Mr. Hendrick pulled out a chair. She sank into it gratefully. ’Twas a relief to not have to bear her weight on her still-trembling legs. He took the seat opposite while the serving lad waited, having deposited his tray of dishes on a vacant table.
“Now then. What can I get for ye?”
“Are you hungry?” Mr. Hendrick folded his hands atop the table.
She shook her head. The scents pervading the room—greasy mutton and pipe smoke—made her queasy enough.
“Just tea, Mark. Thank you.”
“Right away, Mr. Hendrick.” Mark picked up his tray and headed toward the back.
The serving lad gone, Elowyn kept her gaze on the scarred wood of the table, hands in her lap. ’Twas not her place to press a conversation. Doubtless he’d tell her soon enough his reasons and intent for purchasing her.
She pulled in a steadying breath.
Peace, though, could not be drawn in as easily.
Elowyn Brody sat across from him, gaze on the table, curling tendrils of golden hair brushing her too-pale cheeks. Though she’d taken pains to conceal it, her unspoken fear hung about her like the cloak she wore. When they’d stood beside the auction block, she’d looked nigh ready to faint. He’d have picked her up and carried her—as slight as she was, he could have done so with little effort—but that would have only frightened her further and drawn the stares of all of Launcegrave. So he’d supported her as best he could and made for the Three Swans.
He swallowed, throat dry. He must speak, but what?
In the heat of the moment, he’d only thought to rescue her from Trevenick. Now the deed was well and truly done. What course he should next take, he knew not. He could give her a few pounds and give her liberty to go, but to where? Her father—a more worthless scoundrel Josiah had rarely laid eyes on—had abandoned her. If she’d other living family, he’d see she found her way safely to them at once.
If not? He could take her to his house as a servant. Yet ’twould hardly be seemly. Peter, the young man he employed at the forge, returned to his own cottage at night. They could not be the only two in the house. The impropriety of such an arrangement, even if his intentions were purely honorable, would set the town to gossiping. He’d not subject her to that.
He could wed her. Hadn’t her father said that very thing—a suitable servant, even a wife?
After Mary, he’d consigned himself to spending the remainder of his life alone. Marriage had not served him well the first time, and he’d no desire to repeat any part of that past again. He’d no need for a wife and had become accustomed to doing for himself. Contented, even.
What of her, this slip of a girl named Elowyn? What did she need? He could provide for her. Offer her respectability, a home, a comfortable and secure life. The tender feelings that usually accompanied marriage …
After Mary, he’d cobbled together what remained of his heart to not forget those around him in wont of kindness and compassion. But love? That he’d left behind.
Dear God, I beg Your sovereign wisdom to guide me.
Mark returned with a tray and laid two cups on the table, along with milk and sugar. Josiah thanked him and gave him sixpence. The lad grinned.
Elowyn cupped her hands around the blue patterned cup like it was a cold day and she meant to warm them. She lifted it to her lips and took a tentative sip. Josiah ran a finger along the base of his cup but couldn’t bring himself to taste the steaming tea.
Cup clinked against saucer as she set it down. Her gaze met his. She’d eyes the color of a storm-battered sea, a mingling of blue and gray. They fixed on him now, trepidation evident in their depths.
He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “Have you any family besides that man?” Brody did not merit the title of father.
She shook her head. “Nay. None. My mother died when I was a child. I had a brother, but the fever took him too.”
“No other relations?”
“None that I be aware of, sir.” The candles on the mantel behind them cast soft shadows on her finely boned face. Her features were delicate, but there was strength there too. And beauty. He looked away, suddenly ashamed for noticing.
Her lack of relatives left him with the only other option. To make her his wife, provide her a home. With a father like that, doubtless she’d had little before.
God, is this what You ask of me? Was it a coincidence I walked by the auction just as it took place? Could You have meant me to give this young woman a home, my name?
A settling certainty in his spirit gave all answers as yes.
His heart pounded like a hammer against an anvil.
