Edith delivers
In December of that year, the first telegraph cable was being laid between Britain and the United States, Dvorak was completing his fifth symphony, Tolstoy was publishing Anna Karinina, and Edith Baskin was legs up on a filthy mattress, fists full of bedclothes and teeth clenched, adding another illegitimate child to the surplus population.
The midwife was an ancient hag-for-hire by the name of Beatrice Scales who delivered babies — dead or alive, mother’s choice — for four shillings (six if you wanted her to keep quiet about it). She had no formal training, no particular skills. She just squatted at the foot of the bed and babbled non stop.
“So you’re the housemaid up to Ludgate Hill?” Beatrice asked. “The Topham’s, you said? Don’t know ‘em personally, but then I’ve been having trouble keeping up my social calendar.” She cackled and dipped a rag into a basin of water and wrung it out. “Try to breathe regular, love.”
Edith tried.
“How you kept this secret all these months is what I’d like to know, you being such a little slip of a thing.”
“Extra petticoats,” Edith said, grimacing.
Beatrice laughed. “You should’ve thought of that before. Throws off a young man’s resolve having to fight through a thicket of bloomers. Might’ve kept your virtue intact to begin with.”
Edith gasped at a renewed pain and glared at the old woman. “If I’d wanted a sermon, I would’ve gone to church.”
“Comes with the package, love.” Beatrice cackled and shook her head. Black flecks that may have been fleas fell onto the mattress from her stiff snarl of gray hair. “‘Virtue.’ It’s a mania these days, love. You hear it everywhere. In the pulpits, the newspapers. And ain’t that a laugh? Why, Atilla the bleedin’ Hun could clomp right up to 10 Downing Street, bury his battle axe in the Prime Minister’s breast and still expect a fair trial, I reckon. But heaven help the unwed mother.” She clucked. “Push for me, deary.”
Edith pushed.
“You may not know it, but they’re scared to death of the likes of you. William the Conquerer, the Great Fire, the bleedin’ bubonic plague. None of them can hold a candle to you, love. To hear them tell it, you’re to blame for the downfall of civilization as we know it or whatever.” She frowned and rearranged Edith’s legs. “Another push. There’s a good girl.”
Edith squirmed and pushed again.
“Judge Tobias Foss?” Beatrice said, mopping blood with a black rag. “He’s an associate of mine. The judge isn’t what you might call fond of young women in your position.” She leaned around Edith’s knee and winked. “Good thing you went for the six-shilling treatment, deary, or Judge Foss would’ve had you packed off to the asylum for sure.”
Edith screeched and Beatrice went back to the work at hand. “Here it comes, love. Now, don’t you worry your pretty little head about your baby. Nor Judge Foss, neither. Miss Beatrice will take care of both of them.”
“A sweet little girl!” Beatrice squealed, cutting the umbilical cord and bundling the infant in an old lace tablecloth. “Barnabas!” she bellowed, and a black mountain on legs came lumbering into the room. “I know he looks like something conjured with candles and incantations, love, but Barnabas wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you Barnabas?”
“No, ma’am,” the mountain rumbled.
“Maybe you heard of him?”
Edith didn’t respond.
“No?” Beatrice said. “I thought everybody knew Barnabas Stackhouse, the famous prize fighter.” Her tone was sticky with sarcasm. “Some prize. I found him drunk and eating garbage out back of the Hare and Billet.”
Stackhouse dipped his bald head like a preacher’s kid caught smoking.
“Here,” Beatrice said, holding the infant out to Barnabas. “Put this one in bed with the others.” The baby disappeared into the man’s huge forearms.
“No, wait,” Edith gasped, trying to lift herself to one elbow. Sweat pasted her hair to her forehead. “Changed. My mind.”
Beatrice sighed. “How many times have we heard that, Barnabas?”
The man smiled broadly, displaying the three teeth he had to his name. “I don’t know, Mizz Scales. How many babies you reckon you’ve brung into the world?”
