The Preacher's Bride

by Jody Hedlund

  “In good conscience I could not pass without warning you, out of brotherly concern, of course.” The sharp swords in the man’s eyes slashed at John. He had no doubt William Foster would rather see him suffer than save him.

  “Instructing people to forsake their sins and close in with Christ is not a crime now and will never be.”

  “Very soon we shall find only those properly trained and sent forth by the bishop doing such instruction.”

  John lifted himself to his full height. If Foster wanted a verbal battle, then he’d get one. “A call from God and fire in the soul cannot be kept within the bounds of a bishop’s license or statutes at large.”

  “What does a tinker know of such weighty matters as callings and fire in the soul?” Foster’s gaze slid to his tinker shack and the places where the wattle and daub walls had fallen away. “If a tinker can preach, then who will stop the illiterate laborer in the field from preaching? Who will be able to stop anyone who says he has a calling from blaspheming and distorting the Word?”

  “If such a man was to receive the gift, even so let him minister the same.”

  Foster’s gaze lingered overlong on the cow’s post and the boards falling to the ground.

  Elizabeth had used the time of their interchange to move away and had gathered the children. Now they clung to her petticoat, watching Foster with wide eyes.

  “God gave you the gift of mending pots, John Costin,” Foster said. “You’d be safer to stick with what you know.”

  “And you would be safer if you took your leave now and never came back.”

  Foster glanced at Elizabeth.

  John’s fingers tensed into tight fists, and he took a step toward Foster.

  The man backed up and started to stride away. “It won’t be long, Costin,” he called over his shoulder, “till you’ll finally be forced to stay in your place.”

  John stared at Foster’s back until he disappeared around the cottage. He could only pray the man wasn’t right.

  “What did that snake really want?” he asked, turning to Elizabeth. He uncurled and stretched his fingers, his body tense with anger.

  “He didn’t have the chance to say.” She gave Betsy and Johnny comforting hugs and then nudged them back to their play. “ ’Tis no doubt he wanted me to spy again,” she said quietly, once they had run off. “I’m just glad you were home.”

  Sudden helplessness overwhelmed John. Elizabeth very well could have been home alone, and Foster could have done anything he wanted with her, as he’d done with the wet nurse. With a groan, he stuck his fingers into his hair.

  “Please,” she rushed. “I have not stolen again, nor will I. My life isn’t so valuable on this earth that I would sin to save it.”

  “No, Elizabeth. I know you won’t steal.” Now he understood why she had taken his paper. She had needed something—anything—to try to protect herself from Foster. And once again she needed a way to stay safe. But how could he protect her?

  “Truly, I promise you. I won’t take from you again. I learned the lesson God had for me—”

  “I know you learned, and I know you won’t take again.”

  “I— What did you say?”

  Shame washed over him. He’d been too hard on her; he hadn’t listened to her. As usual, he’d let his temper have control. In God’s eyes, his quick judgment had been no less sinful than her stealing. Perhaps his was worse, for he’d harbored pride and unforgiveness in his heart these past months when she’d shown humility and repentance.

  “You weren’t the one taking the papers,” he said.

  “I wasn’t? I mean, you believe me now?”

  “I know it wasn’t you.”

  “How?”

  “The constable found some of the missing papers on the wet nurse.”

  Elizabeth nodded, as if the news made perfect sense. “She would have been easy prey for Mr. Foster.”

  “His horse was at the cottage the day of her murder.”

  She shuddered. “Now I know why he has left me alone these past months. He had someone else doing his evil deeds.”

  John folded his arms across his chest and watched the play of emotions on Elizabeth’s face. He was sure she was thinking the same as he was. Now that the wet nurse was dead, was today’s confrontation with Foster a foreshadow of what was to come? Would he harass Elizabeth again?

  She met his gaze directly. Her eyes filled with determination. “God is my shield and my protector. Whom shall I fear?”

  He liked the color of her eyes. It was unusual—like the gray of stones, strong and unshakable.

  “ ’Twill not be much longer either,” she said hesitantly. A rosy hue flushed the cream of her cheeks.

  “Not much longer?” A breeze gently lifted the loose strands of her hair and caressed her neck with them.

  “With courtship underway, you won’t need me many more weeks. ’Twill not be long before you have a wife.”

  Her words splashed against his face like thawed river water on a spring day. He took a step back, as though somehow he could avoid the reality of what she’d said.

  But reality stalked him as it had the past days since Lucy’s death. He was bound to marry another woman. He’d already made an agreement with Elder Harrington. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember the girl’s name, that he didn’t know anything about her except that she was young and pious. He’d given his word that he would marry her, and now he must follow through or lose the respect of the community.

  His insides twisted, and he tore his gaze away from Elizabeth.

  He focused instead on Mary, holding tight to Thomas’s leading strings, laughing as she followed slowly behind him. The infant toddled in the matted grass, held to his unsteady feet by the lengths of fabric attached to the back of his dress.

  The boy’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright, and his smile as wide as a sunlit meadow. A pang shot through John’s heart. Thomas would soon reach the first anniversary of his birth—something he’d never dreamed would happen.

