by Jody Hedlund
She wanted to turn away from him, to cover it, to hide the ugly color, but the intensity of his gaze immobilized her.
He lowered himself to one knee in front of her until they were eye level. With his focus on her bruise, he raised his fingers and poised them above the battered spot.
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. His face was near enough to see the stubble on his cheeks and the slight bend in his nose.
He hesitated only a moment before his callused fingertips brushed the edge of the bruise. “I’m truly sorry,” he whispered.
She could think of nothing but the warmth of his skin against hers. “To besure, ’twas not your fault.”
“I take full responsibility, Elizabeth.”
His touch was as soft as the wings of a butterfly. Her stomach wavered not only at his touch but also at the intimacy of her given name on his lips.
“I came earlier in the week to see you, but your father said you were too ill to receive visitors.”
So he had truly visited her? Perhaps Anne hadn’t been confused about the gift after all. The fluttering in her stomach wanted to take flight. His fingers strayed to a strand of her hair and poised there for a moment.
She sucked in a breath.
Then his thumb caressed down.
The air stuck in her lungs.
He gently slid the strand back. His gaze traveled over the long tresses that hung loosely about her face and flowed over her shoulders.
Heat rushed into her cheeks. She had been in such a hurry to get downstairs and her mind filled only with thoughts of saving Lucy, she hadn’t stopped to consider her appearance and the immodesty of her unplaited and uncovered hair.
She grabbed her loose hair and scooped it away from her face, away from his touch, to the back of her head. Her fingers, as brittle as kindling twigs, stumbled over each other as she began plaiting, trying to bring about a measure of decency.
John watched her awkward struggle. After a moment his eyes took on a glimmer, and a grin played at the corners of his lips. His gaze returned to her face, to the flames she knew danced on her cheeks.
His grin inched higher. Then his bright eyes finally settled on hers and swept her up until she was floating in the clear blue sky of them.
For a long moment his gaze held hers. The humor faded, and the darks of his eyes grew bigger.
Sister Norton cleared her throat.
Elizabeth glanced at the widow.
The woman raised her eyebrow and tilted her head toward the public green.
Elizabeth looked around, suddenly aware of the people surrounding them, watching John. Heat seared her face again.
She wanted to cover her cheeks with the coolness of her palms but clasped them in her lap instead. “ ’Tis Lucy. She’s to be taken to the bridewell.”
Confusion narrowed his eyes. “Lucy?”
“You must stop them from taking her away.”
His gaze again strayed to her bruise. “Then you’re faring well? You’re not in trouble?”
“No. ’Tis Lucy.”
His brows came together in a puzzled furrow, as if he couldn’t place the name.
“Lucy. Thomas’s wet nurse.”
Understanding as well as disinterest smoothed the lines of his face. He stood to his feet and raked a hand through his damp, matted hair.
“They’ve locked her in the pillory and nearly beaten her to death.” Elizabeth scrambled to keep John’s attention. “They’re planning to take her to the bridewell.”
He put on his hat, as though making ready to leave.
“We must save her.” She fought through her weakness to argue for Lucy’s case, to gain John’s sympathy for the woman. “We cannot let them take her away. Thomas still needs her.”
John peered over the crowd to the public green.
“No one deserves such punishment, no matter their crime.”
“What was her crime?” he finally asked.
“She harbored her sister, the one in the stocks, without permission. And she was forced to leave her home after her husband disappeared.”
“Where’s the Beddell?”
“There. Yonder.” Sister Norton pointed to the edge of the green, where the Bedell leaned against a cart, whip in hand, waiting for the hour to lapse before he loaded the women and drove them to the bridewell.
“Robert Grew?”
Sister Norton nodded.
John’s eyes narrowed. “Alderman Grew is a decent, God-fearing man. Methinks the son does not take after the father.”
Elizabeth knew very well whom the son resembled, but she wouldn’t say the words aloud. “He’ll have no cause to take Lucy to the workhouse if you make the case she is in your employ as wet nurse to your babe.”
“If she is indeed homeless, he’ll have cause.”
“Then we must find a way to ensure she’s no longer homeless,” Elizabeth said.
“She cannot live with me,” John said. “Even I know bringing her into my home would set tongues wagging.”
“Lucy will live with me.” Sister Norton straightened to her full height. “As long as the churchwarden permits it.”
“Truly?” Elizabeth sat forward. “You would take her in along with her children?”
“I’d gladly help the poor dear. It’s Sister Spencer that will need the convincing.”
“We’ll worry about her later. If indeed you are willing to house her, then we have no time to lose. We must save her.”
“Very well.” John tipped the barrel next to her and rolled it through the crowd. When he reached the middle of the street, he propped it on end, then hopped on top.
“Let’s pray, Anne.” Elizabeth clutched her sister’s arm and rose to her feet. “Pray that Brother Costin’s popularity and persuasive tongue will benefit him today.”
“My brothers and sisters,” John called.
A hush fell over the crowd.
“Methinks there has been no justice here today.”
