The Preacher's Bride

by Jody Hedlund

  All night she tried to tell herself that Catherine had not heard right and that rumors were never true. The next morning, however, the moment she entered the Costin cottage, thick dread clouded around her. It took only one look at the children sitting at the table to know something was not right. And she had the feeling that something had to do with the rumor.

  Mary’s expression was pale and stricken. Tears lingered in her eyelashes. The muscles in John’s jaw and cheeks were taut, and his hair stuck on end. When he saw her, he refused to meet her gaze. Instead, he pushed away from the table and mumbled about having to get an early start in the forge.

  When the door closed behind him, Elizabeth didn’t move.

  “You know, then?” Mary finally asked, rubbing Thomas’s back, as if by doing so she could bring comfort to herself.

  Elizabeth fumbled with the cuff on her sleeve. “I’m not certain.”

  “Father’s going to marry one of the Harrington girls.” Betsy’s voice rang with disdain. “And we told him we don’t want her for a momma. We told him we want you.”

  “He is going to marry her?” Fresh despair paralyzed her. “What about the courting?”

  “They’ll court first.” Mary spat the words as she would a bitter herb. “But he’s determined to find a new wife.”

  “We told him we want you,” repeated Johnny with sad eyes.

  Elizabeth fought the growing panic winding through her body. Why wouldn’t he consider her? Surely he remembered what he’d told her. He thought she was strong and diligent and would make a good wife.

  “He said he couldn’t marry you,” Mary continued, “and that we’re too young to understand his decision.”

  “He didn’t explain himself?”

  “I told him he’s making a big mistake, just like when he gave Thomas away to the Birds.”

  “But did he give any reasons why he didn’t want to marry me?”

  “He wouldn’t say.” Mary patted Thomas as he began to fuss. “And I’m not too young to understand.”

  Elizabeth tried to push down the lump in her throat. Her one desire at that moment was to run, run hard and fast to somewhere she could be alone, throw herself down, and give in to the cries begging for release.

  She had gambled and lost. She had given up Samuel Muddle, along with the certainty of marriage and a family, for the dangling hope she would be able to marry John Costin instead.

  She wanted to marry John.

  Moreover . . . she loved him.

  Her heart constricted at the admission. She turned her back on the children and brushed tears from her cheeks. She loved the way his eyes lit with passion for his ministry. She loved his courage and his dedication and his zeal. And she’d hoped one day she would be the one to stand beside him and partner with him.

  She couldn’t imagine anyone else capable of helping him the way she could.

  Sister Norton had been right about one thing. The widow had seen the love growing inside her long before she had.

  “What will you do?” Mary asked softly. “Will you tell him how you feel?”

  Elizabeth wiped her cheeks. She took a deep breath to steady her voice. “Your father is a godly man, children. We’ll accept his decision as God’s will. And we’ll respect and honor it.”

  Mary scowled.

  Elizabeth’s throat burned with the effort to keep from crying. “And you know I’ll always love you children. Nothing will ever change that.”

  The rest of the day passed in a haze of pain. She went through the motions of living. Somehow she managed to garner enough strength to gather gorse and roots. But all the while she worked, her heart bled with the anguish of knowing she wouldn’t be there to see the fruit of her labor. She wouldn’t be with the children to watch them grow. And she wouldn’t be the one who claimed John’s heart and affection.

  When Anne appeared near the end of the afternoon, Elizabeth gazed at her wearily.

  Her breath came in jagged gasps, and her face was creased with worry. “Sister Norton is on her way to Lucy’s. She asked me to send you and to make sure you bring Brother Costin with you.”

  A wisp of uneasiness curled through Elizabeth as she realized Lucy had not come to nurse Thomas all day. He had fussed more than usual, but she had attributed it to the possibility that he was cutting a tooth.

  Now that Thomas was in his ninth month, his need for nursing had diminished. Lucy came less frequently, but she still came for the small amount of money it brought her.

  Elizabeth blew into her cold, red hands. “What is it, Anne?”