  Elizabeth’s steadfastness had saved the baby. Her devotion and determination had held his family together, made them stronger, helped his ministry thrive. How would they get along without her?

  The aching swirl in his gut tightened. He’d been a fool to let her go.

  “Methinks you will need to steal from me again.”

  “No. Never.”

  “Yes. Stealing is the best way to keep Foster from harming you.” The least he could do was keep her safe in the remaining weeks.

  She straightened her shoulders. The gray of her eyes had turned to polished iron. “I have promised, and I won’t break my word.”

  “What if I steal papers from myself and give them to you? You wouldn’t be breaking your word then, would you?”

  She started to respond, then stopped and raised her brows.

  He forced his lips into a grin.

  Understanding dawned in her eyes.

  “And I would know which are the best papers to steal, since they are my own. This might even be the occasion to write a few more especially convicting sermons about rich men abusing the poor. These would be the best to steal, don’t you agree?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “ ’Twould be a good opportunity to preach to Mr. Foster about the sinfulness of his ways.”

  “Indeed it would.”

  Her smile was fresh and guileless and reminded him of the godly woman she truly was. Certainly she was not perfect—stealing his paper had shown that. But she was humble and upright in heart.

  “I’m sorry for not believing you earlier.” He couldn’t keep his gaze from lingering on the tendrils of her hair dancing about her face.

  “No, ’tis I that offended you. Though I don’t deserve it, I still covet your forgiveness.”

  “I give it to you now and am sorry I didn’t give it long ago.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded, feeling something inside that he shouldn’t toward Elizabeth—something he hadn’t felt in a
very long time—a warmth, a thawing, the beginnings of a desiring.

  As if sensing that something in him, she ducked her head and focused on the cuff of her sleeve.

  The strange stirring made him want to draw nearer to her. By the shy lowering of her lashes and the pink innocence of her cheeks, he realized she didn’t know the effect she was having upon him. She wasn’t trying to ensnare him nor was she flirting with him. She was completely unaware of the freshness and vitality of her womanliness, and that only added to her allure.

  Elizabeth Whitbread was an appealing woman, and as his eyes drifted over her, he wondered that in the many months she had worked as his housekeeper, he had never noticed it.

  He shook his head. It was neither fair to Elizabeth nor to the Harrington girl for him to entertain such desirings. He would do best to put such thoughts of Elizabeth far from his mind.

  For the fraction of an instant, he pictured himself pounding on Elder Harrington’s door, barging inside and blurting out that he’d changed his mind, that he no longer wanted the man’s daughter.

  But as quickly as the thought came, he shoved it aside—angrily. The repercussions would only stir up dissension, damage his ministry, and bring disgrace upon himself and Elizabeth.

  He’d already made his choice. Now he needed to live with the decision—as frustrating as that might be.

  Chapter

  24

  The pungent smell of onion burned Elizabeth’s nose and eyes. The knife made sharp chops against the table and the shriveled roots, the last of what she had stored from the previous fall harvest. With rapid slices, she diced them for the pottage of dried peas and barley bubbling in the pot.

  “I’m past ready for fresh vegetables again,” she said.

  “Me too,” Betsy replied from her spot on the floor with the other children.

  The rumble of thunder sounded in the fields beyond the cottage, and Elizabeth glanced to the open shutter, hoping the rain would wait until Mary returned from milking the cow. ’Twould not be easy for Mary to carry the small pail of milk back to the house on slippery ground.

  “Mary better hurry.” Elizabeth chopped steadily. “If she wasn’t so stubborn about doing it herself, I’d send you to help her, Betsy.”

  “She doesn’t like my help with anything.” Betsy flipped a cloth ball into a wooden cup. “Thomas doesn’t know how to play the game.”

  Elizabeth had sewn together stuffed straw balls for each of the children. Then she’d tied string to the balls and to the handles of their mugs and shown them how to toss the balls up and try to catch them inside.

  She smiled as Thomas stuffed the ball in the mug, then dumped it out, stuffed it back in, then dumped it out again, repeating the motion over and over. “Thomas is indeed having a grand time, even if he isn’t following the game.”

  Elizabeth scooped the cut onions onto a wooden platter, turned to the boiling pottage, and scraped them into the pot. With a long-handled ladle, she stirred the onions into the thick greenish-gray gruel.

  She would soon be finished with her housekeeping job. ’Twould not be many more days before her leaving—at least if Catherine’s latest gossip was true. If so, John would trothplight to Lizzie Harrington by week’s end and post the banns not long after.

  With a sigh, she lifted a spoonful of pottage and blew on it. She’d tried to resolve herself to the inevitable, but she couldn’t muster up fervor for helping the Sisters take care of Lucy’s orphans. Nigh three weeks had elapsed since Lucy’s death, and they hadn’t seen any signs of Fulke. The widows would benefit from her help. Surely God was giving her a new calling.

  Why, then, couldn’t she embrace it with joy?

  She sipped the pottage then dipped the ladle back into the pot and stirred.

  The door, already open a crack for Mary, squeaked as it opened wider.

  “How did you fare?” She banged the spoon against the edge of the pot and then moved the pot hook, swinging the kettle away from the flames to keep it from burning.

