Excerpt from Love and Fury by Samantha Silva, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Well, we've a bit of a wait on our hands," she said, setting out the last of her tincture jars. "What shall we do with it?"

"I asked Mr. Godwin to send me a newspaper, a novel, any book—some amusement to while the hours away."

"Maybe tell her your story, why don't you?" said the midwife, nodding toward the missus's womb. "Just for her."

"Why do you think she's taking her time?"

"Ooh, the darkness can be a comfort, I s'pose," said Mrs. B. "It's the darkness binds you to her, and her to you. S'where we all begin, don't we?"

When the missus didn't answer, Mrs. B turned to see a shadow sweep across her face as she gazed outside, pulling her shawl close around. Mrs. B took her as chilled, and stepped toward the open window.

"Let me close that for you."

"No!"

Startled by the sharp edge in her voice, Mrs. B let go the tall panes, and felt her own fleshy shoulders drop. She was tired, there was no way around it, eleven days straight, the thrumming chaos of the Westminster Lying-In Hospital, and now this, before a day of rest. Rhythm, routine, as long as was possible, she thought. She could bear up one more time, she told herself, letting the soft breeze dry the water pooling heavy at the back of her eyes. She wouldn't say a word, never would. It wasn't her place. She was tired, that's all.

"I like the feel of it on my face," the missus said, Mrs. B supposed by way of apology. "I cannot abide still air. I can't breathe."

"Open's fine, till you tell me different." Mrs. B set her shoulders and returned to the table. She poured a dram of gin from the bottle.

"You think she can hear me?" asked the woman.

"Oh yes. Same as the whoosh-whoosh of your heart. Has done, all along. Why, you and her've known each other a good long while already." She held out the small glass, an offering. "And with God's blessing, you'll have a good long time to come."

The pregnant woman took the glass, held it high, and swirled it, watching the gin catch the light.

"And you think I can talk her into the world?"

"Well, there's no talking her out of it."

The woman's eyes smiled. She tipped her head back to drink down the gin in one swallow, closing her eyes for the burn of it down the throat, which seemed to fortify her. She put the glass in Mrs. B's hand, cupping her own slender fingers around the midwife's.

"Call me Mary," she said, as if restored. "I am Mary Wollstonecraft."


Mary W


Another girl. In this world.

Like so many passages, it begins with water. Not the wide gray water of chopping seas, not pulling tides or rocky shores, not harbors. This water pools on the floorboards beneath me, clear liquid, splashing like an ephemeral fall from my own body, sputtering news of your imminent arrival. Mrs. Blenkinsop trundles across the circle in my direction, it must be her: good round face and ruddy cheeks, summer cloak flapping behind, clutching a leather bag and glass bottle to her ample chest. Her white ruffle cap's fallen down, showing her woolly hair (holding more to red than gray) swirling in a great bun, illuminated by the tender sun of the late summer morning. When she opens her mouth to speak, I see that her teeth are crooked and yellow, and that she resists smiling because of it. But her eyes are insensibly kind—a primordial mud-green, like a flashing creek after a storm, with twigs and leaves, sediment and rain all mixed together, flecks of light dancing on its rippling surface. Detritus, and all that is necessary for life.

Which is enough to set us on our long, strange journey together.

At the start she warns me that I won't be relieved of my load anytime soon, though she assures me I'll be safely delivered, head foremost, and all is as it ought to be. Some part of me believes in this seasoned midwife so thoroughly that when she announces your sex (with no fanfare at all) I am won to it like a trumpet call—réveillez-vous! "Awake!" she says to me, to the daughter who stirs within. In an instant you spring from my imagination, entire. Never mind those who espouse the art of getting pretty girl babies, who would've had me gaze on cherry lips and lily-whites throughout my pregnancy, sitting quietly doing needlepoint, taking care not to think thoughts at all. Indeed, many in my state take up the cause of a nursery in the months before their confinement, if not the refurbishment of an entire house, always with an urgency that resides in our most primitive animal natures. Burrow deep, spin a steel-silk orb, feather the nest. For my part I cannot unpack a trunk without a thought bounding in, a rush to nearby fields and forests, a cold lake-bath, or the desk, the paper, the pen. There is no confinement that can hold me, no drawing of the curtains, but wide-open windows throwing fresh country light across the page, illuminating the blackest ink.

Excerpted from Love and Fury by Samantha Silva. Copyright © 2021 by Samantha Silva. Excerpted by permission of Flatiron Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.