“I’ve a cottage not far from here. There’s a forge there where I work as a smith. It isn’t a grand place, by any means, but ’tis comfortable enough, secure when it rains and in winter. I’d see to it you lacked for nothing ’twas in my power to provide. I don’t see any other way round you staying there though, unless … unless we marry.”
Other than a sharp intake of breath, she made no sound.
“I’m truly sorry for what happened to you. I can’t offer much, but I can promise to do my best to be a kind and generous husband. I’m not asking for love, but mayhap we could come to … like each other in time.” He kept his voice as gentle as could be. The magnitude of the shock she’d undergone must be almost unbearable. Beneath the table, his fingers tightened into a fist. What manner of man could deal thus with his only daughter?
She blinked. “You wish to wed me? To take me to your home as your honest wife?”
“I’d not take you there as anything else.” He met her gaze, hoping she read strength there, that he was a man who, once he’d set his mind to something, did not back down. He made a promise, he upheld it. He took a vow, he kept it. Always.
But to bind himself for a lifetime to a woman he’d known less than an hour? Could he, they, truly do this thing?
She bit her lip and seemed to be working out the matter inside herself. Conversation mulled around them. The tromp-tromp of boots sounded. The door banged shut. He kept his eyes on her.
Slowly, she nodded. “Aye then.” Her gaze and tone remained steady, candlelight a soft glow on her features.
Relief drained through him, though he wasn’t quite sure why. “I’ll do all I can to see you do not regret this.” Whether or not he would harbor regrets of his own remained to be seen.
To that, she made no response.
“The parson, Mr. Wingfield, and his wife are friends of mine. He will give us the license. We can be wed tomorrow.” Tomorrow. That still left tonight. She’d have to stay somewhere, and he wouldn’t chance getting her a room here. Though ’twas not a disreputable place, she’d be alone, and ofttimes in the evening folk got rowdy after one too many pints. “I’m sure Mistress Wingfield would not object if you stayed the night with them. She’s a good woman.”
A hint of a grateful smile crossed her lips. “I’d appreciate that.”
He stood, pushing back his chair, their tea mostly untouched and growing cold.
“Let us away then. The parsonage is a ten-minute walk from here. Can you stand the distance?”
She nodded and stood.
He left payment for the tea on the table, and they wove their way through the room to the entrance, where he retrieved his tricorn. He pushed the door open and held it for her, then followed.
The swell of high afternoon had faded, replaced by dusky light, a stillness to the village, the remnants of market day packed away.
Side by side they walked, through Launcegrave’s familiar streets.
If only the future awaiting them was as well charted as the path he now trod.
Chapter 4
Sleep had not proven a friend. Instead, she’d lain awake most of the night, coverlet twisted round her, staring at the ceiling in the chamber the Wingfields had lent her. Thinking. Wondering. Fearing. Morning, it seemed, had come in both a blink and an eternity.
She poured water into the basin and washed herself with the ca
ke of lavender-scented soap, then put on the dress she’d worn yesterday. ’Twas her best out of the two she owned. Once, it had been a dusky shade of rose, but time had faded the color to a lighter hue, and the garment had been mended in several places. She’d altered it from a gown of her mother’s, taken from the bottom of a trunk when she’d turned sixteen and needed a gown befitting a woman, not a child.
’Twas a blessing she’d worn it yesterday. Her other dress, left at the cottage she’d shared with Tom Brody, was in far worse condition and held not the sentimental value of this one.
A knock sounded on the door. Elowyn turned, running her fingers through the untamed curls of her waist-length hair.
“Come in.”
The door opened. Mistress Wingfield stepped in, matronly frame garbed in a deep green dress covered by an apron that matched the snowy white of her cap. A tray laden with tea, toast, and a bowl of porridge filled her hands. Though the parson’s wife had asked Josiah to stay for dinner last night, he’d declined, for which Elowyn had been thankful.
“Good morning, dear.” Mistress Wingfield set the tray on the chest of drawers with a clink. “Did you sleep?”
