Memories from last night washed over him. The look of stark fear on Elowyn’s face when he’d first entered the room. At first, he’d not realized why. Then it hit him. She’d thought him a brute who’d insist upon his rights as a husband, be she willing or no. The fault was his. He should have assured her earlier that their union would remain in name only.
Then her tears. Wracking sobs, cried out as her slight frame shook in his arms. He’d comforted her as best he could, but left feeling it had not been enough. The miseries she’d endured were an ocean of depths that it would take time to plumb.
Aye. He’d done the right thing, despite his doubts. Not the easy thing, mayhap, but the right one.
He rose and folded his blankets then strode into the day. Dawn’s light brushed the sky in hues of peach and pale blue. Wind rustled through the grass, reminding him of his promise to show her the beach. He went through the motions of morning chores, feeding the horses, milking the cow. Chores complete, he crossed to the pump and pulled off his shirt, the icy water prickling his skin as he pumped water over his head, the stream cascading across his chest and shoulders. Having brought no towel, he pulled the shirt back over his head and picked up the milk pail then went round the side of the house to the front. At the door, he paused. It was his. He needn’t knock.
But somehow, barging in didn’t seem right.
He raised his fist and rapped on the wood, then waited. Beads of water dripped from the ends of his hair, falling onto his shirt. He rubbed a hand across his jaw, the roughness there reminding him he’d forgotten his razor in his rush to clear out of the bedchamber last night. He’d gotten out of the habit of shaving every day. Even though he’d spent six months as a shareholder in Prosper, he’d not bothered to acquire a gentleman’s polish.
Yet now, with Elowyn’s presence, he’d do well to reacquaint himself with the practice.
No voice or step greeted his knock, so he tried again, louder this time. As before, nothing. He shifted. He had to have something for his breakfast and Peter’s. The sun told him it was already half past seven. Peter would be here within half an hour to eat before starting work. One couldn’t get an hour’s work, let alone a day’s, out of a hungry young man. His own stomach chose that moment to protest.
Make that two hungry men.
He opened the door and peered inside. Quiet and empty. Mayhap she was still abed. He didn’t fault her after the day she’d had yesterday. She’d endured enough miseries to warrant a fortnight of slumber.
He’d be as quiet as he could, getting his breakfast and Peter’s. She need not even know he’d come in. Gently, he set down the pail of milk.
The door to his bedchamber—hers now—stood half open. Taking care with every step, he crossed the main room as quietly as he could, inching toward the door. If he shut it, ’twould be quieter for her while he was fixing the victuals.
He reached for the knob.
The mattress creaked.
He froze.
Footfalls sounded, soft but audible. The floor creaked.
She was awake. And he stood outside her bedchamber, half hidden by the door.
He spun on his heel. Hang breakfast. He’d not embarrass her—or him—by coming upon her in a state of … well, never mind what state.
A muffled gasp sounded. He turned. Elowyn’s face appeared in the crack of the door, which she’d pushed almost closed. From what little he could see, she was wrapped in the coverlet from his bed, her fingers holding the fabric closed near her chin. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders.
“Good morning.” It sounded daft, but ’twas all he could think to say.
By the frantic look in her eyes it was most assuredly not a good morning. “What time is it?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Half past seven.”
Her eyes widened. “That late. I must have overslept. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be—”
“You must be wanting your breakfast. ’Twill be but a moment, and I’ll fix it.” The door shut before he could assure her he didn’t need her to cook every meal for him, that he’d make breakfast for all of them, that it was understandable and natural to be tired.
But only the closed door remained to witness any of those statements, so he went back outside, brought in an armload of wood, and stoked the fire. The flames crackled, warming the gooseflesh on his skin from his morning wash as he stirred up the blaze.
The bedchamber door opened. She’d donned her dress—the only one she owned, he realized—but her hair still fell loose about her shoulders, and bare feet peeped from beneath her skirts.
