Conviction coursed through him.
“God.” He lowered his face to his hands. “I’m not strong on my own. I need You. Not something from You, a petition granted, just You. Fill me with Yourself so I need nothing else, so my steadfastness lies in You, not this world and the people in it. Here and now, I make a decision to forgive those with whom I’ve dwelt in unforgiveness. My father. Mary.” There, he stopped.
Trevenick had attempted to violate Elowyn. An act that, if he didn’t have every judge and magistrate in the county in his pocket, could have seen him brought to trial. Josiah ground his teeth. He wanted to unleash a great many things upon that man. Forgiveness wasn’t one of them.
“I cannot forgive Trevenick in my own strength, but I believe You can help me to find a way to do so in Yours. Help me to see him as You do.” He paused. “Forgive me for the wrong I’ve done and the anger I’ve harbored.” Again, his shoulders shook. “Forgive me.”
The final part of his prayer was one he did not voice aloud.
For Elowyn. For her to be safe. For him to be granted another chance.
For forever to not be too late.
Would the tears ever cease falling?
“I’m sorry,” Elowyn choked out between gulps. “I don’t usually do this.”
“It’s all right.” Mistress Wingfield’s tone was soothing. “If you think you’re the first who’s cried on my shoulder, you’re much mistook. With three daughters, it’s a wonder our house isn’t swimming in tears.”
Her laugh came out more like a sob. She drew away, and Mistress Wingfield handed her a handkerchief. After attending to her nose and eyes, she clenched it in her lap. Rain pattered the roof, and candles lit the Wingfields’ bedchamber.
“Now, do you think you can listen?”
Elowyn nodded, sniffling. Through her tears, she’d told Mistress Wingfield all that had happened.
“The story of Josiah’s first marriage is not mine to share. Suffice it to say, there were things that occurred. Things that, if you knew, would give you a different portrait of his behavior today. He’s suffered a great deal. Though that doesn’t excuse his actions, it may perhaps help you understand them, and realize all he said was spoken in a moment of blind anger, out of a heart raw with past griefs.”
She sat, wordless, twisting the handkerchief in her hands.
“If you ask him, I feel certain he’ll tell you. Truth is a balm that, though it may not completely heal past wounds, will help to salve them.”
Mistress Wingfield was right. They needed honesty, Josiah and she. But first, she’d have to be honest with him. She met Mistress Wingfield’s eyes. “I went to Trevenick Hall because I overheard a conversation between Mr. Trevenick and Josiah. Josiah sold his share in Wheal Prosper to save me that day, at the auction. And I did not understand why he would do such a thing.” She looked down at the handkerchief in her fingers. “He gave up a thing that he held dear for my sake, and I could not reckon with it. Until I went to Trevenick Hall and discovered the truth of its master’s character.” She shook her head. “Though he may possess the trappings of a gentleman, he is not worthy to be called by that name. Yet still, I cannot understand it. Why would Josiah do such a thing for a stranger?”
“He wished to protect you from”—Mistress Wingfield pressed her lips together—“Mr. Trevenick. That seems a reasonable enough motive, especially considering …”
Elowyn raised her gaze to the ceiling, face crumpled. “But why me?”
A warm touch rested on her knee. “My dear, I’m beginning to think your concern lies less with the sacrifice Josiah made and more with your own willingness to receive it.”
The words sank deep inside her. Elowyn met the older woman’s eyes. Fine creases netted their corners, speaking not only of her years but of the cares she’d borne in a life expended for the service of others. Compassion emanated from them now.
“Tell me: If the woman Josiah saved had been someone else, would you so utterly rue his sacrifice? Or would you think it an act of kindness? A redemption rendered?”
She looked away, fighting the truth.
She wasn’t worthy. That belief had been seeded the day her mother died and Tom Brody started drinking. If she’d been, somehow, enough, to her mother and to God, her mother’s life would have been spared. Her father would have learned to love her.
Neither happened. As time passed, he’d fallen deeper into the clutches of drink and poverty. She’d suffered in silence, her early attempts to mend his ways receiving naught but angry rebuttal. She’d begun to view herself as worthless, as he did, the state of mind chaining her to him as surely as if leg-irons shackled her. Mayhap she didn’t deserve a better life.
Josiah had changed her circumstances. But though the voices from her past had dimmed, they’d once again risen to mock her.
“I … I don’t know,” she finally said, voice weak.
“It’s not a question of your worthiness or unworthiness. None of us are truly deserving. Certainly not of grace, much less the promise of eternity. But yet, the Lord mercifully grants us both. It’s an act of love, my dear. One not dependent upon merit, only acceptance. You don’t have to attain worth to receive God’s love. It’s already yours.”
