Blacksmith Brides

by Amanda Barratt

  Most of all, would he remember this day as the start of a future filled with promise? Or the beginnings of a mistake that would cost them both dearly?

  Mr. Wingfield closed the book, the ceremony at an end. Josiah turned to Elowyn. His wife. It would take time to think of her by that title. He paused, hesitating as to whether or not he should take her arm. Peter and Mistress Wingfield spared him by rising and coming toward them. Mistress Wingfield pulled Elowyn into an embrace.

  “Congratulations, Master Hendrick.” Peter’s crooked teeth flashed as he grinned.

  “Thank you, Peter. I appreciate you taking the time to come.”

  “’Twas a pleasure, sir,” the twenty-one-year-old replied, taking a step back.

  “God bless you, Josiah.” Mistress Wingfield clasped his hand. Her gaze fell on Elowyn in conversation with the parson. “I trust you’ll be good to her,” she said softly. “I know not what this girl’s past has been, but I do know she needs love and tenderness more than most.”

  Her words found purchase inside him, much as her husband’s had an hour ago.

  Love and tenderness. He’d tried to give both to Mary, but he must have failed. For what else would make her seek the arms of another within a year of their marriage?

  The past was the past. Elowyn was not his first wife.

  “I will try,” he answered. Mistress Wingfield’s eyes crinkled as she smiled.

  Motioning Peter to follow, he moved to where Elowyn stood a few steps away with Mr. Wingfield. “This is Peter. He works with me at the forge.”

  “Pleasure to make yer acquaintance, ma’am.” Peter made a bow. “If there’s anything that wants doing for ye, ye’ve only to ask.”

  “Thank you.” Elowyn’s smile brought a flush to Peter’s already ruddy cheeks. “I’m happy to meet you.”

  He didn’t fault Peter for being dazzled by her. She’d smiled easily at the young man, and the gesture transformed her face, revealing a dimple in her right cheek.

  “Shall we sign the register now?” Mr. Wingfield broke in.

  “Aye. Of course.” They’d taken up enough of the Wingfields’ time already. The man likely had pressing parish matters to attend to.

  They made their way into the vestry where the thick black book sat on a low table, open to a fresh page. Mr. Wingfield handed Elowyn the quill and pointed to where she must sign.

  As she bent over the table and carefully formed her name, one thing stood starkly apparent.

  The smile had left her face.

  Chapter 5

  The wagon jostled along the rutted road, Launcegrave a memory in the distance. Elowyn sat, hands clenched in her lap, as far to the edge of the bench as she could manage. Despite her efforts, whenever the wheel hit a particularly large bump, it nonetheless threw her against Mr. Hendrick.

  The man she must now call husband.

  “We’re nearly there.” He held the reins loosely in his hands, handling the two horses with an ease that could only come from years of experience. The bracing wind pulled her hair back from her face. The air held traces of salt. They neared the sea.

  Had this day not seen her pledged to a stranger, she’d have smiled at the prospect.

  “Are there any beaches near your home?”

  He glanced at her. The words were the first she’d spoken since her “thank you” after he’d helped her into the wagon. “Aye. There’s one but ten minutes from the house. Are you fond of the sea?”

  She nodded. “I’ve never lived such an easy distance to it though. It must be a fine thing to watch it in all its moods and seasons.”

  “It is at that.” A smile turned up the corners of his lips, the gesture slightly crooked. His jaw was clean-shaven today, though his brown hair hung longer than fashionable and wanted a trim. She’d always tended to her father’s. She winced at the slip of thinking of him as such. Some habits were hard to unmake. “I’ll show you the way tomorrow. Then you can walk there whenever you wish.”

  “I’d like that.” She gave a bit of a smile, wanting to thank him. He smiled back, wind riffling the edges of his hair beneath the tricorn. He had a certain wildness about him, despite his gentleman’s garb. Thus far, he’d been naught but kind to her. But she’d not let herself hope this kindness would last. Sooner or later, mayhap even tonight, she’d discover the reason he’d done something so unlikely as purchase a wife at auction.

