by Jody Hedlund
But Mary wouldn’t be there tonight or any night hereafter. And that thought alone was enough to propel him away from the cottage, back into the oncoming night.
The ache in his chest pulsed. With a grunt he dropped his tool bag and pulled out a chisel. He scraped at the thick layer of mud on the bottom of his boots.
Darkness was approaching, and he’d put off the inevitable long enough. He had to go inside, as he did every night, and face the emptiness.
With a stomp of his boots he pushed open the door and ducked into the cottage. A sweeping glance told him the children were abed. The wet nurse suckled the babe, and the Whitbread girl mended by the light of the hearth.
At the sight of him, she arose and began folding Johnny’s breeches. “Good evening, Brother Costin.”
He nodded at her and tried to push aside a nagging guilt that his late homecoming would force her to walk the narrow streets of Bedford in the dark. “You must hurry home now.”
He slipped out of his dripping cloak and hung it on the peg on the wall beside the door. Then he shed his hat and shook his head, flinging his hair back and forth like a dog shaking its fur, spraying water in all directions.
With a final shake, he dug into the pouch at his waist and retrieved a tuppence. As he turned to toss it onto the table, the Whitbread girl shifted her gaze away from his wet hair and began refolding Johnny’s clothes.
“Two pence for the wet nurse.” He wasn’t sure if that was enough, but he’d only earned a shilling himself that day and couldn’t afford to give her more. Actually, he didn’t want to give her more. What was the use? The baby would soon die.
The wet nurse pried the baby loose, her eyes upon the coin.
John started toward his study and stopped long enough to retrieve a candlestick and light the candle’s wick.
“I’ve kept the pottage warm for you, Brother Costin,” Sister Whitbread said breathlessly after him.
“You must go.” He’d already detained her overlong. “I’ll see to it myself.”
She didn’t respond.
He stopped in the doorway and glanced at her. “My thanks anyway, Sister. Now no more dawdling.”
He closed the door and placed the candle on the small shelf above his desk. In the overcast evening, the light threw long shadows. The room hardly afforded him space to turn around, especially amidst the discarded clothes, scattered papers, sermon notes, and pamphlets.
He unbuttoned his doublet, peeled off his shirt, along with a plain wide linen collar, and dropped them to the heap on the floor. He stretched both arms above his head, wishing he could ease the ache in his heart as easily as he could the ones in his body.
“Brother Costin?” Sister Whitbread rapped against the door. “May I speak with you?”
He stifled a sigh. Hadn’t he told her to go?
Crossing his bare arms behind his head, he sat back in his chair. It creaked under the weight of his body. “Sister Whitbread, the hour is late. Make haste and be on your way.”
He waited for a long moment, and upon hearing nothing more, he sat forward and reached for his latest tract.
Not only had God gifted him with a preacher’s tongue, but he’d also given him a skillful pen. Lately, the words had flowed onto paper as effortlessly as when he preached.
Of course, the Royalists didn’t like either his preaching or his writing. He’d heard increasing criticism from the nobility and the displaced clergy. They were no longer curious nor amused about the tinker turned preacher. Even some of the wealthy Independents, those he’d considered friends, had begun to mumble about his popularity, about how he was rising above his position.
He leafed through the pages of his pamphlet. He was nearly finished writing it. Too bad his adversaries couldn’t understand God had called him to mend souls, not just kettles. It was a divine appointment—not one he’d sought, but one that had come to him shortly after his conversion not too many years ago.
Didn’t they see how God was working through him?
“Brother Costin, if I might speak to you for just a moment.”
He tossed the paper back to his desk. Was she still there? “Sister Whitbread, did I not send you home?”
“This cannot wait.”
Something in her tone set him on edge.
“We had a most frightening visitor today after you left.”
“Visitor?” He grabbed a dry but wrinkled shirt from the floor. “What kind of visitor?”
“He didn’t give his name.”
John stuffed his arms into the sleeves and yanked open the door.
Sister Whitbread gave a gasp and spun away.
He tugged at the shirt but it stuck to his damp skin. “What did he want?”
She kept her back to him. “He said he wanted to meet with you. But I’m not so sure that was his true intention.”
“What do you mean?”
“He made threats.”
Apprehension rippled through his gut and he squirmed to unravel the fabric at the base of his shoulders. “Did he threaten the children?”
“No. Not the children.” She continued to face the opposite way. “But he insinuated he would spread rumors about you.”
“What kind of rumors?” The pressure around his middle cinched tighter.
Red crept up her neck. “They were . . . very distasteful rumors—”
So those who opposed him were planning to attack him now? Did they really believe they could connive against him and somehow force him to stop his preaching?
With a last pull, his shirt finally fell into place. “The man—did he tell you his name?”
“If he did, I don’t remember it.” She spoke over her shoulder, finally taking a peek at him and then pivoting to face him. “He appeared to be gentry. Royalist. Narrow face. Big eyes.”
John’s mind whirled over the long list of Bedfordshire Royalists. “Your description could fit any number of men.”
