The Preacher's Bride

by Jody Hedlund

  Neighbors milled about, and when she approached, they greeted her with silence and dark, accusing eyes.

  Her footsteps faltered. “Can anyone tell me what has happened?”

  For a long moment no one spoke. Then finally a thin man with a soot-blackened face stepped forward. “What else do you need to know? You can see for yourself.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “Who is responsible?”

  “Heard tell the gentleman William Foster paid a couple of no-goods to do in old Bud.”

  Elizabeth tucked the gentleman’s name away. She wasn’t familiar with it, but she could easily discover who he was. “And where is the thatcher—Bud—today?”

  The thin man shrugged. “After he got home this morning, he didn’t stick around too long. He looked real scared. Said something about being next if he didn’t flee the town.”

  Elizabeth’s gaze strayed back to the wisps of smoke curling like black fingers out of the ruins of the thatcher’s house. Guilt mingled with a new sense of fear. Her attacker had threatened her too. Was it only a matter of time before he came after her again?

  * * *

  By the time they arrived at St. John’s, a large crowd had gathered to hear the testimonies. Elizabeth stated her defense of John and herself but wondered if anyone really believed her. Her face burned during the rest of the long service, and she kept her focus in front of her to avoid the curious stares and even disapproving ones, like Mrs. Grew’s.

  When the service came to a close, Vicar Burton read the banns. “I publish the banns of marriage between Samuel Muddle of the Parish of St. John’s and Catherine Whitbread of the Parish of St. Paul’s. If any of you know any cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first time of asking.”

  Catherine squirmed next to her and her hands gripped the edge of the pew, her knuckles white.

  Their father wasn’t forcing her, but he’d made clear his strong desire for Catherine to marry Samuel in place of Elizabeth. Catherine had submitted, but not without the many tears she’d shed in the privacy of the bed they shared. She’d pleaded with Elizabeth every night to change her mind and marry Samuel.

  But Elizabeth had turned deaf ears to the girl. She’d made the right decision. Even though she’d always told herself that her match with Samuel was a practical one, she couldn’t marry a man who would so easily exchange her for another. And that’s exactly what Samuel had done—he’d willingly given her up and now feasted his eager eyes upon Catherine.

  Vicar Burton paused and his gaze swept over the congregation. Elizabeth held her breath until he finally nodded and smiled. “You’re dismissed.”

  Elizabeth rose and fought the urge to run from the building. With bowed head she slipped into the aisle and started toward the door.

  “Sister Whitbread, wait.” John’s voice stopped her. Her heart started pumping at twice its speed, and she turned to face him.

  Dressed in his meeting clothes, a snug-fitting jerkin over a shirt with a wide falling collar, he looked less like a tinker and more like the famous preacher everyone talked about. His gaze was solemn, made more somber by the dark mulberry dye of his attire.

  “Then you won’t marry Brother Muddle, not even at summer’s end?” he asked softly. He scanned the room with an apparent awareness that everyone was watching them.

  She shook her head and realized this was probably the first time John, like many, had heard the news. “Samuel decided he couldn’t wait for me. And now it appears he is not too particular about whom he marries. I’m sure he’ll be pleased enough with Catherine.”

  “And you?” His gaze probed her. “Will you be pleased with the arrangement?”

  “If he cannot wait, then perchance he’s not meant for me.” She said the words with a bravado she did not feel. Surely she hadn’t thrown away her one chance of having a home and family of her own.

  With a sudden gleam in his eyes and the tug of a smile on his lips, John’s focus strayed to Samuel. “He most certainly was not meant for you, Elizabeth.”

  She couldn’t smile. John might be able to revel in victory. But what about her? If not Samuel, then who? The question begged for an answer.

  His gaze came to rest on her face again. As if sensing her unease, his eyes crinkled with gentleness. “Methinks Samuel had no hope of gaining your affection.”

  She searched the depths of John’s eyes and longing tore at her heart. Could she ever hope to gain his affection?