Thankfully the woman had not asked if she’d slept well. “Aye. A little.”
“It’s quarter past seven, and we’re to be at the church by nine. So you’ve plenty of time to have your breakfast.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind.” Elowyn tried for a smile. The aroma of rich tea, buttery toast, and milky porridge wafted from the tray. Her stomach churned. She’d do her best to eat something, so as not to offend Mistress Wingfield, but ’twas doubtful she’d be able to handle more than a few bites. She pressed a hand to her middle, eyes falling closed, inhaling a deep breath.
Footsteps sounded on the creaking floorboards. A warm hand settled on her shoulder. She opened her eyes and found Mistress Wingfield looking at her, kindness in her gaze. “I know this turn of events is sudden. And after what you endured yesterday …” She pressed her lips together. “It’s only natural to be shaken. But I’ve known Josiah Hendrick since he was a lad. He’s a good man. You’ve naught to fear from him.”
Elowyn nodded. But she could not trust in the certainty of the woman’s tone and words.
To trust meant to let down her guard. To not expect betrayal.
How long had it been since she’d done either?
“Here. Let me help you with your hair.” She motioned to the dressing table by the window. Elowyn sat while Mistress Wingfield opened a drawer and took out a brush. The woman gathered Elowyn’s hair in her hands and pulled the brush through it with gentle strokes. “You have lovely hair.” In the mirror, Elowyn glimpsed the woman’s smile. “When I was a girl, I wished mine were the color of yours. Alas, it stayed the same shade of unremarkable brown, which has since faded mostly to gray.” She laughed. “Five children and enough mischief to match will do that to a body, I daresay.”
She’d met the four Wingfield children still living at home last night. The eldest girl, Lydia, had given Elowyn her chamber for the night, and roomed with her two younger sisters. When Elowyn had protested that she didn’t want to be a bother, the sixteen-year-old had laughed and said ’twas no bother and the room was really a guest room that she occupied only when they didn’t have company. The carefree way the young woman teased her father and bantered with her siblings had startled Elowyn. Lydia Wingfield could likely speak to her father about any concern without fearing the back of his hand. What must it be like to be encircled by such love and openness?
“What do you think?” Mistress Wingfield smiled, setting the brush aside. She’d swept Elowyn’s hair up in a knot, leaving a few curls hanging free around her face. Never had her wayward curls looked so polished, her own fumbling efforts usually leaving much to be desired.
“It’s lovely.” Elowyn returned the smile. “Thank you.”
“Happy to help. With three daughters, I’ve plenty of experience. Speaking of them, I’d best leave you to your breakfast and go back downstairs. Lydia does try, but she’s a bit scatterbrained when it comes to playing the lady at table. Is there anything else you need before I go?”
“Nay. Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”
“I’ll be up in a little while.” Mistress Wingfield rested a hand on Elowyn’s shoulder for a moment before turning, her footsteps receding, the door shutting behind her.
Elowyn twisted one of the curls round her finger, staring at her reflection. The neatness of her hair didn’t hide the circles beneath her eyes or the paleness of her face. Though what did it matter? This wasn’t a usual wedding, nor was she a usual bride. When he’d asked her yesterday, she’d been lured by the gentleness in his gaze, the words he spun … “’Tis comfortable enough … secure when it rains and in winter … lack for nothing.”
His roof didn’t leak. The thought had popped into her head as he’d spoken. She could endure the gnaw of hunger in her belly, the grueling work of scrubbing laundry in exchange for a few pence, but blast it all, the drip, drip, dripping of rain and slush onto the floor, onto her bed, despite the buckets she placed beneath the cracks, drove her nigh to distraction.
She’d agreed to wed a stranger because he owned a cottage with a roof that didn’t leak.
A hysterical laugh escaped.
For a blacksmith, he must make a goodly living. How else could he have afforded the price of fifty guineas? Others had bid for her, but she’d steeled herself and heeded neither faces nor voices.
