by Jody Hedlund
A faint cry near the back of the cottage sent his heart galloping.
“Mary!” he called louder.
He dodged the shallow piles and headed for a stack of boards next to the house. “Oh, Mary.” He stumbled against a thin body crouched against the cottage.
She turned her face up to him. Tears made clear streaks through the grime on her cheeks. Her slender body shook with sobs.
John dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms. Gratefulness poured through him. He leaned his chin on her head and tightened his hold.
“I only wanted Thomas back,” she sobbed. “I only planned to stay until dark . . . sneak into the cottage . . . take Thomas . . .”
He shook his head at the foolishness of her plan. How would she have made it through the cottage without hurting herself, much less attracting attention?
“Then I was going to try to find Lucy.”
“Then I’m just grateful I found you before you could try it.” He couldn’t imagine what she was thinking. Didn’t she realize how helpless she was and the danger she could have brought upon herself? He kissed her silky hair.
“Thomas cried all afternoon,” she continued between broken sobs. “Brother Bird yelled—threatened to silence the baby. Then he finally left.”
For a moment she didn’t say anything, and he just held her until her sobs began to subside.
“I was afraid for Thomas.” Her teeth chattered and she clung to him with surprising strength. “I was afraid Brother Bird would hurt him.”
The picture of the Birds’ baby bundled in its winding cloth flashed into his mind. He’d attended more than one funeral for the Birds’ dead babies. ’Twas true babies died all of the time. But what if Brother Bird’s anger had contributed?
A shiver crept up his backbone. He’d placed his own baby right into the hands of danger. If anything had happened, he would have been just as guilty as Brother Bird.
One more reason to bring their baby home.
“Thomas is coming home.” Thomas. The name stuck to his tongue. He couldn’t remember speaking it before. But saying it somehow made the baby more real, more alive.
“You’re letting Thomas come back home?”
“Yes. And I’m sorry, Mary, for not listening to you better. I should have tried to understand how you felt about losing Thomas.” Apologies didn’t come easily for him. But when she released a long shaky breath and melted into his arms, the tension slipped from his body, and he knew he’d done the right thing.
“We’ll make it work. I promise.”
John combed her tangled curls. “It won’t be easy. He’s weak and helpless. I want you to be prepared for the reality of his death.” Without a mother, the baby’s chances were still slim, even if they did everything they could.
“I know he would benefit from a regular wet nurse,” his daughter said, “plenty of milk whenever he needs it. I won’t deny this. But his chances of living are greater if he stays with us, even without the milk.” Her tone was confident, and John could only pray she was right.
“He loves us. We love him,” she continued, gazing up at him with her beautiful but blank eyes. “It’s our love upon which he thrives.”
John knew by we she meant his housekeeper. His mind returned to the picture of the girl embracing his son in the Birds’ cottage, the fierceness with which she had hugged him. She loved the babe, even though he wasn’t hers, even though she had no reason to.
Sister Whitbread was indeed a godly young woman.
“She’s God’s gift to our family. God brought her to help us in our need.”
“Methinks you are sometimes a very wise child.”
She smiled but then shuddered as her thin body gave way to the dampness that had shrouded it all afternoon. With the increasing winds, the temperate summer evening had turned chilly, especially against Mary’s wet skin.
“Only sometimes wise.” He swept her up into his arms and stood. “Sometimes you can be very foolish—like today, running off and sitting in the drizzle.”
He carried her inside to Sister Whitbread, who hugged her, all the while scolding her for running away. She shed Mary’s wet outer garments and wrapped her in one of the blankets she’d brought. She made Mary drink of the milk in the jug and eat some of the bread. Then, after bundling Thomas in an extra blanket, they left.
The baby started crying again. One look at Sister Whitbread’s creased brow told him the situation was serious. The baby needed nourishment. When Sister Whitbread informed him she was taking the baby to Lucy, he insisted on accompanying her, even though she encouraged him to take Mary home out of the rain. In the fading evening Sister Whitbread would not be safe alone.