“You’ve started the fire.”
He nodded, poker in hand. “Milk’s over there. Got a full bucket today. Jinny had a calf this spring, but I sold the calf last month.” At an admittedly low price to the Darter family, whose growing children sorely needed the milk the animal would provide in time.
She crossed the floor and hefted the milk bucket in both hands. “Your breakfast … it will only be a few moments.”
“I can wait.” He hung the poker on its rack. “Help, if you like. I’m no stranger to the kitchen, though I’m not much of a cook.”
“Nay. I can manage.” She set the milk on the floor near the cupboard.
He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, hands atop the wood, folding and unfolding them. She scurried about, rummaging through the cupboard, pulling out a bag of oats, rushing to the pump for water, running back in again, hauling a pot to the fire and hanging it there. Firelight gilded her loose hair golden, flushed her cheeks.
Leaving the pot of porridge to bubble, she hurried across the room. He’d offer to help again, but for some reason, she didn’t seem to wish it. So he stood and retrieved the family Bible from the mantel.
A cry. A clang. A thud.
He turned, the heavy book in hand.
Elowyn sat sprawled on the floor in a spreading pool of milk. The tin pail lay on its side.
Enough was enough. He set the Bible on the table and strode across the room. She stared up at him, bare feet sticking out from beneath her milk-splattered skirt, lips parted with shaking breaths, eyes wide with … terror.
He held out a hand to help her to her feet. Instead of taking it, she recoiled, body trembling as much as her voice. “Please. ’Twas only an accident.”
“I’m not angry with you.”
“Then why would you strike me?” she whispered.
Strike her? What? “I was going to help you up.” He held out his hand again. This time, she took it, her grip moist with milk. He lifted her to her feet. When they stood at nearly eye level, her hand still in his, he gazed at her for a long moment. She stood still, chest rising and falling. “I would never strike you, Elowyn. Never.”
“It’s just … I overslept and spilled the milk and was altogether careless.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “What manner of man do you think you’ve wed?”
She ducked her chin. “I don’t know.”
He’d given her no cause to think him a brute. Still she came to such a conclusion. Past experience. The only teacher one had.
He swallowed, her hand small in his. “Did your father beat you?”
At first, nothing. Then she nodded, cheeks stained with shame.
White-hot anger surged through him. He wanted to ram his fist into Brody’s gut and see how that snake liked it, then bash his skull against the wall for good measure. To strike a defenseless woman, this frightened girl, his own daughter. A good many words came to mind for the blackguard, none of which the Lord would approve of.
“Hear this, and hear it well,” he said quietly. She met his eyes. “I’m not that kind of a man. I may have faults aplenty, but you need never fear I would lay a finger on you in anger. I promise you, Elowyn.” For the second time that morning, her name fell from his lips. “You’re safe here.”
“What manner of man do you think you’ve wed?”
Hours later, his words turned through her mind, cou
pled with the earnest yet firm way he’d voiced them. Her answer had been true.
She didn’t know.
When she’d laid her head on the pillow last night—one that bore the scent of the man who’d held her in his arms while she wept—she’d intended to rise early and have breakfast prepared, so he could eat a hot meal before going about his labor at the forge. With the breakfast, she’d make amends for her tears and weakness the previous night. Show him she was a hard worker who’d serve him well.
Instead, she’d overslept, exhausted from the two sleepless nights prior. She’d sought to salvage her error by rushing around, a mistake in an unfamiliar kitchen, and ended up kicking over an entire bucket of milk.
Tom Brody, when he was sober enough to notice, would have strapped her for such carelessness and waste.
Her husband had done the opposite. He’d helped her to her feet, and then he assisted her in cleaning up the milk and dishing up breakfast in time for Peter’s arrival. Noticing the state of her gown, he’d disappeared into the bedchamber and returned, a nut-brown dress draped over his large hands, saying she could wear it if she liked. She’d changed while the men ate, the garment baggy on her frame, but at least clean. It bore the faint fragrance of roses, making her wonder who’d owned the garment before, and why Mr. Hendrick had it in his possession.
