The Midwife by Tricia Cresswell

Author:Tricia Cresswell [Cresswell, Tricia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

Northumberland, October 1838

Mrs Sharp brushed her hair with some vigour and parted it along the centre, pulling a wing of brown hair down each cheek. She folded up each side in turn, pinning the still-too-short hair behind her ears with a greater than usual degree of irritation. The new linen cap with its starched lace frill covered the pins as Alice had said it would, and the overall effect was similar to the much-admired picture displayed in the draper’s shop: hair was now to be worn smoothly curved in front of the ears, in the new style adopted by the Queen. She smiled then, a little at Alice’s earnest advice and slightly more at herself for following it.

For a moment the grey-blue eyes and level brows looked back and she saw the face she thought she should have. There were no voices, no one else there in the mirror, just a tall, respectable-looking woman in a grey dress. Mrs Sharp watched as the eyebrows frowned and then she laughed at whoever she was and turned away.

She thought about Alice as she walked downstairs, determined to keep from thinking about the anticipated unpleasantness of the day. How she had insisted on a new hairstyle now her hair was almost long enough to tie back. Alice was also trying to persuade her to have another dress for the winter not only in a warmer cloth but with a pattern, although, she had reassured her, nothing gaudy or unseemly. It would be a pleasure to sit in the Blacks’ warm kitchen, stitching side by side with Alice under the lamp, whilst old Mrs Black knitted or darned. Something to look forward to after today, she thought, as she went into the kitchen.

Mrs Godwin turned from her egg pan just enough to address Mrs Sharp.

‘Blacksmith Weddell’s been already to leave you a parcel. I told him as you were still abed.’

As always now, Mrs Godwin seemed to imply that Mrs Sharp was indulging in gross self-indulgence, if not depravity, by sleeping.

‘I’m sorry to have missed him. Will he call back?’ she said.

‘I told him as you would be too busy with Dr Soames and his guest.’

Mrs Sharp was spared the need for reply by Peter handing her a bowl of porridge.

‘I’ve put the parcel in the surgery. Blacksmith said if them isn’t right, send a message any time this week. He’s over at Howick Hall. Doing new gates for the earl,’ Peter said.

Mrs Sharp smiled back, acknowledging both the length of the communication and the fact that he hadn’t said what was in the parcel, which would, they both knew, irritate Mrs Godwin.

‘Thank you. I’ll look at it after breakfast,’ she said.

She was standing outside Dr Soames’s study, putting off knocking. She had made a detour via the surgery to collect her parcel and had brought it with her but could find no other excuse to delay. She swallowed, took one long slow breath, then knocked and walked in.

Dr Soames stood up. ‘Good morning, Mrs Sharp.

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