He carried Mary in his arms like he would a baby. She weighed nothing compared to the bag of tinker’s tools he was accustomed to slinging. Sister Whitbread led the way through the muddy streets to the poorest area of Bedford, near the wharves along the River Ouse. Along the way he dodged the refuse littering the street.
Finally Sister Whitbread ascended a stairway and disappeared into a hovel. His body tensed as he waited. Mary tried to reassure him Sister Whitbread would be safe, that she came often with Thomas, and that she distributed bread to the poor here. But Mary’s words did nothing to calm him.
He glanced around at the lurking shadows, and the back of his neck pricked at the thought of the danger that waited at every turn. What trouble lay behind the door at the top of the steps? What if Sister Whitbread was threatened even as he waited?
“That’s it. I’m going in to get her.” He pulled himself up to his full height, Mary still in his arms, and started up the steps. His boots clomped and the stairway shook. No matter what she wanted, he wouldn’t stand idly by while she placed herself in jeopardy.
He made it only halfway when the door creaked open and she stepped outside.
Her face was alight with relief. With a smile she started down the steps. “ ’Tis all settled. Fulke’s gone—been gone for days. Lucy’s desperate for money. She needs the wet-nursing job now more than ever.” She stopped on the step above him.
He nodded, conscious that she stood at eye level. She met his gaze directly. Her eyes sparked and her cheeks wore a rosy blush. Her coif lay flat against her hair, the loose strands plastered to her forehead. She was drenched, but she had an air of confidence and vibrancy.
Life emanated from her, infusing him with an energy he hadn’t felt in a long time. With Mary safe in his arms, and the babe Thomas in the care of a woman as capable as Sister Whitbread, he could almost believe the storm clouds hovering over his soul were beginning to dissipate.
Almost.
Chapter
11
How dare you interfere?”
The sharp voice of Mrs. Grew sliced through the cottage and pierced Elizabeth with dread. She took a step away from the boiling kettle of water and wiped the dampness from her forehead. Her muscles tensed, preparing for battle.
It had been over a week since Thomas came home, long enough that she’d begun to believe Mrs. Grew would forget about him.
The woman strode into the cottage, her skirt swishing in short, determined bursts. She held her chin high and looked down at Elizabeth from beneath the brim of her plain but fashionable hat.
Elizabeth splayed her hands over her stained apron and wished she’d donned a clean one earlier.
“You’ve completely disobeyed and disrespected my wishes.” The woman’s gaze lingered over her bodice, which was just as spotted as her apron. “I thought I made myself clear when I instructed you to stay away from the Costin baby.”
“I have never intended to show you disrespect. I’ve only wanted to do what’s best for Thomas—”
“You are a meddlesome, ignorant, presumptuous girl. Your father ought to whip you.”
“Brother Costin made the decision to bring Thomas home. If you’re displeased with the arrangements, then perhaps you ought to discuss it with him.” Elizabeth wiped her sleeve against the sweat trickli
ng down her cheek. The summer heat permeated the room, and the high flames of the hearth only made it worse.
“Where is Brother Costin?” Mrs. Grew demanded. “Once I speak with him, he will see the folly of your advice.”
“He’s not available right now.” Elizabeth’s heart began to thud. What if Mrs. Grew persuaded Brother Costin to let her take the babe again?
The woman glanced at the bedroom door.
“Mary’s very ill,” Elizabeth rushed to explain. “She’s unable to get out of bed, and her feverish body is wracked with a cough. Brother Costin is praying for her with Vicar Gibbs.”
“Tell him Mrs. Grew is here and would like to speak with him.”
“Surely you wouldn’t have me disturb these godly men, especially when Brother Costin has already made his wishes in the matter of the babe so clear?”
“Once he is aware of my presence, he will gladly speak with me.”
A spurt of barklike coughing from the bedroom spurred Elizabeth back to the pot of boiling water. Mary needed more steam to keep breathing. And the girl was likely in need of chamomile water and another chest rub.