“He was most certainly not a friend to our Puritan ways nor to your preaching.”
“Well, whether he likes me or not, there is nothing he can do to stop me.” Not when Cromwell, the leader of their country, was himself a Puritan and gave all men the freedom to share the Gospel. “On the morrow I’ll ask the neighbors if they saw anyone.”
“Speaking of the morrow—”
“No more speaking tonight, Sister Whitbread. Time to go home.” He reached for the door. “Surely your father will be worried about you.”
She stepped forward and braced it open with her foot. “Did you locate someone to replace me?”
“Of course not.”
She faced him squarely. “You said this was to be my last day of service. The children have been worried about who will come to help them in my stead, and I want to make sure you’re prepared before I take my leave.”
His mind flashed back to that morning, to the sorrow in Betsy’s voice when she’d declared that she missed her momma and wanted to have a new one. The words had pierced him like a sword through flesh. She wanted a new momma when her natural-born mother had narry been in the grave two weeks? How could she?
He shook his head, feeling the pain again. Deep inside he knew Betsy did not wish to replace her mother. She’d expressed her yearnings and sorrows in her childish way.
But still, her request seemed disloyal, even traitorous, to ask for a new momma so soon. His own mother had died shortly before he’d joined Cromwell’s army. He had despised his father for taking a new wife within a month’s time and had vowed if he ever lost a wife, he wouldn’t do that to his children.
He couldn’t imagine he’d ever want to remarry—he would never desire anyone but Mary. Besides, God’s call on his life had only grown stronger over the past years, and it left little room or time for the cares of the flesh.
“Brother Costin, if you need me to come one more day while you find someone else to care for the children, I will.”
Had he really told her today was to be her last day of service? If he had, he’d bee
n a fool.
“Have you given thought to a new caregiver?”
“No.”
She sighed. “Brother Costin, while your children are well trained, I don’t believe they’re capable of independence. They need a caretaker.”
He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head. He didn’t disagree with her. As much as he resented the presence of any woman in his home who was not his wife, he’d begun to realize it would be nigh impossible to accomplish his work, especially his preaching, without help.
The fact was he needed Sister Whitbread to stay.
What he needed to do was confess his pride, apologize to this woman for his wrong accusations of earlier, and then ask her to remain his housekeeper, for he certainly did not want the trouble of finding someone else.
“My children are in need of a caretaker. You’re correct, Sister Whitbread. But no, I don’t want you to come one more day while I find someone else.”
She sighed louder.
He twirled his thumbs around each other behind his head. Then with a deep breath he forced the words out. “I would like you to come not just one more day, but every day—if you would, please.”
She was silent.
“I ask your forgiveness for my accusations earlier this day. They were presumptuous and unfounded, and I am sorry for them. Especially since you have shown nothing but kindness and self-sacrifice in your efforts to help.”
Her gaze swept across the untidy closet.
He spun his thumbs faster. “Well?”
“I forgive you. And I’ll return on the morrow and thereafter—until summer’s end, when I’m wed.”
He stopped fidgeting and dropped his arms, resting them on the sides of his chair. “Very well. Then you may reassure the children of this.” All was settled. He reached for his tract. “Now would you please close the door on your way out?”
“Actually, Brother Costin, all is not very well.”
The terseness of her tone forced his focus back to her face.
“If I am to stay, then I must have the means to care for the children.”
“I am but a poor tinker. And I have just given the wet nurse more than I can spare.”
“I’m not concerned for myself.” Her clear gaze met his and didn’t waver. “But the children cannot survive without the proper provisions.”
Was she insinuating he wasn’t taking care of his children?
“The food stores are nearly depleted,” she continued. “We are scavenging for roots until the garden grows. But ’tis not enough.”
He stared at her in surprise. This woman was bold—rebuking him this way.
His gaze skimmed over her. She was neither tall nor short of stature. Her build was round and full, her face pleasant but plain, and the hair that had come loose from her coif was dark blond, almost brown. She was quite ordinary. In a crowd, she would blend in, would give no one cause to search her out.
She cleared her throat. “I understand that late spring and early summer are always a hungering time . . . the time when the gleanings are either gone or rotten.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but the red splotches on her neck couldn’t hide her embarrassment at his perusal.
No doubt about it, she was a Puritan maiden—the epitome of chastity.
But she was right—the children should not go hungry.
A tap on the cottage door propelled him to his feet. He reached for his candle and made his way toward the door.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
“I’m looking for Sister Whitbread,” bellowed a voice outside.
“ ’Tis only Samuel Muddle,” said Sister Whitbread behind him.
“Brother Muddle, the barrel maker?”
She nodded.
“Why is the barrel maker seeking you at this hour? Surely you don’t need barrels repaired at this time of night.”
“He . . .” She hesitated. “He’s the man I’m intending to marry.”
“Samuel Muddle?” John raised his brows.
Her cheeks were pink, and John couldn’t tell if the color was left from his earlier appraisal or if she was embarrassed again.
“He’s a good man.”