  “You’ve committed yourself to seeing the Lord’s work done now.” His voice turned brusque, and he looked away. “There is no greater calling.”

  “Brother Costin,” her father greeted. The tapping of his cane echoed against the barren walls of the church. “I’m sure my daughter, my Elizabeth, is telling ye of the events of the morning. We think we may finally know the culprit behind all the attacks.”

  “Is that so? Who, then?”

  “William Foster,” she replied.

  “The lawyer William Foster?” John’s eyes began to burn like the hot blue flames closest to the fuel.

  “The thatcher’s wife died in the fire, and his neighbors heard it boasted that Mr. Foster was behind it.”

  John’s jaw flexed. “Foster is smooth on the outside, but underneath he is full of poison.”

  “Ye said there was a sign on his saddle, did ye not?” Her father patted her arm.

  “His coat of arms. A crane clutching a fish.”

  John’s brows furrowed. “I can easily discover whether that is indeed the family emblem of the Fosters. But ’twill not prove he was responsible for the thatcher’s fire. He’s too shrewd to let any responsibility trace back to him.”

  “Surely we can make a case with all of the evidence.” If she were a lawyer, she could make a case. “The neighbors could testify.”

  “Foster is a cunning man, married into a powerful family,” John said. “We wouldn’t be wise to bring such serious charges against him unless we have solid proof. The word of a commoner would hold no sway.”

  “Then we must find the thatcher?”

  John tossed an impatient look at her, as if she ought to know better than to ask such a question. “If Foster is behind the murder, the thatcher would be a fool to stay. If he valued his life, he would be long gone, never to be seen in Bedfordshire again.”

  The embers of fear inside fanned back to life. “Then ’tis hopeless? He’ll do whatever he pleases, torment whomever he wishes, even kill an innocent woman, and no one shall hold him accountable?”

  Her father patted her arm again. “Now, Elizabeth, my daughter, I’m sure our Brother Costin will do whatever he can to rectify the situation.”

  John nodded. “The nobility would do what they can to keep the laborer in his place. They’ve always had more freedom to do what they wish. The laws that govern the privileged are oft different from those that rule the common man.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t disagree. One was born into a life of wealth and comfort; one didn’t choose it; neither did one choose the life of a laborer. Both stations were entered into and accepted as God-ordained.

  “We aren’t just fighting a battle for religious freedoms,” John continued. “We’re struggling for human liberty as well. The two go hand in hand. But this is the very issue the wealthy are afraid of. Methinks it’s why they are fighting so hard to stop me. If they allow my preaching, then in essence they’re allowing the laborer to elevate his position, to upset the status quo, to change a way of life that has existed for centuries.”

  “Our Brother Costin would do well to put these words to paper.” Her father thumped John on the back.

  “They’re mostly down,” John replied. “If not in the myriad of papers scattered across my desk, then surely in the pamphlet soon to be published.”

  Elizabeth’s mind returned to the stolen paper still tucked in the pocket she wore with her everyday apron. She had wanted to confess taking it, to give it b
ack to him, but she hadn’t found the right moment. He trusted her as his housekeeper. He believed she was honest and pure. What would he think if he discovered she had lied? And stolen?

  Guilt ate at her and would continue to do so until she confessed her sins—first to her heavenly Father and then to John. But how could she do it without ruining the goodwill John felt toward her?

  And what if her attacker returned to hurt her again? Would she have need of the paper then?

  “Even if we cannot link Foster to any of the attacks yet,” John said, stepping back from them, “I’m most glad to have his name. I shall not rest until I’ve confronted the man and done what I can to learn of his part in the attacks and rumors.”

  “Very good, Brother Costin. Very good.” Her father linked his arm through hers. “In the meantime, we shall have to do our best to keep our Elizabeth safe. Shall we not, Brother Costin?”

