Bedlam Maternity is finally finished and is in beta reading, prior to going to my editor.
So seems a good time to start some interest in the story again.
Scary time, being pregnant, vulnerable and alone...
Bedlam Maternity
Prologue
London, 1754
The rain had cleared some of the thick soot from the air of Seven Dials, but it had done nothing to reduce the stench from the streets. The man scraped mud, rancid pig intestines and human shit off his boots, before slipping into the back door of the tavern. He didn’t want to be seen, and not being seen often meant walking through the worst of the back alleys, ignoring the smell and the slime. He was momentarily blinded by the thick layers of tobacco smoke that hung in the stagnant air. It was of no matter, for his ears soon located his prey, the thick Scottish accents leading him to their table, tucked as far back as possible from any door way. He seated himself without invite.
The two men nodded greeting, but the newcomer said nothing in return. For a moment, silence fell between them. The older Scot nudged the younger one, who rose and went to find service. The silence remained until he returned and placed a pint pot of gin down on the rough wood of the bench that served as table.
The newcomer lifted the pot up, and drank deeply, before saying ‘Thankin’ ye both kindly.’
They both nodded their own reply, and waited out the other’s pleasure. He drank half way down the pot, and then fumbled in his pockets, drawing out a pipe. A few moments of searching revealed no tobacco. Once again, the older man prompted the younger.
‘John, offer our friend here some o’yer baccy.’
The younger man sighed, and fished out his leather pouch. Faced with handing over the contents in a lump, or just handing over the pouch, he chose the later, resigned to never seeing it again. As he suspected, the man filled his pipe, tapped it, and pocketed the pouch. John attended to taking a long draught of his ale, in order to cool his temper.
The visitor filled the air up between them with thick streams of smoke. It helped make them even more invisible, not that anyone else in the tavern was paying them the slightest attention. You didn’t come in here, if you required anyone to notice you. The silence held until the newcomer leaned forward, encouraging the other two to lean in to attend to his words.
‘She be near her time, like I said. Ahv spoked to the Mother, right, and she’s in agreement, for the right amount.’ He rubbed his fingers together for emphasis. ‘And she is happy to go somewhere special, since there’s two o’them.’
The older man leaned in closer. ‘Yer sure, o’ the two?’
‘Aye. No bother aboot it. Ahv no seen her m’sel, mind, but the Mother says she’s seen twins afore, and it’s for sure.’ He sat back, content to have unloaded his information.
The two Scots also sat back, in unison. The younger attempting to swallow down a smug grin. The older and more business hardened needed no effort to maintain his stone face, or the silence. After several moments of drinking, and contemplating the streams of smoke, the elder spoke.
‘Three.’
‘Six’
The silence returned again. The newcomer had slowed down his drinking, to make sure there was still some left to finish upon. There would be no more free drinks, he was sure.
‘Four.’
It was more than he’d expected, and it caught him on the hop. ‘There’s the Mother, she’ll need her share.’
‘Four. And we pay the carriage to and fro, and hire the man.’
He was caught and he knew it. He nodded, and drained his pot, then slammed it down. ‘Right, four it is.’ He rose and shambled out of the tavern, the way he’d come, taking a second to adjust to the street’s light, before moving off to disappear in a growing fog.
A fog that helped the two Scots mightily in their unseen and un-noted journey back to more affluent streets, the older man refusing to allow the younger to speak his excitement, whilst they were in public.
Eliza Jennings shifted her bulk on the thin straw mattress, feeling the strain as she heaved her hips round to the other side, trying to gain some relief from the pain. The straw did little but hold the dirt to the wooden boards she rested on. Her thin bones were not grateful for the wood’s embrace. No matter how she turned, no matter how many times she turned, all she gained was a few moments’ relief before the bones started up their ache once more. This time, in response to her efforts, her swollen stomach started up a drum beat of protest.
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