  “Lucy’s in trouble.”

  “The pillory again?” Elizabeth rose, straightening her petticoat. Had Mrs. Grew found another way to torment the poor woman?

  “Fulke beat her,” Anne said with a trembling voice. During the time Lucy had lived with Sister Norton and Sister Spencer, Anne had grown to care for the poor woman and her children. But a fortnight past, Fulke had appeared without explanation. After months of being gone, they had come to believe he was dead. Yet he’d tracked Lucy down and demanded she return to him.

  They had attempted to convince her to stay with the Sisters. But Fulke had claimed to be a changed man, had promised to treat her better.

  It hadn’t taken much to sway Lucy back into his arms. When Fulke had secured a place for them to live, Lucy had taken the children and returned.

  Elizabeth glanced toward the forge. The clinking of an anvil reverberated within. “We won’t bother Brother Costin. I can handle the situation on my own.”

  “The constable wants him.” Anne forced a smile at Betsy and Johnny, who waved at her.

  “It must be serious.”

  “Sister Norton wouldn’t say more. But she said it was urgent for you and Brother Costin to go.”

  Elizabeth looked again at the forge and hesitated. Her whole body resisted the idea of facing John.

  “You must hurry. I’ll stay with the children until you return.”

  Elizabeth nodded. She took a deep breath of the cool, damp scent of soil and made her way to the forge. When he saw her, he acted as though he would ignore her. But with the news of the constable’s request, he laid aside his tools, untied his apron, and departed with her. He said nothing to her as they traversed the muddy streets.

  She pulled her cloak tight about her and kept her gaze focused ahead, all the while chastising herself for wanting to look at him and let her heart dwell on his admirable features. With each squelching step her mind throbbed with the reminder she had loved him and lost him.

  “Costin,” the constable boomed from the dark interior as they approached Lucy’s cottage. “There you be.”

  The crowd parted to make room for them. John ducked his head and entered but stopped abruptly.

  Elizabeth pulled up short but couldn’t keep from bumping into the broadness of his back. At the contact with his warmth, heat fired to life in her cheeks, and she took a step away.

  John held up his arm, cautioning her, keeping her from sidling around him. “I don’t want you to come in, Elizabeth.” His command was soft yet terse.

  She knew she ought to obey him, but annoyance fanned to life amidst all of the hurt that had collected in her heart during the day—annoyance that he had avoided her all day, chosen another woman over her, and now ordered her around as if he had some right over her.

  “Sister Norton said I was needed too. You aren’t my husband. You have no right to assume control over me.”

  With a huff, she slipped under his arm and pushed him aside. She squeezed through the doorframe into the crowded one-room cottage. She peered through the dimness and glimpsed Sister Norton holding Lucy’s infant.

  Then her gaze landed upon Lucy. With a gasp Elizabeth drew back. Nausea gurgled through her stomach and pushed up her throat. Weakness spread through her.

  She swayed and the solid strength of John’s arms caught her. He grabbed her shoulders and spun her around against his body.

  She buried her face in the span o
f his chest, wanting to block the carnage from her view, from her mind. But the picture of Lucy’s bludgeoned corpse sprawled on the floor was branded to her thoughts. Blood seeped from her skull. Matted hair hung in loose clumps away from the scalp. Her bruised and swollen face was almost unrecognizable.

  She shuddered with the shock of the brutality.

  John’s arms wound around her middle, and he pressed her face into his chest. She dragged in a shaking breath of the metallic scent that permeated the fabric of his shirt.

  He lowered his head so that his mouth was near her ear. “I told you to wait outside, Elizabeth. I’ll handle this.” The warmth of his breath tingled her cheek, and she closed her eyes. She was exactly where she wanted to be, in the protection of his arms. How could she ever think about leaving him . . . forever?

  He pulled back and stared into her eyes with an intensity that burned down to her soul. “Don’t come in again.” The blueness of his eyes caressed her face with a gentle concern that made her want to do anything he asked.