When she returned to the front room, the men had left the table, bowls scraped clean. She ate her own porridge, washed the dishes, and then her gown, which she hung on a line outside to dry, listening to the sounds of clinking metal, staccato hammering, and the rumble of male voices.
After the noonday meal, vegetable stew and oatbread, which both men praised her warmly for between bites, they returned to the forge, while she washed the windows and attacked dust and cobwebs, cleaning the front room until it fairly sparkled. Hours later, footfalls sounded, and she turned from giving the room a final sweeping, broom in hand.
He’d washed at the pump, hair slicked back with water, droplets falling onto his white, open-collared shirt, the damp material clinging to his chest.
A flush filled her cheeks, and she swiped a tendril of hair behind her ear to distract herself. She’d rarely seen a man more powerfully hewn. While her father’s middle had sagged with drink and idleness, there was nothing soft about this man’s physique.
He stepped inside, boot prints tracking her freshly cleaned floor. She winced. But it wouldn’t do to mention it to him.
“Shall we go down to the beach?”
“Aye.” She nodded, excitement spiraling through her.
“Would it disturb you if I got a few more things from my … er, the room first?” He rubbed his stubbled jaw.
“Nay,” she hastened. “Please, do.”
“Thank you.” He stepped past her. “I’ll be only a moment.”
She put away the broom and smoothed a hand down the bodice of the dress. It was well stitched, though worn and faded. What woman had worn it, and what relation had she been to her husband? Again, the question rose.
“Shall we away?” His voice rumbled behind her. He moved to lay a pile of items on the table, including a razor and towel.
“Aye, Mr. Hendrick.”
He came toward her. He’d dried his hair and added a brown waistcoat over the white shirt, though no cravat. “You’re my wife, not my servant. My name is Josiah. And I’d take it kindly if you used it.” One corner of his mouth tipped upward. “Else I might think you’re addressing my father.”
“Aye, si … Josiah.” His name on her tongue tasted new and timeworn both at once.
“That’s better.” This time, his grin was full-fledged, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Upon first glance, no one would have called him a handsome man. But at his smile, her heart tripped a beat.
They left the cottage and started side by side down the winding road. Birds twittered overhead, and the sun warmed her face and hair. As in Launcegrave, Josiah didn’t walk ahead of her, but accommodated his steps to hers. Accustomed to hefting her skirts and hurrying after Tom Brody, she appreciated the thoughtfulness.
His mother must have taught him well. One wasn’t wont to pick up such manners unless one was gentlefolk. Since he didn’t seem averse to conversation, she decided to ask the question that had pressed her all day. “Who did it belong to? The dress?”
He glanced at her face then the dress she wore. “My first wife.”
His first wife.
Another woman had lived in the stone cottage, cooked meals for a man who didn’t mind lending a hand or cleaning up messes. Known the gentleness of his warm arms around her, his strong hands to help her up. Shared his bed. She pulled in a breath.
“Did she …?” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“She died. Her child with her.” He stared at the road ahead, steps without pause.
They’d had a child. Her heart twisted. The man who had wed her knew what it was to truly ache in spirit.
“I’m sorry.” To her ears, the words sounded small. Inadequate.
A trace of pain filled his gaze. “It was over six years ago. A long time past.”
The wind blew strands of hair into her eyes, the path growing steep and rocky. “Time may heal a wound, but that does not mean ’tis mended well and truly. Such a grief, ’tis a hard thing to bear.”
He nodded. “That it may be. But life has a way of helping us move on. Mind your step, now.”