  “How I fare will depend on you.”

  Elizabeth jumped and dropped the ladle. It landed on the floor with a clatter. Her fingers shook as she slipped them into the pocket under her apron and felt for the paper she had tucked there.

  William Foster’s boots tapped sharply against the cottage floor. Fear slithered through her, but she squared her shoulders and turned.

  He swept his wide hat from his head, revealing his cold smile.

  “Go away, Mr. Foster. You aren’t welcome here.”

  “Now, Elizabeth, is that any way to treat someone who has the power of your life and death?”

  She lifted her chin. “What do you want?” Her heart whispered a desperate plea to the Lord for strength.

  “Oh, I want many things.” His footsteps echoed as he slowly, deliberately, began closing the gap between them.

  She slid toward the table, anxious to keep a barrier between them.

  “With the other wench dead, someone has got to do my bidding.”

  She fumbled at the strings of her pocket and pulled out the sheet John had given her. With trembling fingers she shoved it across the table toward him. “There. Now leave.”

  Guilt seeped through her as she watched him pick up the paper and stuff it into his doublet without so much as a glance. Even though giving him the decoy had been John’s idea, her heart agonized over the thought of giving the man anything.

  Mr. Foster laid his hat on the table across from her and began tugging at the fingertips of his leather riding gloves.

  “You have what you came for. I must insist that you take your leave.”

  One finger at a time he continued loosening his gloves. “I don’t yet have everything I want.” He raised his gaze to her, the lust in his eyes unmistakable.

  Fear coiled tighter and pinched the breath from her.

  “You’re more comely than the other wench.”

  From the look in his eyes, she understood then the depths of his evilness, the vileness with which he had treated Lucy. She wondered that Lucy had never given any indication of the abuse she had received from Mr. Foster. She supposed Lucy was so accustomed to having one man hurt her that she couldn’t resist another.

  He slid a glance to the children, who watched him with wide eyes. “I suggest we conduct the rest of our business in the other room.”

  “We have no other business, Mr. Foster. You have all you’ll get from me this day.”

  His smile faded. “If you knew what’s best for you, you’d do as I say.”

  She took a deep breath to quell her shaking. Then she saw the knife lying on the table, bits of onion still clinging to its blade. Without thinking, she lunged for it, grasped it between both hands, and held it out before her.

  The blade glinted. The tip was sharp, even if the long edge was dull.

  Mr. Foster glanced around the room as if searching for another weapon.

  “If you knew what was best for you, you’d take your leave.” She tried to keep her voice and hands from quivering.

  Fury darkened his eyes, and his lips pinched together in a tight line. “You are a foolish girl. A very foolish girl.”

  “I’m not like Lucy. You can’t push me into immoral deeds.”

  “You’re a fool to resist me.”

  “I’d rather die than submit to your evil intentions.”

  Again he searched the small room. This time he spotted the broom near the hearth.

  He darted around the table toward it.

  Elizabeth backed toward the children and held the knife out in front of her.

  “You would rather die?” He grabbed hold of the broom. “Then I shall grant you your wish.”

  She stood near the children, her body tense, her mind whirling. She would be no match against him should he come at her with the broom.

  He thrust the end of the broom into the low flames on the hearth and the fresh straw burst to life.

  Her heart slammed hard in her chest, and she pointed the knife
at him.

  Strangely, however, he walked away from her, grabbed his hat and gloves from the table, and headed for the door. When he reached the doorway, he swung it open and turned to face her. “No one crosses me without paying for it.”

  The straw was burning fast, the fire leaping up. She cringed as the flaming end of the broom came within inches of the doorframe. If he wasn’t careful, the fire would spread.

  “I’m sure you remember what happened to the thatcher and his wife.” He glanced sideways at the burning broom.

  Her eyes were riveted on the crackling, sparking fire.

  “No!” With a scream she rushed toward him.

  But he was too quick. In an instant he was outside and slammed the door shut.

  She yanked it and heaved on the handle. “Please, open the door! Please!”

  The clinking of a chain scraped against the planks of the door.

  Her frantic heartbeat sputtered. She glanced toward the window. It was high, but they could surely escape through it.

  She started forward, but he slammed the shutters closed before she could reach them.

  Darkness shrouded the room and descended over her soul.

  “The children!” Her chest heaved and fear made waves through her. “Please let the children out! They’ve done nothing to deserve this!”

  Thomas’s cries were shrill and incessant.

  The thump of something hitting the roof was followed by the sound of horse’s hooves galloping away.

  With pounding heart she stared up through the cracks of the floorboards of the loft. For an instant, paralyzing fear gripped her. She had the oddest feeling she had already experienced the situation and was reliving a nightmare. She imagined the scorching heat surrounding her and the long fingers of the flames reaching out to grasp her. She backed toward the wall, desperate to escape their grip.

  In a daze she searched the room for a place to hide. Through the open door of the bedchamber, the bed beckoned her to the dark, shadowed place underneath. A dreamlike haze urged her to find safety in the black cavern there.

  Somewhere in a distant corner of her mind she heard crying—the frightened, pitiful cries of a small child, endlessly calling for a mother and father.