The Tinker's Daughter Read online

  Mary woke with a start. Something was wrong. She moved hand along the floor to the mat against the wall and felt both sleeping children. She touched the blanketed mound to her left and was satisfied. Her two brothers and sister slept. A moment of stillness, then she heard the restless creak of bed ropes below her sleeping loft.

  Elizabeth. Something is wrong with Elizabeth.

  Mary eased off the pallet, careful not to disturb the other children. Slipping her arms into her thin robe, she slid her hand along the wall to the bannister and undertook the steep stairs. Feeling the edge of each well-worn plank with her bare toes, she reached with the opposite foot to the step below. She quickly repeated this familiar motion, counting one … two … three … all the way till she leapt over the sixteenth step to land on the rough wooden floor. She hurried to the tiny bedroom alcove just off the common room. Whether from being startled awake or from the awful fear that something else was going wrong, she couldn’t tell, but her heart was thumping so hard she could feel the drumming in her ears.

  “Elizabeth?” She moved in closer and could hear her stepmother’s labored breathing.

  “Mary, is that you?” Elizabeth’s damp hands pulled her to the bedside. “Something is very wrong. ’Tis not time for the baby yet.” The young girl could feel tremors of fear as the clammy hands began to tighten. Elizabeth, now writhing, whispered her name, clenching her teeth on the last desperate syllable. Mary heard each separate wave of pain in that prolonged “eeeeeee” of her name.

  When the pain subsided, Elizabeth loosened the grip on Mary’s hands. “You must get help. Do you know where Midwife Dunkirk lives?”

  “Aye. I think so.”

  “Please bring her back here. Things are not as they should be.” Elizabeth’s breathing reminded Mary of the heaving of a blown horse, as if the very act of pulling air into lungs was painful. “Do you need Bets or Jake to go along?”

  “No.” Mary thought of her brother and sister sleeping upstairs. Seven-year-old Jake would love the adventure of going out into the night, but he could be such a pest. She hated to have to explain everything to him. And Bets—well, Bets already did more than her share of work. “I can go alone.”

  “Go then,” she said, “and Godspeed.”

  Mary quickly moved around the obstacles in the dark room. She took off her robe, hung it on her peg, and pulled her dress on over the top of her chemise. She reached for a pair of warm woolen stockings that had been drying on the hearth and yanked them over her cold feet. Her shoes stood precisely where she had placed them at bedtime, making it easy to quickly slide her feet into them. Taking her cloak from the peg by the entry, she unlatched the door and moved into the chill November night, closing the door behind her.

  The dampness hit with a jolt of reality. She shrank back against the cottage wall. What am I doing out here? How am I to find the midwife? Oh, Papa! Can anything more go wrong? Mary turned around and opened the cottage door to reclaim the safety of home.

  “Mary, is that you?”

  How could she let Elizabeth down? This was the first time that Elizabeth had needed Mary’s help. Had she not promised Papa to try harder to accept Elizabeth? She was as frightened by the events of the last few days as Mary and the children were. And now this.

  “Yes, Elizabeth. I forgot my cane.” Mary was too embarrassed to admit that fear had driven her back into the cottage. “I shall be so much faster if I use it.” She went to the recess under the stairs and retrieved an odd-looking cane. It was long and slender with an intricately worked metal tip. As she touched its familiar handle, she remembered the care with which Papa had crafted it.

  “A cane, Mary,” he had said, “will be a valuable tool. It will extend your touch and allow you to move with confidence. Listen to the sounds of the metal tip on the cobbles. Feel the vibrations of moving cartwheels through the wood. Hear the splash of a puddle against the shaft.”

  Move with confidence. Yes, that is what I must try to do, Mary thought. Thank you, Papa. She moved out into the cold once again, her cane moving with a delicate cadence across the cobblestones. The chunk of fear crowding her heart started to melt as she fell into the familiar rhythm of movement.

  Tap, tap, thud, tap. Mary could judge the wall to her right. Tap, tap, thunk. The gutter. She remembered to step over the filth that ran in the open ditch and to cross the road. She knew she had a long way to go. At the next crossroad, she turned to her right as she hit the wobbly cobblestone. The smell of the gardenia creeping over the wall of Goodwife Harrow’s wash yard was a welcome relief from the stench of the street.