  She allowed him to guide her around him and out the door. The neighbors moved aside, and she staggered away until she braced herself against the crumbling wall of the cottage next door. She groped the wattle and tried to steady her uncontrollable shaking, not sure if her body was reacting to the chill in the air or the sight of Lucy’s body.

  It didn’t take long for those milling in the crowd to give her the details of what had happened. Fulke had caught Lucy with another man. No one knew exactly who, but they had witnessed a gentleman’s horse tied up outside the cottage. Some said they had heard the gentleman beating Lucy, that he was the one responsible for her murder. But others claimed they had heard Fulke raging when he found the man and Lucy together. After the man had ridden away, they’d heard more yelling and screaming and cursing—they were sure Fulke was the one to blame, otherwise he wouldn’t have left as rapidly as he had.

  As Elizabeth listened, her stomach curdled until she thought she would be sick.

  Sister Norton soon stumbled out of the cottage, carrying Lucy’s infant in one arm and holding the hand of another of her young ones. Deep lines creased the corners of the widow’s mouth, and blue veins crisscrossed her pale skin.

  When Sister Norton reached her, Elizabeth lifted the little one from her arms and tucked the babe under the warmth of her cloak. The infant’s damp, sour clout left a wet ring on the old woman’s bodice.

  Elizabeth kissed the chubby cheeks streaked with tears. The child’s wet clothes soaked into her too, but Elizabeth hugged her close anyway and brushed the child’s tangled hair away from her face.

  “The children were crying and wouldn’t stop. The sound brought the neighbors in.” Sister Norton laid a hand on the head of the small boy at her side. “Poor, poor dears. No one should have to witness such a scene.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “One of the neighbors last saw the older children with Fulke.” Sister Norton’s eyes drooped. They had become the grandchildren the widow had never had. “I’m taking these poor dears home with me. Until the officials locate Fulke and decide what must be done, I’m prepared to keep them.”

  “Being with you will bring them much comfort to besure.”

  Sister Norton smoothed a hand over the infant’s cheek. Tears pooled in her weary eyes. “If only I had been more insistent that Lucy remain with us.”

  “No, Sister.” Elizabeth laid a hand on the widow’s arm. “Don’t blame yourself. You gave her a taste of God’s love and goodness. You strengthened and helped her. No one could ask for more.”

  Sister Norton glanced back to the crowd surrounding the cottage. “If only I could know her soul was with our Lord.”

  Elizabeth could testify to Sister Norton’s efforts to share the saving love of Jesus with Lucy. But the young woman had never shown interest, almost as if life had been too cruel for her to begin to grasp the concept of a God who could care about her.

  The infant squirmed and let out a wail.

  Elizabeth pulled her closer to her bosom.

  Sister Norton would need help.

  Elizabeth’s heart squeezed with longing for the Costin children. But perchance God was giving her a new calling. The widows could certainly not take care of the young children by themselves and manage to earn the little they lived on. They would benefit from her help.

  Her calling to help the Costins would soon end. That had become painfully clear that day.

  Was God now providing an opportunity for her somewhere else?

  Chapter

  23

  John riffled through the papers the constable had given him. His fingers glided along the tattered crease of one stained sheet until he reached the scrawl of smudged words—his words written in his messy handwriting, and the constable had recognized them as such.

  He tossed the sheets onto his desk. Then he leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands behind his head. The disarray of his study was greater than usual and matched the tumult that had ransacked his mind the past few days since the death of the wet nurse.

  He didn’t need to check whether any more of his papers had disappeared. Indeed, he wouldn’t need to worry about his papers disappearing ever again. He couldn’t find the energy to be angry at the wet nurse for having stolen from him these past months. All he could feel for her was pity. She’d likely taken them to protect herself, but in the end it hadn’t helped.

  His mind flashed to the image of her body, the awkward tilt of her head on the floor, her blood forming a sticky puddle in the dirt. His gut tightened. Could he have done something more to save her?