  She only prayed when she did discover it, ’twould not entirely destroy her.

  “The house is just ahead.”

  The wagon jostled onward, drawing them nearer.

  Toward her new … what? Dwelling? Place of residence? Home? Could she dare think of it as such?

  Nay. Not yet. Ever?

  That did not bear considering now.

  The softly sloped fields and meadows stretched all around, interspersed by trees. Green blended into the pale blue of the cloud-laced sky, as if the two touched each other. A limitless landscape.

  They turned into a narrow drive.

  ’Twas like he had said. Three buildings—a forge, stable, the largest a cottage. The former two built of wood, the latter of stone. All larger than the dwelling she’d lived in before yesterday.

  The wagon came to a stop. He jumped down, and she made move to climb down. But before she could gather her skirts, he rounded the wagon and held out his hands. She placed hers in them.

  Wide and strong and calloused. The hands of a man unafraid of honest work. They steadied her as she descended, skirts aswirl as her feet landed on the hard-packed ground.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. Her hands fell from his.

  He nodded and started toward the house. Uncertainly, she followed up the slightly overgrown path, which led off in two directions, one to the forge, the other to the house. The exterior of the stone cottage was weathered with age and elements, but it looked solid, the thatched roof in good repair. Firewood leaned against one side in a neat stack.

  He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. It creaked open.

  He went in first, leaving her to follow. She ducked through the door and stepped over the threshold, fingers fisted in her skirts. Semidarkness coated the room, and she blinked, adjusting to the difference in light. Mr. Hendrick stood near a hearth, fumbling with flint and steel. A spark caught, and he lit a candle, then another, placing both on the mantel.

  The room was low-ceilinged and of middling size. An oaken table sat in its center, a finer piece of furniture than she’d expected a blacksmith to possess. Three chairs sat around it. Another table stood against one wall, and behind it hung all manner of pots and cooking utensils. A cupboard against the same wall likely held more. Two windows let in light through panes in goodly need of cleaning.

  She sensed his gaze on her. Likely he expected some response.

  “It’s … nice.”

  “I hope you’ll find yourself at home here.” He took a step toward her, eyes meeting hers. Somehow the size of the room made his shoulders seem wider, his height, taller.

  She swallowed, the space suddenly close, all too aware that ’twas but the two of them alone, in his house, and she his wife. Any answer or thanks she might have voiced died on her lips. Her gaze fell to the worn floorboards and the hem of her skirts.

  “Look about at liberty.” The words were perfunctory, as if her lack of an answer had somehow displeased him. “I’d best see to the horses.” He moved past her, ducking through the doorway. The door groaned shut.

  A closed door stood to one side. Though he’d given her leave to look around, opening it felt rather like trespassing. A small chamber held an unmade bed, covers rumpled and turned down as if the person who’d last slept there hadn’t bothered to do more than climb out of it this morn. Heat burned her cheeks at the intimacy of the sight.

  Would she be expected to share it with him?

  A chest sat at the foot of the bed, a chair against the wall. A shirt lay tossed against the back of the chair, along with a pair of trousers.

&nbs
p; By nature, men were not tidy creatures. At least the ones she’d known. Mr. Hendrick was not proving an exception. Though the house was sturdy, it lacked the gentler touch that, though she’d had precious little to work with, she’d always given the various cottages she’d shared with Tom Brody.

  Perhaps this was why Mr. Hendrick had chosen her. He’d sensed the lack in his life of the refinements a woman could provide. Hot meals. A tidy house. Mended clothes.

  If so, she’d not fail. She’d clean and scrub and mend and bake, doing everything she could to earn her keep. She might have faults aplenty, but being bone-idle had never been one of them.

  She pressed a hand to her middle, the room’s scent unfamiliar and altogether masculine.

  If only she could be certain that was all Josiah Hendrick expected of their marriage.