Beatrice patted Edith on the arm. “All new mothers get dewy around the eyes when they see their offspring for the first time. It’ll pass, love.”
Edith shook her head. “No, I mean it. Keep the money, just give me Grace.”
Beatrice looked down. “Now, there was your first mistake, love. Going and giving the child a name and all. Makes it all that much more...complicated, you might say.” She nodded at Elias, and he moved toward the door.
“No,” Edith said, struggling to sit up. “I want my baby.”
Beatrice pushed Edith back down onto the bed. “It’s all settled, deary. You signed the papers.”
“I know I signed the papers. I thought —”
Beatrice shoved her face into Edith’s. The old woman’s breath was like a sewer. “You thought? What were you thinking when you dropped your knickers for the father, is what I want to know? With the way things are these days? Did you think you could get yourself knocked up and then just go back to your fancy housemaid ways with a child on your hip? Mr. And Mrs. Topham of Ludgate Hill or wherever may be the finest Christian folk between Nod and Northumberland, but that won’t stop their neighbors’ tongues from wagging. Pretty soon Mr. and Mrs. start getting sidelong looks, find themselves uninvited to parties and whatever. How long do you think they’ll keep padding your pocketbook? You and your little one’d be out on your ear before you could say Bob’s your uncle. And dead within a fortnight, to boot.”
Beatrice straightened the bedclothes a bit and eased her tone. “I’ve seen it happen, I have. Pitiful stories, I could tell you. Tragic. That’s why Elias and me run this here nursery. It gives girls like you some hope. You go back to your job and, in the meantime, your little one gets a fresh start so to speak.”
Edith tore at the bedclothes, kicked her legs. “Give me my baby!”
Beatrice held her down. “Barnabas!”
The mountain calmly moved to the side of the bed and punched Edith square in the jaw. She was unconscious before her head hit the pillow.
Beatrice sighed and began gathering up the bloody rags and linens. “It’s a shame you never got the chance to fight an eighteen-year-old girl, Barnabas. You might’ve won you a championship.”
The midwife was an ancient hag-for-hire by the name of Beatrice Scales who delivered babies — dead or alive, mother’s choice — for four shillings (six if you wanted her to keep quiet about it). She had no formal training, no particular skills. She just squatted at the foot of the bed and babbled non stop.
“So you’re the housemaid up to Ludgate Hill?” Beatrice asked. “The Topham’s, you said? Don’t know ‘em personally, but then I’ve been having trouble keeping up my social calendar.” She cackled and dipped a rag into a basin of water and wrung it out. “Try to breathe regular, love.”
Edith tried.
“How you kept this secret all these months is what I’d like to know, you being such a little slip of a thing.”
“Extra petticoats,” Edith said, grimacing.
Beatrice laughed. “You should’ve thought of that before. Throws off a young man’s resolve having to fight through a thicket of bloomers. Might’ve kept your virtue intact to begin with.”
Edith gasped at a renewed pain and glared at the old woman. “If I’d wanted a sermon, I would’ve gone to church.”
“Comes with the package, love.” Beatrice cackled and shook her head. Black flecks that may have been fleas fell onto the mattress from her stiff snarl of gray hair. “‘Virtue.’ It’s a mania these days, love. You hear it everywhere. In the pulpits, the newspapers. And ain’t that a laugh? Why, Atilla the bleedin’ Hun could clomp right up to 10 Downing Street, bury his battle axe in the Prime Minister’s breast and still expect a fair trial, I reckon. But heaven help the unwed mother.” She clucked. “Push for me, deary.”
Edith pushed.
“You may not know it, but they’re scared to death of the likes of you. William the Conquerer, the Great Fire, the bleedin’ bubonic plague. None of them can hold a candle to you, love. To hear them tell it, you’re to blame for the downfall of civilization as we know it or whatever.” She frowned and rearranged Edith’s legs. “Another push. There’s a good girl.”