Why had he purchased her to start with? Why did he wish to marry her? She’d little to recommend herself. Perhaps marriage was the only way he could see to bringing her to his home. Men needed women to cook and clean and—
A wave of heat stained her cheeks.
Did he expect they’d be … fully married? Of course, as his wife, she’d have to submit to him in every way. It was his right, and her duty.
She leaned her forehead into her palms.
He’d promised to be kind, but as she’d learned with Tom Brody, ’twas foolishness to believe a promise made by any man. At least she’d known the extent of what Tom Brody was capable of. Or so she’d thought until yesterday. She didn’t know Josiah Hendrick at all.
Nonetheless, this very day, she’d speak vows binding them together before God.
Nausea rose in her throat.
Once, she’d thought she’d known what it meant to be trapped. But she hadn’t known, not truly.
Until now.
He was no stranger to the solemnities of the marriage ceremony. He’d been wed before, in this very church, to Mary. Then, a goodly number of villagers had been in attendance to witness their vows, with a party after. On that spring day eight years ago, the world had seemed a fresh and new and gladsome place, Mary’s laughter as they danced, the sweetest music he’d ever heard. The future, a thing of beauty.
Looking back, he saw himself, at twenty-four, blind with a love he believed made anything possible.
How wrong he’d been.
He waited to the right of the altar, Mr. Wingfield standing front and center. Save Mistress Wingfield and Peter, there were no guests or witnesses. He’d dressed in his dark blue coat and buff-colored breeches. He’d had a miserable time knotting his cravat. If he fumbled thus at the forge, he’d not be a smith worth his trade. Thankfully, Peter hadn’t been there to see. He wouldn’t have asked the young man at all, except they needed two witnesses, and on such short notice, he could think of no other. Peter sat in the front row, wearing his Sunday coat and waistcoat, tousled hair slicked back, face red from scrubbing.
The stone church bore the timeworn scent of buildings a century old. Morning sunlight filtered through the arched windows, dust motes sparkled in the air. The door creaked.
Josiah turned. His heart stammered in his chest.
Mistress Wingfield and Elowyn crossed the threshold, the older woman slightly ahead.
His gaze met Elowyn’s. For a moment, her steps faltered. She looked as pale as she had yeste
rday on the block, the shade of her skin making her eyes stand out all the darker. She carried no flowers. He should have thought to pick her some. Yet how would she have taken it if he had, an ordinary gesture from groom to bride, when the circumstances of their union were anything but?
Mistress Wingfield took her seat in the front pew and Elowyn, her place beside him. He was acutely aware of the warmth of her shoulder near his, her lavender scent, the way her honey curls brushed her neck. She didn’t look at him, gaze straight ahead, hands clasped at her waist.
Mr. Wingfield looked between the two of them, the Book of Common Prayer held in one hand, his white and black clerical robes brushing the floor. Earlier, the man had taken a few moments to speak to Josiah. Though he’d agreed to perform the ceremony, his words this morning had been cautionary.
“Marriage is a sacred institution, not to be entered into lightly.”
“You think I am?” Josiah had replied.
“No. I just hope you realize the responsibility that will be yours when you pledge yourself to this young woman. This decision, solemnized in moments, must last you both a lifetime.”
He’d not found words to answer the parson.
Now, the time for remonstrance had passed. Mr. Wingfield opened the book.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony …”
Ten years hence, twenty, what would he remember from this day? The way her gaze darted to and fro, as if seeking some way of escape, before voicing her almost inaudible “I will.” How her hand shook as he slipped the simple gold band upon her finger—his mother’s ring had been too tight for Mary, and she’d never worn it. It slid onto Elowyn’s slighter hand easily. Cracks marred her skin, callouses her palm, making him wonder what sort of work she’d been doing up till now.
Would he remember the way the sacredness of the words sank deep inside him, each a vow he must keep before God? Or how the pronouncement that they were man and wife made his breath unsteady?
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