  Silence, thick as a foggy night, hung over their first meal together. She’d asked if he wanted her to cook, but he said he’d picked up something yesterday in Launcegrave. She could scarce swallow the cheese, and the crusty bread lodged itself in her throat like gravel. She drank tea, both hands wrapped around the cup, and eyed him across the table. He ate and said little. Perhaps because every time he did speak, her answers came out short and halting. After finishing his meal, he left, saying he had things to attend to in the forge. She washed the few dishes with water carried from the pump outside, glancing toward the forge as she filled the bucket and then emptied out the dirty water. She swept the cottage and considered washing the windows, but by the time she’d finished sweeping, her eyes had grown heavy, fatigue weighing every muscle in her body.

  Still Mr. Hendrick had not returned.

  The night had grown chilly, so she made up a fire and sat before it, staring into the snapping flames, their pop and crackle a soothing, familiar sound. Yet she could find no comfort in it tonight. She twisted her hands in her lap and tried to steady her breathing.

  Her mother was dead, her father had abandoned her, and she was to share a cottage belonging to a man who now legally called her wife.

  For so long, aloneness had been a shadow at her heels, a companion in the evenings when Tom Brody fell asleep after coming home from the public house sated with too much drink. She’d sat by a fire much like this one, worrying about how they were going to eat, the state of the roof, what to do after he’d been dismissed from the mine.

  But now, she was more alone than ever. The truth seeped down to her bones.

  She tried to pray, as she’d often done, but no peace descended upon her spirit. Perhaps this was her punishment for some sin she’d committed, the wicked thoughts she’d entertained about her father, the times—God help her—she’d wished him dead. The Bible did say children were to honor and obey their parents, and though she’d obeyed him in most things, except in the matter of marriage to Jonas Mason, she’d not honored him in her heart.

  Her eyes fell closed, and she leaned her head against the back of the chair, praying for forgiveness, if indeed there was any to be had. To hear the parson at the church she’d irregularly attended, God’s vengeance was a fiery thing, crushing both sin and sinner.

  Minutes later, the door scraped open. Heart thudding, she started and opened her eyes.

  Mr. Hendrick stood inside. He’d changed into a worn shirt, loose in cut and rolled to the elbows, and a pair of faded trousers. His gaze took her in. She lifted a hand to her hair. It fell in mussed tangles around her cheeks, Mistress Wingfield’s handiwork dislodged by the wind and the day’s exertions.

  She rose on shaking legs. He took a step toward her. Firelight shone on the raw-hewn angles of his face and the graze of stubble on his jaw.

  Her chest tightened. Breath all but refused to come.

  She knew little of the intimacies of marriage. Her mother had died when she was still a child, and she’d had no woman friends to speak of.

  Yet here she stood, in a dimly lit room on her wedding night. Her pulse thudded in her ears. If she could push past him and flee into the night, she would.

  His eyes darkened with inexplicable emotion as he regarded her.

  “I just came in to fetch some things,” he said quietly. “I’ll be staying in the smithy.”

  “You mean … you’re not … we’re not …” The words came out ragged.

  His brow furrowed, as if with confusion. Then understanding dawned on his features, bringing a stain of red to his cheeks.

  “I’ll not ask anything of you you’re not ready for. Have no fears on that score.”

  For a moment, she just stared at him. Then a sob emerged, choked, unbidden. She clamped a hand against her mouth to hold it back. Hot tears slid down her cheeks. Her shoulders shook. She swiped at her eyes, trying to check herself, but she only cried harder.

  A touch rested on her shoulder. She looked up through a blur of tears. He stood but a step away, concern in his gaze.

  “I’m … sorry,” she gasped out.

  “Don’t be.” He pulled her against him, encircling her with his arms. Gulping sobs shuddered her body. She cried from the pain of what Tom Brody had done to her, from the tension and exhaustion of the past days, of the past year, of her life. From relief that she’d not have to endure conjugal duties, along with everything else. She cried like she hadn’t done in years, since childhood, likely.

  He let her. Stood there, surrounding her with his arms, while she soaked his shirt with her tears. Whispered words brushed her hair, so soft she couldn’t make them out. Minutes passed. Her sobs subsided. He smelled of woodsmoke and leather, and his arms were strong and warm. The cadence of his heartbeat filled her ears. Steady. Even. Safe.