  Move with confidence. It reminded Mary of a favorite verse that Papa often repeated as he led her along. “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”

  Her father had come to depend on God for everything. Mary did not mind because Papa was so very strong already, long before he became a Christian. It was different for Mary, though. She hated the idea of being dependent on anyone—even God. She wanted to learn to be strong all by herself. Much of the time she felt weak and frightened, though she always tried to hide it. Oh, how I wish I were confident and strong like Papa, Mary thought.

  She repeated the first part of the verse over and over as she walked with measured rhythm. “I-can-do-all-things …” She did not realize that she always left the second part of the verse off. “I-can-do-all-things … I-can-do-all-things …” The familiar phrase seemed to strengthen her.

  She felt the missing cobble and then the wooden fence. Gifre’s house. She knew it was too early for him to be about, but her heart began to thud louder.

  Ever since the Bunyans moved from Elstow to Bedford, Gifre had taken an unnatural delight in tormenting Mary, missing no opportunity to taunt her with her most hated words, “Poor blind Mary.” When he said it, there was no pity in his voice—just ridicule.

  Mary never understood why Gifre was so angry. She knew that his father had lost much during the years of the Protectorate, but all of that had been restored. He was a staunch opponent of Papa’s, but many in Bedford differed politically and still remained polite. Perhaps she would never know the cause of the anger that ruled Gifre. What she did know was that she tried to stay as far away from the boy as possible. He frightened her, much as she hated to admit it.

  Her cane did little good along this dirt stretch, but she knew by counting steps she must be nearing the lacemaker’s cottage where she must turn left. Aye, the cobblestones began again.

  She smelled the yeasty scent of the malt beer fermenting in kegs in the brewery alongside the Crown Pub as she turned onto High Road. It was a welcome sign, however smelly, that she was making progress. The wood smoke from the baker’s oven mingled with the malty odors. He must be getting ready to put the raised loaves into the oven so that they would be ready to deliver at daybreak.

  Just the thought of bread made her stomach rumble. She knew the baker started with maslin, the dry brickle bread that was the daily fare of the poorest citizens of Bedford. It did not matter if it was cold by morning, for it was no better warm than it was cold. Mary knew that the diminishing hoard of coins in the family coffer was all that stood between the Bunyans and maslin—or worse. I must come up with some way to feed our family. And it was more than food that they needed. Jake’s sole was nearly off his shoe. Every time Mary heard that peculiar slap of leather as he walked or ran, she considered it a warning. How are we to eat, let alone buy new shoes? Save that worry for later, she scolded herself. Only one problem at a time.

  As she made her way toward the midwife’s house she heard the gnawing, scratchy movement of rats scurrying nearby. The stench reminded her that the sewage gullies belonged to the rats. She was the intruder.

  The thought made her shiver. Every time Jake tried to describe rats to her, he used words like evil, foul, stinky. Jake was good at word descriptions, but he was terrible at helping Mary conjure up pictures. When he tried to make a word picture of a rat, she kept getting it mixed up with her idea of pupp
ies—furry, long tail, sharp teeth. Mary loved the feel of a puppy, especially when it lay sleeping with its rounded tummy full of milk or when it pushed its damp nose against her, trying to get her attention.

  She must ask Papa for a word picture of rat. The jailer at Bedford Gaol had sent word that if the prisoners were to eat, the families must provide food. She soon would visit Papa.

  Oh, Papa, I miss you! How will we live without you? How could you leave us this way? Her thoughts tumbled in the same fearful circles that had consumed her the last few days. How will we …? Why did they …? Whatever will become of us?

  Mary shivered again and decided it was easier to think about rats than to think of her father in Bedford Gaol. At least he is still in Bedford and not banished to faraway Barbados as many others have been. She could not bear to think about life without Papa.

  Something bumped against her cane. Perhaps she was just as happy that she could not bring to mind a precise picture for rat. The furtive movements on all sides made her shudder, so she decided to try to picture puppies instead of rats. It did not help overmuch. She knew she would faint if one of the rats pushed its nose against her. Better to not even think about it.

