Lives of Our Mothers

Third week of July 1635 “No, no, no and no,” I stomped my loosely laced, short-top boot upon the carpet. “I will not be a ‘poor relation’ version of indentured servant to that woman!” My William stood with me in the chamber assigned to us within the refined three-story Boston townhouse of the governor of the Piscatagua Plantation. My spouse tried to defuse the anger gushing forth, “Hush, now, Sweet One, we do not want all in the house to hear you shout so. You know Thomas and I are partners in the plantation of Piscataqua. How can you think he and Elizabeth are trying to offend?” “My brother,” I spat. My righteousness caused me to spin away on my heel and recommence pacing, “and your sister, married to each other! ‘Tis a blessing they are. It spares two innocent bystanders from having to deal with their maliciousness. Who would have thought we would have been made to feel so uncomfortable in a place owned and run by two relatives?” “Oh,” my husband glanced over his shoulder to be sure the door was securely closed. “You truly must not speak so.” Reaching the border of the highly polished hardwood floor, I rounded a corner of the anemic looking carpet and swished my skirts as I began a fresh circuit around the edge of the room, “I am heart-sick of his constant pontificating at both the meal that breaks our fast and at every evening meal. The Bible readings, yes, but then he rants on for long enough for every meal we have shared in the evening to get cold!” “And such hideous topics; who was put in stocks; their sins; who was flogged, how many stripes they endured! I never plan to attend any such a thing particularly after the way he goes on about the blood splattering those standing too close! The evil one, Old Nick, how he lurks about constantly, tricking poor hapless souls into committing mortal sin. If I never hear of another sinner being ‘cast into the fires of hell’ it will be too soon.” “This morning he went on and on…” I shuttered at the memory of the oratory. An entire family was wiped out by a “smite of the angel of death’s righteous hand” on some homestead set back into the frontier. They had all been found bloated and unattended for an unknown amount of time. Thomas made the claim that they must have all been supremely guilty of a mortal sin, even the infant of less than a year. “I say let us pray for the disposition of their souls rather than carry on about which sin was their downfall.” I paused momentarily to stretch. My babe twisted and pushed a limb, mayhap an elbow, to express his disapproval of my upset. My William shook his head in incredulity, “Whatever happened to preaching about what certain Bible quotes mean in today’s world?” I stopped near the window where a breeze stirred the beige lace curtains, albeit warmly. “Then,” my husband removed his beaver, round-crowned hat and habitually raked his fingers through his perspiration drenched hair. The stiff headgear made a popping sound with its return to the still damp brow. “Considerable discussion occurred both from the pulpit and after the meeting about an Anne Hutchinson. She is the goodwife of a prosperous fabric merchant, mother of fourteen children, mistress of a fine home on the Shawmut Peninsula on the northern side of the city, one of the highest social regions of town. Some say she is challenging the authority of the Elders. She is reported to be having gatherings in that luxurious home of her husband’s every mid-week for women.” “A woman, leading services? Tell me more,” I turned to face him across the lumpy mattress on the bed. “She is the daughter of an Anglican priest who joined the Puritan movement many years ago. Her education, though not through standard channels, is second to none. The congregation is split on how they look on the situation. Some think it amusing, some scandalous, some take her ideas to heart. “She diverges from the established view of putting emphasis on the behavior of the individual to attain God’s salvation. She preaches a sinner is ‘saved at the moment of religious conversion. She postulates thereafter the Holy Ghost abides within what she calls the ‘elect saint’.” The revelation that there existed such radical thinking here in this bastion of religious dogma took the edge off my personal agitation at Catherine “Oh, I had no idea!” “T’was an interesting dynamic I observed. As a matter of due course I will be obliged to make a choice in order to fit in properly and maximize my business contacts.” I eased one hip down on the coverlet on the bed between us. “I am withholding my final decision as to which specific fold I shall apply to become a Freeman within until I have attended a few more of Reverend Hooker’s sermons. ‘Tis remarkable how much variation exists from one minister of the Lord’s word to another. And all these pastors call themselves ‘Congregationalist’. “At any rate, during the break between sermons a gathering came together. There was a goodly number of worshipers who planned to go as a group next Wednesday to apprise themselves at Anne Hutchinson’s parlor of the new way of thinking. I stood back and took note of how the frowns deepened on every one of the elder’s faces. They exchanged concerned looks and I saw the eyebrows on every one of their faces waggle up and down. Had I been one of any of the elder’s children I would have been worried about my back-side when we returned to the privacy of our own home.” My husband’s humor has had the effect of being able to coax me from the worst possible moods. I smiled despite any lingering testiness in my heart. I felt myself being drawn to his side, caught like a moth to a flame. “Is it because this Goodie Hutchinson is a female and holding these meetings that she getting so much attention?” “That and, some say ‘tis pursuant to her husband being so prominent her actions cannot be dismissed out of hand. The goodwife herself is known for her ready wit and that she contributes to the community welfare in other ways. She is a popular midwife to the rich and powerful.” I leapt onto the crucial word just uttered, “Midwife?” My thoughts spiraled off on their own journey. My eyes picked out spider webs in the corner of the ceiling, unseeing. A renewing wave of calmness swept over me as I looked up at my husband’s indulgent smile. He honestly tried his hardest to make things easier for me. Unspeakable tenderness welled up in my chest, making it hard to breathe. Our child took exception to the extremes of sentiment I was experiencing by both kicking and giving loose to a mighty punch into my nether region, “What a temper this one has!” I placed my hand on his prominent rump and shifted him within my womb, right to left, grunting at the poke I gave myself. Gazing upward, I identified that I truly did appreciate My William’s new, tasteful whiskers. I felt compelled to stand and cross the room to his side. I stroked their softness of the chin hair with my fingertips. “I am sorry. I am aware of what I speak is not in your control.” But then the memory of the affront given by the mistress of the house caused my unexpectedly fiery temper to lead me back to the trail of infuriation. I recollected the words spoken in regards to our son, “Even if she is your sister! All the more reason we all should all be treated as honored guests. I am aware all men are born sinners, as she said. But to claim as boldly as you please that our Young William, all of eighteen months, is ‘predestined from birth to go to hell and everlasting torment’ far outstepped any bounds!” I resumed pacing within the limited space. The bulk of my never-ending pregnancy made me more irritable than I ever recalled being before. Sleeping any block of time was becoming ever greater of an issue. My dreams persisted in jerking me to wakefulness. I wished if they had to be of Rebecca, they would be of the good times we had spent together, rather than of the last day and how she had suffered.