  “Indeed, Brother Whitbread.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t meet his gaze as he dipped his head and turned to go. Instead, she cast her glance the opposite direction, and it landed upon Samuel Muddle, who had managed to intersect Catherine’s path. Now the two stood in the aisle together, Samuel bumbling and eager as he attempted to make conversation with Catherine, whose eye was on the door. No doubt she was wondering how she could make her escape.

  Was it too late to switch places with Catherine and marry Samuel after all? Had she been a fool to spurn him? She’d thought she’d done the right thing by staying with the Costins. But what if she’d made a horrible mistake and only made matters worse for herself?

  Chapter

  20

  I knew Father would find a way to keep you safe.” Mary fumbled with the laces of Thomas’s dress.

  Elizabeth knelt with the girl before the hearth for warmth. The coldness of early November seeped through the cracks in the doors and shutters and slid along the floor throughout the small cottage like a phantom, swirling around them.

  “Tie it like so.” Elizabeth guided the girl’s hand.

  Mary followed her lead. “Father said he would keep you from more danger, and he did.”

  Elizabeth wanted to believe the girl. During the passing of harvest, she’d finally stopped looking over her shoulder everywhere she went. She wasn’t sure why William Foster hadn’t sought her out again. Perhaps he was too busy now with other matters. In September, the Puritans’ invincible leader, Oliver Cromwell, had died unexpectedly. Even though his son had taken his place, she’d heard rumors the Royalists were plotting to take leadership away from the Puritans and regain control of England. Certainly Mr. Foster had little time to concern himself with John Costin and his unimportant housekeeper now.

  Even the rumors regarding her and John had faded away. And now with winter’s nearness, they only lingered in her mind like a bad dream.

  “You made the right decision staying with us,” Mary said.

  “Of course I did, love.” Elizabeth helped Mary wind the lace into a long loop. “Of course I did.” She forced cheerfulness to her voice and tried not to think of the news Catherine had shared earlier that morning—she was with child.

  ’Twas no matter Catherine and Samuel had married before summer’s end. And it was certainly no matter Samuel’s ardent attention had so easily switched away from her and found a receptive home with Catherine.

  “I’m learning to dress Thomas well, aren’t I?” The girl finished the bow and plopped the baby into her lap.

  “You’re doing an excellent job.” Elizabeth swallowed the lump in her throat, the one that had been squeezing to the surface since she’d seen Catherine.

  “When will you teach me how to milk Milkie?”

  Elizabeth smiled at the name Betsy had given the cow. To a four-year-old, an animal’s name ought to reflect either its color or its purpose, and Milkie had covered both requirements.

  “I shall teach you to milk Milkie just as soon as you learn to swift Thomas.”

  The baby gave a squeal of happiness and grabbed his chubby toes tangled in the flowing fabric of his dress. Elizabeth’s heart swelled. She loved the children as if they were her own—especially Thomas. Every day he needed less of Lucy’s milk and less of the pap mixture she still fed him. Her fears of Lucy’s milk corrupting the babe had been for naught.

  Her gaze strayed to Betsy and Johnny where they played with the small butterflies she’d constructed out of twigs and old rags dyed into varying colors. From the other room, John shuffled and thumped around his disorganized desk. He was rarely home, especially in recent weeks. Whenever he was home, he was preoccupied and busy, as he had been all that morning.

  “I should surely like to learn to milk the cow,” Mary said earnestly, her expression turning serious.

  Elizabeth studied the girl for a moment and then brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. “ ’Twas not your fault, Mary,” she said softly, knowing the girl still blamed herself for her mother’s death.

  “But it is my fault.” Her face constricted and tears formed in her unseeing eyes. “You don’t understand what truly happened.”

  Elizabeth’s fingers lingered on the girl’s cheek. “What don’t I understand, love?”

  “I’m to blame for losing the cow.”

  “Your old cow?”

  She nodded. “Mother wasn’t feeling well, could hardly get out of bed. I wanted to help her in some way. So I tried to milk the cow . . .”

  Elizabeth smoothed loose curls away from Mary’s forehead.