Elizabeth lifted the steaming kettle from its hook. “You’ll have to pardon me, Mrs. Grew. But Mary is needing my attention.”
The iron pot handle burned through the rag, and Elizabeth staggered toward the bedroom trying not to slosh the hot water.
Mrs. Grew stepped in front of her and forced her to stop.
“You need to learn your place, and you would do best to stay there.”
Elizabeth met the woman’s gaze straightway. “I do know my place, Mrs. Grew. My place is helping the Costins and the babe Thomas.”
“You need to learn a lesson, and I’ll make sure you do.” Even though the woman was outwardly composed, an animosity burned in her eyes that sent a shiver of fear through Elizabeth.
“I’ll be taking my lessons from God, as He sees fit. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She sidled around the woman, praying she wouldn’t try to intercept her again.
Once she stepped into the bedroom, she closed the door behind her and released a shaky breath.
Mrs. Grew’s shoes tapped away from the bedroom back toward the front door of the cottage. When the door banged closed, the tension eased from Elizabeth’s shoulders.
She hefted the kettle, made her way around the long legs of the men kneeling next to the bed, and positioned the kettle near the head of the bed. Mary gave her a weak smile, and Elizabeth forced one in return, even though her heart sank at the blue skin around the girl’s mouth and the ribs that collapsed with each strangled breath she took.
None of her treatments were helping Mary, and life was oozing from her.
Vicar Gibbs’s urgent prayer was a soft mumble against the bed.
I’ve served you well, Lord, Elizabeth added silently. I’ve willingly sacrificed much of myself for you. Surely I’ve pleased you. Surely you will hear my prayers for Mary too.
Didn’t Scripture promise “Taste and see that the Lord is good”? Wouldn’t He be good to her when she had devoted herself entirely to Him?
She studied Brother Costin’s boots. They were big, just like everything else about him—his presence, his personality, his grief, his fears, his loyalties. He was an intense man, and it was hard not to be drawn into his moods and emotions—especially now with his anxiety over Mary.
Vicar Gibbs lifted his head and said amen. John echoed him, and then they pushed themselves up, their faces haggard, their shoulders stooped.
Elizabeth wanted to say something—anything—to offer them a word of hope. But their gazes were fixed upon Mary’s face, and Elizabeth was all but invisible to them.
A twinge of regret slid through her that she didn’t elicit any more attention than the scuffed bed table against the wall.
What would it be like to be noticed? How would it feel to have John look at her, to really notice her? Keen longing twisted at her heart.
She had watched Catherine’s coquettishness often enough to know one could work at drawing a man’s attention. And yet, even as she pictured her sister’s inviting smiles and coy glances, she shoved them out of her mind. She would never lower herself to such behavior. She scorned such wanton, imprudent conduct for gaining a man’s attention.
Besides, how could she keep his regard once she had it? She had nothing arresting or beautiful about her. She was the plain one—the moth among the butterflies.
With a sigh of resignation, she lifted the bowl of broth she’d left at the bedside earlier. She held the spoon to Mary’s lips. Most of the broth dribbled down the girl’s chin; the rest she gulped past her swollen throat.
“It’s a pilgrimage, John,” Gibbs said softly. “Our way is fraught with many temptations and detours thrown at us from the ultimate deceiver.”
Elizabeth wiped the liquid off Mary’s chin.
The girl smiled again, and Elizabeth brushed her hand against the girl’s cheek.
“There will be low valleys in the shadow of death, and there will be steep mountains to climb.” Gibbs rubbed the stub of his left arm, his war wound. A small callused point was all that remained at his elbow. “Our foe will try to drive us off the true path, the hard path. But we must stay on it, knowing it will lead us to Him, to greater holiness.”
John didn’t respond.
The room was quiet except for Mary’s wheezing.
Elizabeth’s gaze drifted to John.
As if finally sensing her presence, he looked at her with an intensity that made her lungs close up.