  Tap, tap, tap. She continued to make her way through the streets of Bedford. “I-can-do-all-things … I-can-do-all-things …”

  Tap, tap, clink, clink. The metal fence. I’ve reached the corner of Castle Lane and High Road. At last—the Dunkirk house! “Please, oh, please, let the midwife be home,” Mary whispered to herself.

  Quarrel in the Kitchen

  Mary tucked her cane under her arm and followed the iron fence up the walk to the doorstep. Her hands were so cold, she could barely make a sound as she knocked on the midwife’s door. Using the metal tip of her cane as a knocker, she rapped as loudly as she could. While she waited, she could feel the warmth of her own breath against the frigid air as it escaped in rapid, quivery puffs. Perhaps someone else engaged the midwife this night. What if no one answers my knock? A knot began to form in her stomach. Could I have arrived at the wrong house?

  With tears stinging the back of her eyelids and a lump of anguish welling up in her throat, she knocked frantically. Will I be able to retrace my steps? Did I remember to turn right … or was it left? Just when the thumping of her heart began to pound louder than her own knocking, she heard movement on the other side of the door.

  Midwife Dunkirk yawned noisily as she opened the door.

  “Am I needed?” she asked. The midwife stamped her slippered feet against the cold. “I cannot recall any who are at term.”

  Mary could hear the rubbing of rough hands over a dry face.

  “Why, ’tis poor blind Mary Bunyan. However did ye get here?”

  Mary grimaced. “I came to seek your help. I am thankful to find you at home.” Relief flooded Mary. She could almost ignore the midwife’s reference to “poor blind Mary.” Luckily, the midwife would never know how profoundly Mary had felt a few seconds earlier. It was not a feeling she often experienced, nor was it one she cared to undergo again. “Elizabeth is unwell. Please hurry.”

  “Dunkirk, get the cart hitched. I must go see to young Elizabeth Bunyan.” As if by magic, the midwife became all business. Mary was quickly ushered inside and urged to sit by the hearth. An embrace of warmth enveloped her. Opening and closing cupboards told her that the necessary supplies were being gathered as Midwife Dunkirk bustled about the room. The woman had a comforting habit of talking to herself. “That poor little family … I don’t know why troubles come in patches ….” The muttering grew less intelligible as she went about her tasks.

  “May I help?” Mary thought it was taking a very long time.

  “Oh, goodness no, child.” The fumbling continued. “Leeches, cannot forget the leeches.” Hinges creaked, then came the rattle of waxed paper being unfolded. The pungent aroma of herbs wafted through the room as she packed them. A pause. “Dunkirk?”

  “Aye?”

  “Is the cart hitched?” Mary could tell that the husband-and-wife team had worked together for many years. A complicated, familiar ritual of anticipating each need was played out between them.

  “Aye. The cart is hitched and waiting outside the fence. We be all ready for ye.” He had a lilt to his voice.

  “And the blankets?” Continuing to mumble, the midwife never slowed her pace as she gathered the tools of her trade. Mary heard the heavy scrape of a glass stopper sliding out of the rough glass neck of a bottle. She identified the tinkle of apothecary vials pushed next to one another. “Where is that little casket of cobwebs? Those I use to stop bleeding?”

  “Coo. I left it over to the shed. Replenishing your supply, I was.” His voice rapidly moved away. “Let me fetch it and meet ye in the dooryard. Put the firebell over wots left o’ the fire and tuck a flask o’ hippocras in yer bag, will ye?”

  “Lord love him, Mary. A finer man ye’ll never find.” A woolen blanket was wrapped ’round her shoulders. Drowsy with the warmth of the hearth and the soft murmurings and bustle of the midwife, it took Mary a moment to realize that it was time to leave.

  “Are you ready, Midwife Dunkirk?” Mary asked.

  “Almost. Let me lace myself into something decent and meet ye at the cart.” She started to move away. “Do ye need help getting out to the dooryard, Mary?”

  “No.” Mary tucked her anger inside as she made her way outside. How do you think I got here in the first place? Do I look daft as well as blind? Will no one ever realize that I am not only capable of caring for myself, but my papa charged me to care for our whole family?