Edith squirmed and pushed again.
“Judge Tobias Foss?” Beatrice said, mopping blood with a black rag. “He’s an associate of mine. The judge isn’t what you might call fond of young women in your position.” She leaned around Edith’s knee and winked. “Good thing you went for the six-shilling treatment, deary, or Judge Foss would’ve had you packed off to the asylum for sure.”
Edith screeched and Beatrice went back to the work at hand. “Here it comes, love. Now, don’t you worry your pretty little head about your baby. Nor Judge Foss, neither. Miss Beatrice will take care of both of them.”
“A sweet little girl!” Beatrice squealed, cutting the umbilical cord and bundling the infant in an old lace tablecloth. “Barnabas!” she bellowed, and a black mountain on legs came lumbering into the room. “I know he looks like something conjured with candles and incantations, love, but Barnabas wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you Barnabas?”
“No, ma’am,” the mountain rumbled.
“Maybe you heard of him?”
Edith didn’t respond.
“No?” Beatrice said. “I thought everybody knew Barnabas Stackhouse, the famous prize fighter.” Her tone was sticky with sarcasm. “Some prize. I found him drunk and eating garbage out back of the Hare and Billet.”
Stackhouse dipped his bald head like a preacher’s kid caught smoking.
“Here,” Beatrice said, holding the infant out to Barnabas. “Put this one in bed with the others.” The baby disappeared into the man’s huge forearms.
“No, wait,” Edith gasped, trying to lift herself to one elbow. Sweat pasted her hair to her forehead. “Changed. My mind.”
Beatrice sighed. “How many times have we heard that, Barnabas?”
The man smiled broadly, displaying the three teeth he had to his name. “I don’t know, Mizz Scales. How many babies you reckon you’ve brung into the world?”
Beatrice patted Edith on the arm. “All new mothers get dewy around the eyes when they see their offspring for the first time. It’ll pass, love.”
Edith shook her head. “No, I mean it. Keep the money, just give me Grace.”
Beatrice looked down. “Now, there was your first mistake, love. Going and giving the child a name and all. Makes it all that much more...complicated, you might say.” She nodded at Elias, and he moved toward the door.
“No,” Edith said, struggling to sit up. “I want my baby.”
Beatrice pushed Edith back down onto the bed. “It’s all settled, deary. You signed the papers.”
“I know I signed the papers. I thought —”
Beatrice shoved her face into Edith’s. The old woman’s breath was like a sewer. “You thought? What were you thinking when you dropped your knickers for the father, is what I want to know? With the way things are these days? Did you think you could get yourself knocked up and then just go back to your fancy housemaid ways with a child on your hip? Mr. And Mrs. Topham of Ludgate Hill or wherever may be the finest Christian folk between Nod and Northumberland, but that won’t stop their neighbors’ tongues from wagging. Pretty soon Mr. and Mrs. start getting sidelong looks, find themselves uninvited to parties and whatever. How long do you think they’ll keep padding your pocketbook? You and your little one’d be out on your ear before you could say Bob’s your uncle. And dead within a fortnight, to boot.”
Beatrice straightened the bedclothes a bit and eased her tone. “I’ve seen it happen, I have. Pitiful stories, I could tell you. Tragic. That’s why Elias and me run this here nursery. It gives girls like you some hope. You go back to your job and, in the meantime, your little one gets a fresh start so to speak.”
Edith tore at the bedclothes, kicked her legs. “Give me my baby!”
Beatrice held her down. “Barnabas!”
The mountain calmly moved to the side of the bed and punched Edith square in the jaw. She was unconscious before her head hit the pillow.
Beatrice sighed and began gathering up the bloody rags and linens. “It’s a shame you never got the chance to fight an eighteen-year-old girl, Barnabas. You might’ve won you a championship.”
posted by Tony at 1:26 AM
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