buttery, with two candles, and very expensive ones, I might add, all to keep his master’s wicked secret, and he vowed to have him out of here and buried tomorrow, and I said just as well, even in this cold weather, he won’t keep much longer. Oh, yes—a man of the world—What’s this? You aren’t eating?” I had just turned away the bowl of soup that Nan had offered.
“I don’t feel well. Tell me, what are labor pains like?”
“You’ll know ’em when you have ’em. That’s something no woman has to ask about. Goodness, your eyes look swollen—I thought you’d been crying for the good friar’s benefit. Let’s see your hand. That’s swollen, too—just look at how that ring cuts into the finger! Tell me, do you have headaches?”
“Ever so many. How did you know?”
“Never mind, I know what I know.” Nan looked troubled. “Oh, don’t carry on so,” said the widow to her. “I just want her to look after these talented little hands. Girls shouldn’t fill their heads with worries when they’re expecting. Now, you must try to eat a bit. Send the tureen down later.” But I could hear Nan and the widow whispering at the door.
“It doesn’t look good for that child, does it?” said Nan.
“She will be lucky if she loses it now. I know the signs. The infant is poisoning her.” The widow’s voice sank lower. “I lost my oldest girl that way. Newly wed, newly dead. We buried her in her wedding shift.”
“Should I call Goody Forster?”
“It’s too late. There’s nothing for it.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Pray, Mistress Littleton, pray with all your might that that girl comes through safe, or we’ll all be on the street.” My head was splitting. One foot felt as if it wished to twitch and jump of its own accord. Was that one of the signs? How dreadful, how unfair. Death, you deceiver. Mother had only felt a little fever, and then the sweating sickness came and took her away and Father, too, only a week later. Who would have thought it, when only a few months before they had been planning my wedding feast? I could still see Mother in my mind, giving orders to the pastry cooks and serving women in their white aprons who swarmed into our little house, setting down the extra dishes and platters among the drying canvases in Father’s workroom. And then there was Father, his graying hair uncombed, wandering around all grumpy while he surveyed the preparations, for once in his life, useless. Their only comfort was that I was safely wedded to Master Dallet, who said he was rich and promised to take care of me like a queen. And now Death had come again, this time in the form of a baby, making my ankles as thick as tree trunks and my face coarse and swollen in the mirror so that I wouldn’t even look beautiful on my bier and make people sorrow at the great tragedy of it all. No fair, no fair, dying ugly.
I didn’t want to die. My whole body said it wanted to
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