  “Mary Bunyan, ye look to be miles away,” the old man said, startling her out of her reverie. “Ye almost walked into Dobbin. He be a patient horse, but ’twould not be healthy to come at him from his backquarters.”

  “I am sorry, Neighbor Dunkirk. It has been a long night.”

  “Dinna ye worry, lass. She will be right out. She’s a right one, that missus o’ mine. She will take care o’ yer Elizabeth. Never ye mind, now.” His voice was soothing and his words measured, as if he were calming a skittish animal. He helped Mary up into the back of the cart and tucked warm robes around her. Soon the cart settled with the weight of the midwife, climbing up beside her husband.

  Must weigh at least thirteen stone, Mary thought drowsily.

  Clip, clop, clip, clop. The horse plodded through the quiet streets retracing Mary’s earlier journey.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” Bets whispered through clenched teeth, emphasizing each word with a staccato burst of movement, pacing around the tiny lean-to kitchen. Mary felt the percussion of Bets’s anger.

  Midwife Dunkirk was in the alcove with Elizabeth. The boys still snored upstairs. From the stillness in the loft, Mary guessed that they were tightly intertwined in a tangle of covers on their pallets, oblivious to the emotional storm raging around them. How Mary wished she were upstairs, tucked in that warm cocoon with two-year-old Thomas and their brother Jake.

  “I never even thought to wake you.” Mary had a feeling that her sister was not even listening.

  “I knew nothing. Nothing! How could you go off like that without waking me? I did not even know anything was amiss until I heard Elizabeth crying for Papa.” Bets’s voice shook with anger.

  “I had it well in hand, Bets.” Mary laid a hand on Bets’s arm to calm her, but her sister jerked away. Mary continued in a soothing voice, “There was no reason to wake you or the children. I went to get the midwife. I brought her back, didn’t I?”

  “You had it in hand?” Bets was furious. “I forgot, Mary. You alone are completely sufficient.” She bit off each word, her voice rising with each syllable. “I doubt not that you believed you could do it all. You do not need anyone … you do not need anything… you certainly do not need me!”

  “Shhhhh. Please do not disturb Elizabeth.” Mary had never heard her sister so angry.

  Bets was only ten months younger than Mary and had always been calm and steadfast. Nothing ruffl
ed her feathers. Nothing, that is, until now. When their mother died less than two years ago, Bets had pitched in and worked alongside Mary, cooking, cleaning, and caring for the boys. Bets was the one who had been closest to Mama, but she never let the grief overcome her. She used to tell Mary that she could only live morning by morning, trusting God to get her through that one day.

  When Papa brought Elizabeth home and told them that she was to be their new mama, it was Bets who welcomed her and helped the others make a place in their hearts for her. Mary was not so generous. Until that time, Bets had always gone by her given name of Elizabeth. When Papa remarried, she laughed about it and good-naturedly suggested they all adopt Mary’s nickname for her to lessen the confusion. So she became Bets to one and all.

  Since Papa’s arrest, she had worked side by side with Mary to keep everything clean and manage the ever-dwindling food supply. She tried to corral Jake and care for Thomas, while Elizabeth spent her days meeting with the constables and trying to arrange meetings with the magistrates. Had the pressure been too much for Bets?

  “Mary, are you listening to me?” Bets asked, shaking her for emphasis. “Why didn’t you wake Jake to go with you?”

  “I did just fine by myself,” Mary replied, her exasperation growing. “Jake’s only seven years old. He needs his sleep.”

  “Did you not think that he might have sped your journey? For Elizabeth’s sake?” Bets’s voice was shrill.

  “Well, no. I never considered—”

  “And did you not think that it might have helped Elizabeth to have someone sit with her?” Bets asked, continuing to pace. Mary could hear the boys stirring upstairs.

  “I was in a hurry.” Her sister was right. “Perhaps I was not thinking clearly.” She had spent so many years trying to conquer her fears, maybe she had become too self-reliant—but then, had Papa not asked her to take care of the family? “It was the first time I was able to help Elizabeth alone. Truly help. It felt good to be the one bringing aid to Elizabeth,” Mary confessed, surprising herself with the admission.