“What think you now, Sister Whitbread?” He had jammed one hand into his hair, gripping it as if he would tear it out. His shirt was rumpled and his face scruffy with unshaven growth. “You have saved my son’s life. Do you think you can save my Mary now too?”
“God will surely hear our prayers.” She tried to take a breath. Didn’t God promise to deliver them from hardships and work things out for the good of those who loved Him?
His eyes refused to let go of her.
“And I will do everything I can to aid her,” she added. Her heart thudded louder, until she was certain everyone in the small room could hear the clamor. She didn’t understand why, but she knew she’d give him the whole world if she could.
* * *
Elizabeth worked ceaselessly to keep Mary alive. Sister Norton and the other women of the congregation helped too. And finally, after days of coughing and wheezing, Mary began to breathe easier and to cough less.
The lines of worry across John’s forehead went away. And Elizabeth was certain God was watching over them and answering her prayers.
Even Thomas began to gain weight. Lucy’s frequent nursings sated him. For the first time, Elizabeth began to see him smile and coo with a contentedness that gave her hope for his survival.
“He’s going to make it,” Mary said from her spot in the wicker chair by the hearth. She didn’t have the strength to walk, but John had carried her out of bed for the first time in over a week.
Betsy and Johnny hovered near her. They had stayed in Elstow to keep safe from the illness and had only returned the previous eve.
Elizabeth rubbed Thomas dry. “He does seem to be filling out quite nicely. Aren’t you, little love?” She kissed his bare belly, and he burst into bubbly giggles.
Happiness swelled within her like rising bread dough. She smiled. If motherhood had more moments like this, she could understand why it was easy to settle for a loveless marriage. Marrying Samuel Muddle was preferable to turning into an old woman with no chance to experience these joys of being a mother.
She slipped a clean clout under Thomas and folded it into place. Samuel had developed the habit of appearing every evening to walk her home. He clung to the notion that she needed a chaperone. But Elizabeth sensed his real concern was that she might become too attached to the Costins.
She tugged Thomas’s dress over his head. He managed to get two of his fingers into his mouth and began sucking them. His eyes widened in sur
prised delight at the new sucking sensation, and his lips smacked loudly.
Her smile widened. Samuel’s fears were not unfounded. She was indeed growing fond of the Costin family. Already half the summer was over, and she couldn’t bear to think of the rest of it passing. She resented Catherine’s plans to assume the housekeeping duties in her stead. The girl certainly wouldn’t be able to care for the children the way she could.
’Twas only a matter of course before she must leave the Costins and marry Samuel. But at the moment she couldn’t imagine how she would ever be able to leave the children. Being away from Thomas for only a day had been torment enough. How could she leave them forever?
She brushed a kiss across Thomas’s forehead. Then she laid him on the floor and began swaddling him in clean linen bands. She allowed his arms and hands to remain free from the tight bundle that enclosed the rest of his body.
“Lucy should be coming soon.” She tucked the last wrap around the babe, picked him up, and cradled him against her chest.
“Lucy is too smelly.” Betsy pinched her nose and grinned at Johnny.
Johnny giggled and pinched his nose. “Too ’melly.”
“For shame, children.” She narrowed her brows at them. “Lucy is a blessing. She’s the lifeblood of your brother. If not for her, Thomas wouldn’t survive.”
Betsy dropped the hold on her nose, and her smile faded. Johnny watched her and then imitated.
“Moreover, Jesus showed love to the lowest, poorest, sickest people. As His followers, He calls us to do the same.”
The children were quiet. Thomas began to squirm and fuss.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Good. ’Tis Lucy. And you’re ready to eat, aren’t you, little love?” Elizabeth stood up and stepped toward the door. Since Fulke had disappeared, Lucy had arrived at regular times of the day. She didn’t know where Fulke had gone or when he might return, but Elizabeth decided they would take advantage of his absence as long as they could. ’Twas another blessing.
“Right on time.” She swung open the door.
“Good day, Elizabeth.”
She drew in a sharp breath and forced herself not to recoil.