Sensing that was her cue to abandon the subject, she focused her gaze on the landscape spread before her. The cliffs, craggy green and jagged stone, plunging downward. The sea, crashing against the rocks, foam white as fine lace. The sea …
Windswept. Raw. Beautiful. The waves coming in, lapping against the pale sand then falling away, into the turquoise of the water. Gulls cried overhead.
Her heart stirred at the wonder of it. They descended the path, reaching the beach itself.
“Althea Beach. What do you think?” Wind fingered his hair, tugging it over his forehead, into his eyes.
“I think it grand.” The sweep of the waves muted her words.
“And so it is.” A smile edged his lips.
She closed her eyes and tipped her face toward the wind, letting the music of the waves and the calls of the seabirds wash over her. Every indrawn breath of briny air lessened the tension in her chest, replaced by a measure of peace.
Lord, surely out of love for man You did create this place of beauty. And I thank Thee for it.
She opened her eyes. Josiah stood, watching her, the rugged cliffs a backdrop behind him.
“I must confess I could gladly stay here forever.” She smiled. “Just me and the sea.”
“I’ve ofttimes had the same feeling. Whenever I wish to think a matter through, this is where I come. I’ve spent hours staring out at the sea. Thinking. Praying. God seems as near here as He does in any church.”
Her gaze held his. “So He does.”
He held out his arm to her, and she placed her hand upon it, fingertips brushing the swell of muscles beneath his cotton shirt. For the first time, no fear stirred through her at his touch.
The sun slipped lower, painting sky and sea in golden fire. They made their way along the edge of the beach, the waves rushing in and fading away, the wind on their faces, the endlessness of it all swelling through her like rich music.
For the first time since that morning walk to Launcegrave, a spark of hope rose within her chest, caught tinder, and remained.
Chapter 7
Two Weeks Later
The familiarity of the forge wrapped round him like a cloak on a winter’s day. Tools he knew by touch, movements ingrained into the very fabric of him.
If only all aspects of life could be so clear and plain.
Josiah put the iron into the flames, forehead furrowed as he assessed the temperature. Sweat slicked Peter’s face as he manned the bellows.
“What say you?”
Peter squinted at the piece of iron immersed in the fire. “Looks to be ready.
”
Though Peter was only hired help, not an apprentice, Josiah used every opportunity to teach him the trade. At first, his inexperience had been good for little else but pumping the bellows, feeding the fire, and other tasks that required little knowledge of the craft. But as time went on and he grew in aptitude, Josiah had begun instructing him further in the skills required to be not only a passable smith but an artisan. As old Ned Coggin had once taught him.
He drew the iron out with tongs and carried it to the anvil. Peter handed him his hammer, and he raised it.
Clang-clang.
Sparks flecked off red-hot iron with every strike.
’Twas not merely a hammering out but a shaping. Every hit made with the finished item in mind. He’d learned early on that control, not mere strength, was the mark of a good smith. He fell into the timeworn rhythm.
“Fetch more coal, will you?”
“Aye, sir.” Peter headed off. “With a thump and a sound—Old Clem! Beat it out, beat it out—Old Clem!” He sang the familiar smith’s tune, which imitated the measure of hammering out iron. But as usual, Peter’s key was off, giving the song a lopsided air.
Josiah shook his head with half a smile as he hammered away, examining his work after every blow. One too many would bend the iron too far, and it would have to go back into the fire. ’Twould never do to rush the task. Still, he hoped to take Mistress Rundell’s poker to Launcegrave today, along with a few items he’d finished yesterday. The delivery of the pieces would provide the excuse he needed for the trip.
Peter returned, hauling a bucket of coal. He set it down and watched Josiah work as he shaped the curved handle of the poker. One more strike, carefully placed, and … there.
He plunged the piece into the slack tub. Steam hissed upward, clouding the air. He let it cool while he pulled his leather apron over his head and hung it on its peg. His shirt stuck to his skin with sweat, his hair damp and sticky. He needed a wash and a clean shirt to be presentable enough to set foot in Mistress Lampton’s shop.
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