“Homelessness and harboring vagrants are crimes punishable by law,” the Beddell’s voice rang out.
“So one of the women has been whipped for trying to shelter another poor soul and for being homeless though she had no choice?”
“The parish doesn’t allow vagrancy,” replied the Beddell. “It’s the law.”
John raised his arms and spread them wide. “Then we, the church, are just as guilty. We all ought to be bound and likewise whipped for not extending our hand to assist these two women in their direst time of need.”
“It’s the church’s duty to help the poor by driving the vice from their bodies and setting them to profitable work,” the Beddell called.
“The homeless and beggars aren’t filled with vice nor are they criminals simply because they are poor.”
The authority in John’s voice sent a tremor through Elizabeth’s body. She swayed and tightened her grip on Anne. “Oh, Lord, please,” she whispered.
“We, my brothers and sisters, are filled with vice when we can so callously and contemptuously spurn these helpless souls, rather than showing them the true love of God.” The crowd had turned to face John, drawing closer to him as he spoke.
“They have lived the sinful lives of harlots,” the Beddell shouted, “and now have only received their due punishment.”
“Perhaps they have lived in sin and brought God’s judgment upon themselves. But were they at fault for losing their home and resorting to vagrancy to survive?”
The crowd began to murmur and nod at John’s words.
“We would all do well to remember the words of Jesus to the Pharisees, ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’ ”
Elizabeth smiled weakly. “He’s doing good, isn’t he?” she whispered to Anne.
Anne squeezed her arm.
John didn’t need to speak much longer before the people began shouting out their agreement. And just as their calls to the Beddell turned angry, John jumped down from his post and approached the public
green.
The rumors that wove through the crowd made her heart lurch and weakened her knees until she sagged against Anne. She closed her eyes to block out the dizzying sounds.
Finally one rumor broke through the clamor raging through her head: the Beddell of Beggars would release one of the prisoners.
The news was all she needed to hear before she collapsed.
* * *
“Take her up to the bed.” Her father’s voice was distant.
Anne’s sobs hovered above her in a dreamlike world.
Strong arms lifted and cradled her the way she carried Thomas.
Rough woven linen scratched her cheek and nose. She took a deep breath of woodsmoke and metal. The scent was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.
Her face bumped against a hard chest, and the pounding thump of a heartbeat echoed through her ear.
She pried opened her eyes and lifted her head.
Bright blue eyes peered at her from between scraggly locks of rusty hair.
“John?” The name slipped out, unbidden, a whisper.
His gaze was solemn. “You’re still not well. We must get you back to your bed.”
He carried her up the stairs, his footsteps slow and hesitant. She knew she ought to protest. She was not petite nor light of stature—she would be no easy burden to bear.
Nor was the situation prudent. He had discarded his doublet. His coarse shirt was all that separated her from the heat of his chest. One of his powerful arms rested beneath her neck. The other was locked under her knees and inadvertently pressed against her backside.
He was touching her bottom? Her head began to swim with the indecency of her predicament.
“You must put me down,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze.
He stopped. The low rafters and narrowness of the stairwell forced him to stoop his head and shoulders so that his face was only a breath away. “Methinks you will like it much less if I put you down here. For then I will be compelled to pick you up once more. And this time I shall have to sling you over my shoulder like my sack of tools.”
Her eyes, as if they had a will of their own, were drawn to his. “Then I shall have to beat my hands on your back like anvils.”
A grin flirted at the corners of his lips. “Then we are agreed. I shall finish carrying you to the top this way.”
She did not dare contradict him. The picture of being slung over his shoulders with her backside sticking into the air was a horrifying thought. And yet the nearness of his eyes, the heat of his breath, the power of his presence surrounded her, overwhelmed her.
He resumed his halting climb, and her breath wouldn’t budge past her throat. “Lucy?” She squeezed out the word.
“They’re taking her by cart to Sister Norton’s cottage.”
“She’ll live?”
“Sister Norton will tend to her.”
Elizabeth knew by his tone and what he left unsaid that Lucy was in danger of losing her life.
“You must rest now,” he said as they came to the top of the stairs. “Your father has ordered it.”
He carried her to the bed and lowered her to the sagging mattress. Instead of backing away he hovered over her. His breath fanned warmth over her forehead.
She sucked in a gasp of air and waited—waited for something she couldn’t name.
At the echo of voices in the stairwell, he straightened and bumped his head against the slanted ceiling. He ran his fingers through his hair and then glanced around the room. His gaze came to rest on the candlestick, only a hand’s distance from her head.
“I see you got my gift.”
She tipped her head and let her gaze caress the dotted pattern once again. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered past the lump in her throat.
“I made it for you.” He looked from the candle holder to her face and then back again.
Her heart constricted with a tremor of delight. “Thank you.”
He shifted his feet and glanced around the room again. “The children miss you,” he finally said.
“Tell them I miss them too.”
His eyes strayed to her bruised cheek.
She raised a hand and covered it.
“I despise whoever did this to you.” He hesitated. “I realize working for me will put you in danger. But if you’re willing, I’d like you to resume your duties once you’re able.”