“There’s no doubt of that. But he is rather big—”
“Surely we should invite him in?” Her face was redder.
“Surely.” He grinned and then swung open the door.
Samuel Muddle held an oiled cloak like a tent above his head, a useless attempt to keep his bulging middle and lower half dry.
“Brother Costin.” The man nodded in greeting.
“Come in, Brother Muddle.” John backed away and gave the man room to enter. He didn’t know Samuel Muddle well, but the man’s uncle had been a long-standing member of the congregation and had apprenticed Samuel when his parents had died.
Samuel shuffled through the door and lowered his cape, making a puddle on the floor around him. His eyes sought Sister Whitbread. She met his gaze straightway, but John didn’t see any gladness or eagerness in her expression, such as would befit someone on the verge of marriage.
“It’s nigh dark.” With one hand Samuel hefted at his breeches, which had sunk low enough that another few inches and they would be slipping all the way to the floor.
He half hoped they did. Then Sister Whitbread would really have cause to hide her eyes in her apron.
“With the evening growing late, your father and I began to worry. We thought it best I walk you home. We didn’t want you out alone under these conditions.”
“Thank you. ’Twas thoughtful of you both.” She reached for a straw hat on the table. “But you shouldn’t have troubled yourself. ’Tis not altogether too late nor the distance too far.”
“It will not be long until curfew.” Samuel nodded to the gloomy evening outside the door, illuminated by the dim light of John’s candle. “No maiden should be abroad at this hour. It’s not safe. Not in the least.”
She looked as if she were about to argue with him further, but then she nodded curtly. “Very well.”
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a movement in the crack of the parlor doorway. Mary was awake. She had been sharing the room with the babe to tend to his needs at night, whereas he had taken to throwing a pallet on the floor in front of the hearth. The thought of sleeping in the room he had enjoyed with his wife sent him into despair. Letting Mary take over while he slept on the floor had been no hardship.
Samuel cleared his throat and once more pulled up his breeches. “Brother Costin. I must ask that you allow Sister Whitbread to leave her duties as housekeeper much earlier in the evening.”
John wanted to say he wished the maiden would leave much sooner too, but he held his rudeness in check. “Methinks I will certainly encourage her to leave earlier from now on.” He raised his brows at her.
Without breaking his gaze, she put on her hat and began tying it underneath her chin. “Perhaps if Brother Costin will arrive home from his daily absences at an earlier hour, then I’ll be at leisure to depart sooner.”
Her response was like a well-placed parry. Instead of backing away, she’d deflected his, which only stirred his craving for a battle of words. He stepped forward, ready to place another measured strike. “Thus when I’m late in homecoming, as will occasionally unavoidably happen, perhaps Sister Whitbread shall be all the hastier in taking her leave.”
He grinned at his quick, witty response.
Her eyes took on a spark. She too stepped forward, meeting his challenge with a strike of her own. “If Brother Costin is only occasionally late, he would know what his children need without his housekeeper having to stay late to inform him.”
His grin widened. She was good. Even if arguing with him as her elder and as a man was out of line for a godly Puritan woman, she was adept with her words.
As if realizing she was overstepping the bounds of respect, she turned and reached for a small jug on the table, but not before he caught sight of the red creeping into her cheeks. “Shall we be on our way, Samu
el?”
Samuel nodded, his mouth agape, as if he had wanted to join in their parley but had not had the slightest chance of getting a word in.
She trudged to the door.
“We are agreed, then?” Samuel tugged his dark beard. “You will let her leave earlier from now on—”
“Of course, Brother Muddle,” John said. “I’ve never prevented her from coming or going. She seems to have a will of her own—”
“My will is only to please God.” With her eyes still sparking, she gave one more sword swipe. “He has called me to help your children during this time of need, Brother Costin. ’Tis not my will. ’Tis His calling.”
Her words threw him off guard. He could think of no good response, no quick thrust back. He could only stand speechless at the conviction of her words. He could no more argue with her about her calling than the Royalists could argue with him about his.
“Let us take our leave.” As if knowing she’d had the last word, the wounding strike of the battle, she turned and stepped out into the rain. Samuel bustled after her.
When they were gone, John stared unseeingly at the door.
“She is quite convincing.”
He turned.
Mary stood in the half-open doorway in her shift with a night coif covering her plaited hair. She was a miniature of his wife, and the sight of her, as usual, brought a pang of fresh pain. She stared at him with her beautiful blue eyes. He learned long ago that while she wasn’t able to look at anything in the physical sense, she could see everything, sometimes even clearer than he.
“I cannot remember a time when anyone left you without the last word, Father.”
“Methinks you should be abed.”
“Will she come back?”
“I asked her to.” He sighed and stuck his fingers into his damp hair, combing it back.
“I think she will. She likes us. She likes you.”
“She would rather see a rope strung about my neck.”
Mary just smiled.
Chapter
8
If His Majesty King Henry VIII had not purged England of its abbeys, you would have made a perfect nun.” Catherine jerked a ladle through the mead, and it sloshed over the side of the kettle.