  The tinkle of laughter outside tugged his gaze to the oilskin window. The children skipped around Elizabeth as she knelt with Mary near Milkie. She patiently positioned the girl’s hands upon the cow’s teats, then sat back on her heels to watch Mary, encouraging and instructing her.

  His gut twisted. She was truly a godly and loving woman. And any man would be blessed to call her wife.

  “Oh, Lord. What have I done?” The wrinkled papers stared at him and pointed an ugly finger of accusation in his face. He’d been a sot for refusing to believe Elizabeth’s plea of innocence. He should have known he could trust her. Hadn’t he learned that by now?

  He sat forward and slapped his hands on his desk. And now he was all but married to the Harrington girl. He’d begun the courtship over the past weeks, and even though it had comprised of nothing more than partaking of a few meals with her family, he could not breach the agreement now.

  With a groan he slid the returned papers underneath another stack. Then he picked up his pen and dipped it into the ink. If he worked on his pamphlet, perhaps he would be able to forget—forget his frustration with himself, forget about the young woman outside the window, and forget about the fact that she would soon leave their family.

  He poised the pen above a fresh paper, but his mind was suddenly devoid of any thoughts save the one of Elizabeth’s wide eyes filled with horror when she’d turned away from Lucy and let him gather her into his arms.

  If he was completely honest with himself, he had to admit the bloodied corpse of the wet nurse had terrified him. He couldn’t stop thinking What if it had been Elizabeth instead?

  He fingered the tattered edges poking out from the stack. He couldn’t shove the stolen papers aside and forget about them any more than he could shove aside his fears and frustration.

  He turned and glanced out the window again.

  William Foster was stalking across the yard toward Elizabeth.

  A burst of anxiety and anger ripped through him, and he sprang to his feet. What did that evildoer want with Elizabeth now?

  His blood pumped hard with the need to get to her. He tripped over the clutter littering his study and stumbled through the cottage. Foster had hurt Elizabeth before. And now that Lucy was gone, was he back to harass Elizabeth?

  John slammed open the door and charged around the cottage, his blood pulsing hotter with each pounding step.<
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  “Foster!” he called as he sprinted into the back.

  Annoyance flitted across Foster’s countenance before he had the time to hide it. More disturbing was the sharp lust in the man’s eyes directed at Elizabeth.

  “John Costin,” he greeted with a thin smile that lacked warmth. “I didn’t realize you were home this afternoon.”

  “What are you doing here, Foster?”

  Elizabeth’s face was pale and her body rigid. But she had lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders as if she would stand up to Foster and face danger without flinching.

  The fire of his temper heated and combusted with all the worry and frustration he’d felt over the past days. Elizabeth would be no match for a man like Foster. He would do what he wanted with her and then beat her senseless, just as he had likely done to the wet nurse. Although the constable had no proof to link Lucy’s death to Foster, John didn’t doubt he played a role in it.

  “What do you want?” John stopped before the man, and his fist contracted involuntarily with the desire to slam his face.

  “No need for hostility.” Foster tucked his riding whip through his belt. “I was merely delivering a message.”

  “Don’t go near Sister Whitbread again. You have issues with me, not her.”

  “Possessive, are we?” Foster raised an eyebrow. “There will come a day when you won’t be around. Then I shall have my turn.”

  “State your business, Foster.” John braced his shoulders, ready for battle. If the man didn’t leave soon, John would dishonor the Lord by his violence.

  Foster tipped his hat back and revealed more of his face. Even though his expression was placid like the surface of a pond, a poisonous serpent lurked beneath and swam in the murkiness of his soul.

  “Word has arrived that the Royalist Army is in London.”

  John had already received the news that morning. It signaled severe trouble—possibly the abolishment of the Protectorate, certainly the end of Richard Cromwell’s leadership. The Puritans could only hope that somehow they could manage to sway the rump Parliament, still largely Presbyterian, to find a new leader supportive to their Independent cause.