Had Catherine failed to win John’s heart as she had hoped?
He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.
Relief slipped through her, and she smiled. “Are you actually admitting you need a housekeeper?”
A grin tugged his lips. “I know we didn’t get off to a good start—I was proud and naïve. But I clearly see now what a help you’ve been. We can’t get along without you. I need you to be my housekeeper.”
She wanted to throw caution away and shout out that she desired nothing more than to return to her housekeeping position, that she’d been afraid of losing it and couldn’t dream of doing anything else.
“If you’re willing,” he added.
She held her emotions in check and nodded. “I’m willing.”
She was always willing to serve the helpless and needy, and the Costins certainly fit those qualifications. She would serve them as she did anyone else in need.
Her willingness had nothing to do with John.
Nothing at all.
Chapter
14
Elizabeth grazed her fingers across the grainy paper, one of the many scattered on John’s desk. Her hand quivered and she pulled back.
Dare she take one? Her pulse quickened, and she cast a glance over her shoulder to the other room. Silence stared back at her. No one would know if she slipped a sheet into her pocket.
Now was her chance to get something—anything—to give the dangerous stranger. She’d been back more than a week and hadn’t seen him, yet she knew it was only a matter of time before he returned.
Her fingers hovered above the paper. Surely if she took it, the Lord would understand. She would only borrow John’s writing, not steal it.
A quill pen lay on top of a stack that had been tied with twine. The handwriting on the upper piece was small and sprawling, as if he’d been in a hurry to reach the end of each line. Even as her head screamed at her to stop, to flee from temptation, her heart pulsed with the fear of what would happen the next time the man came and found her empty-handed.
She brushed her fingers across the words, picturing John’s strong hands forming each stroke—his callused yet gentle fingers. She could imagine the scratchy roughness of his fingertips caressing her cheek. Her stomach whirled, as it did each time she relived the attention he’d paid her—the closeness of his face, his penetrating gaze locking into hers, the solidness of his arms carrying her.
She traced his words again. Surely John would want her to take the paper—to protect herself.
She glanced out the oilskin window overlooking the garden and cottage plot. Mary held Thomas near the tree. Betsy and Johnny ran in the tall grass, taking a break from drying plums. They had helped her pit and lay them on coarse canvas frames she had erected in the sun. But now they were running in circles until they dropped with dizziness. Then they picked themselves up and did it again.
If she quit housekeeping as Samuel wanted, then she wouldn’t have to worry any longer about the stranger. Certainly she’d make Samuel happy. And Catherine too. The girl still talked about becoming the next wife of John Costin, albeit less ardently after her week of vigorous work.
Elizabeth had no such dreams. God had already determined her place in life. She would become the wife of the cooper. Samuel made certain she didn’t forget it. Nor did he let her forget summer’s end was fast approaching.
She turned back to the desk and pushed down the irritation that had a habit of surfacing too oft when she thought of Samuel. She didn’t need his constant reminders. Ending her housekeeping would be hard enough without them.
All the more reason to take
one of John’s papers. She’d ensure her safety until summer’s end. Then she’d put it back. He’d never need to know it was gone.
Elizabeth studied the top paper. The gray was flecked with the imperfections of the paper-making process and the stray drips of ink that had dried. The letters and words were as foreign to her as if they had been another language. Since she could neither read nor write, how would she know if the sheet contained anything of value, anything the man would want?
She peeked over her shoulder again. John had left for the day, but that didn’t mean she was safe in his study. Anyone could enter the cottage and catch her going through John’s desk.
Anyone could enter the cottage. She was well aware of that now.
She shuddered and raised a hand to her cheek. The bruise was gone, but the memory of the attack was still vivid—his grip pinched the flesh of her arms, his fetid breath suffocated her, and the luridness in his tone crawled over her skin.
But it was the gleam of lust in his eyes that had birthed the deepest fear. She might be naïve but she knew enough. He would corner her and brutally steal her purity and innocence.
Would today be the day—the day he returned? Her heart thudded against her chest with a swell of fear.
She grabbed the paper. Her fingers fumbled to fold it and faltered at the drawstring of her pocket. She stuffed the paper inside, heedless of wrinkling it.
Then she took a step away from the desk and crossed her arms to still their trembling. She was only doing what was practical and necessary.
The next time her assailant came she must have something to give him, a paper, information, anything. She dared not fail again.
Wouldn’t John be grateful she stopped any rumors about them? His ministry was more important to him than anything else. He would be glad she was taking steps to prevent his good name from being tarnished.
Yes. If he ever discovered what she’d done, no doubt he’d fall at her feet in thankfulness.
* * *
“Will we have enough bread for everyone?” Anne swung her basket at her side. “I would like to save a loaf for Lucy.”
Elizabeth’s basket, like Anne’s, overflowed with the bread that had not sold that week. She suspected her father always made more than they needed. Each Sabbath, without fail, they had plenty to take to the poor, always enough to fill her basket and another.