  “But I made a mess of everything. I couldn’t find her udder, and I only made her angry. She tried to kick me. Then her rope came untied, and I didn’t know it. When Mother finally realized the cow was gone, she tried searching for it, but she was too weak to go very far.”

  “You only tried to help.”

  “But it’s because of me and my daftness that Mother became ill.” Mary’s voice cracked.

  “You are not daft, Mary.”

  A line of tears slid down the girl’s cheeks. “After Mother got back from looking for the cow, she came down with her fever.”

  Elizabeth reached for Mary and gathered her and Thomas into her arms. “Oh, love, you’re not to blame for her fever. The fever had nothing to do with her search for the cow.”

  “But it made her weaker.”

  “No, Mary, she was already weak. She would have developed the fever whether the cow had gotten loose or not. She had childbed fever. This happens to some women after giving birth.”

  “But maybe looking for the cow made her weaker. Maybe if she hadn’t gone out that day, she would have recovered. Maybe if I could have helped her more, she wouldn’t have grown so weak.”

  Thomas wiggled and Elizabeth switched him into her other arm. Then she drew Mary closer.

  “You’re taking much upon your shoulders,” Elizabeth said, “thinking you are equal to God, having the control of life and death.”

  Mary sniffed and looked up with confusion in her eyes. “I could never be equal to God.”

  “Then you must stop taking responsibility for your mother’s death.” Elizabeth bounced Thomas on her knee. “The power of giving life and taking by death belong to God alone. He won’t allow what He hasn’t already ordained. And since He fixed the number of days your mother would walk on this earth, neither you nor anyone could do anything to prolong it, not even if you helped in a dozen ways.”

  Mary was quiet.

  Thomas made happy gurgling noises.

  “I think I understand what you’re saying,” Mary finally said. “But I would still like to learn how to milk Milkie.”

  Elizabeth squeezed her and kissed the top of her head. “You shall learn. Indeed, you shall learn many things, for you are a smart, capable young girl.”

  “Methinks Sister Whitbread speaks rightly.” John’s voice startled them.

  Mary stood up and smiled in the direction of her father.

  Elizabeth’s insides fluttered as she raised herself off the floor and turned to face John. She di
dn’t see him oft these days, but when she did, her heart did strange things.

  “Elizabeth is instructing me in many tasks and has promised to teach me to milk Milkie.”

  John stood in the doorway of his study. His gaze turned to Elizabeth, and an unspoken message of gratitude filled his eyes.

  “She’s already catching on quickly to swifting and dressing the babe.” Elizabeth positioned Thomas on her hip. “She can learn much more that will help her get along better in this life.”

  “I’m indebted to you, Sister Whitbread. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

  Warmth crept into her cheeks, and she tucked his praise into her heart, where she stored his other words. During the long periods when he was too busy to notice her, she would pull them out and savor them like precious jewels.

  “Perchance you can help me now.” He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. With dark shadows on his unshaven cheeks, he looked tired, as if he’d had too many restless nights.

  “ ’Twould be my pleasure to help you.”

  “I seem to be missing several papers, one of particular importance.”

  His words hit her like a chill and blew through her, rapidly chasing away the heat. “What do you mean?”

  “Either I’m getting more careless with my pages or the mice are eating them. I can never seem to find what I’m looking for anymore.”

  She must confess about the paper she’d stolen. She’d always had an excuse for putting it off: John wasn’t home, he was busy, she was busy. She’d been afraid of Mr. Foster carrying through with his threat.

  But she had no excuse now. If he hadn’t sought her in these past weeks, surely he had no use for her at the present.

  Even though she had smoothed out the sheet and returned it to John’s study long ago, the guilt had stuck with her. Her confession to the Lord hadn’t been enough.

  She had to tell John.

  “Maybe with your help, we could bring order to the bedlam of my desk and in the process find what I’m looking for.”

  Dread plunged through her. How should she start such a confession?

  “You’ve brought order to the rest of the household. If anyone is capable, you are the one who could bring light into the dark chaos of my study.” He smiled.