  Reality doused her. Had she taken leave of her senses? What was she about, seeking comfort in his arms?

  She pulled away, taking a step back, wiping at the tears on her cheeks. The fire crackled. Silence hung between them.

  “Will you be all right?” he asked, as if he doubted she would.

  She nodded, flushing. Had she actually broken down and bawled like a child in his arms? What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been. She’d been overcome in the moment and let her guard down.

  “I’ll be fine.” Should she thank him? If so, for what? Not having his way with her? Letting her cry, and comforting, not rebuking her?

  All of these were on her tongue, when he walked past her, toward the bedchamber. She turned and stared after him, listening to the clomp of his boots and the sounds of rummaging as he gathered what items he needed.

  A few minutes later, he emerged, arms full with blankets and a pillow.

  He nodded to her. “Good night.” His footfalls echoed as he crossed to the door, opened it with one hand.

  “Good night,” she whispered too late.

  Chapter 6

  Drafts of cold air seeped through cracks in the smithy walls. The floor of the forge was no place to seek a decent night’s rest. Josiah’s aching neck protested as he sat up the next morning, bedclothes covering his bent knees.

  But rest upon it he must. Every night. Come winter, he might ask if Elowyn minded if he slept in the main room, in front of the fire. Else he’d likely catch his death.

  He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, shoulders lifting in a sigh.

  He’d begun to question any sanity he’d ever possessed. What had he been thinking, binding himself to a woman he didn’t know on a decision made in less than a day? He could have secured her a position as a servant in the village, given her ten pounds, and let that be that. Wouldn’t rescuing her from Trevenick have been enough?

  Trevenick.

  Not only had he surrendered Charles’s gift, made with the express purpose of keeping the share out of Trevenick’s grasp, he’d surrendered his chances of ever again owning a claim in Prosper. Trevenick was now the majority shareholder, and if one of the other shareholders decided to sell, ’twould almost certainly be to him.

  He’d failed Charles. He didn’t believe in ghosts haunting the living, but there was a kind of haunting nonetheless in the knowledge he
’d betrayed the trust his friend had in him. Although Charles, rough exterior belying his tender heart, would have likely come to understand why Josiah had done what he had.

  And in doing so, he’d relegated himself to this. A forge. An anvil. Pounding on metal the rest of his living days. After acquiring the share, he’d intended to continue his work in the smithy, but as his profits from the mine increased, use those profits to seek new opportunities for investment. In time, he’d hoped to give up blacksmithing and let Peter take over the forge.

  Now none of that would come to pass.

  ’Twas not the work he despised. There was satisfaction in crafting a fine piece of workmanship out of raw material, mending something broken. But mining was in his blood. Though shareholder meetings had been a poor substitute for going into the bowels of the earth to seek out precious ore, looking over maps and diagrams, deciding which route to take, which vein to throw one’s efforts behind, it had been something. The talk of lodes and copper and prices had thrilled him, notwithstanding Trevenick’s glare across the table.

  Of course, he’d only known mining up until the age of sixteen. The rest of his life had been spent at the forge. After his father lost Prosper at the gaming tables, they’d sold their manor house to pay off their creditors, and his father drifted, as if he knew not how to reckon with himself. Particularly when Prosper began to flourish under Trevenick ownership. With his ailing mother in need of care, Josiah had not been afforded the leisure to drift, and rather than seek employment at the mine and put himself in Trevenick’s power, he’d sought it with Ned Coggin, the smith. For two years, the aged man had taught him the trade. When Ned died, Josiah had ransacked their savings and bought the cottage and forge.

  His work, coupled by his father’s eventual assistance, had gained the respect of Launcegrave, and the surrounding areas. After his father’s death, the year before he’d wed Mary, he’d taken on Peter. The lad’s weak lungs were no match for going down into the mines day after day. Peter insisted Josiah had saved his life by teaching him a smith’s trade, and in return, the young man had served him well.