Fresh tears rushed to her eyes. Somehow, Mistress Wingfield no longer spoke of Josiah, but of God.
“At my mother’s funeral, the parson said the Lord loved only the truly good. That if we did not work every day in toil and sorrow to attain righteousness, we might as well give ourselves up to eternal damnation.”
“And you believe that?”
She shrugged. “’Tis all I’ve ever been told. I’ve wanted to fear God, and be loved by Him. Growing up, I didn’t have much time for scripture reading, and what I read, all the stories of plagues and folk being turned into pillars of salt, well, it seems to be true.”
Mistress Wingfield smiled. “God loves us enough to convict our sin, but He never condemns us for it if we seek His forgiveness. There is such a thing as judgment, but there’s also grace. ‘Where sin abounded, grace did much more abound.’ That’s in the Bible.”
“I never found such in there.” ’Twould take time to contemplate Mistress Wingfield’s words, and more time still to change a way of thinking that had been hers almost as long as she could remember.
Help me to do both, Lord.
“I’ll show you sometime.” Mistress Wingfield’s smile deepened. “As for your worthiness to accept the sacrifice Josiah made on your behalf, I believe ’twas no coincidence he did so. You are enough, Elowyn, and you’ve no need to doubt your worth, or prove it. Least of all in the eyes of Josiah.”
“Am I?” Her voice was weak. “’Tis unlikely he thinks so now.”
Mistress Wingfield shook her head. “Now that, I very much doubt. Marriage is by no means an easy endeavor, even in the best of circumstances. For two souls, each with their own brokenness, to find unity, can only be accomplished with the Lord’s guidance. But that you have. And your husband does care for you. Very much, I believe.”
“And I for him.” With all her heart, she meant it.
“Then you have that too.” She reached across and squeezed Elowyn’s hand. “In time, I feel certain all will come right between the two of you.”
Chapter 13
Waves sluiced over his body, his muscles burned, morning air prickled his face. Rightfully, these sensations should have dulled his mind into a lesser kind of torment.
They did not.
The feeble slant of sun didn’t dissipate the cold of his morning swim, but Josiah didn’t care. He welcomed the cold. Welcomed anything that would stop him from thinking of her.
Sleep had proved a miserable failure, so he’d risen early and stared blankly at the cottage. Remnants of her greeted him at every turn. The jars of preserves in the pantry, her knitting in a basket near the hearth, the fresh loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth. He didn’t dare set foot inside her bedchamber. It held traces of her everywhere, her lavender scen
t a lingering wraith.
He’d made his own tea, choked on how awful it tasted, and succeeded in burning the porridge. He’d have to scrub for a week to get the blackness off the bottom of the pot.
He sliced through the water, pushing himself hard. Brutally, especially after his brawl with Trevenick. Physical pain be hanged. Better that than the perdition of his thoughts.
Usually a morning swim was all it took to clear his head. Today, it seemed swathed in cotton wool. Except for one pummeling reality.
She’d left him.
He dove beneath the water with a growl.
He’d come to the beach to prevent himself from walking to Launcegrave, pounding on the Wingfields’ door like a madman, and begging her to come back.
I’ve been a wretched cur. I’m sorry. I beg you to forgive me. I love you, and if you let me, I will spend the rest of my days cherishing you. Every beat of my heart is a refrain of your name….
He came out of the water sputtering, water dripping from his hair. Thunderation, he sounded like a besotted addlebrain.
He was a besotted addlebrain.
He swam for the shore. His efforts to blunt his emotions by punishing exercise had done not a jot of good. Even if he had to grind his jaw and suffer every moment of every day, he’d leave her in peace. She’d said she would return. He had to trust her. Forcing her to act upon her words before she was ready would do no one good.
His clothes lay in a discarded heap on the sand. He walked barefoot up the shore and dressed. Peter was well enough to return to work, and Josiah needed to get back to the forge. Muscles thrumming after his swim, he lingered for a moment, wind scraping his face, staring out at the expanse of water.
Let my past not have destroyed my future. Make a way of redemption. And though I don’t deserve it, Lord … bring her back to me.
Gulls soared overhead, dipping and diving toward the waves. The surf swept in, then out in froths of foam. Resolutely, he turned, back to the forge and his labors and surviving with a heart scrubbed raw.
His breath hitched.
A woman came down the beach. Her hair blew behind her in ribbons of unbound gold.
His heart, his thoughts, his world stilled, fixated on one point.
Her. Walking toward him.
She approached, moving slowly across the loose sand, gaze riveted to him. This, more than their wedding morn, was her bridal walk. He stood still, wind tangling his hair, untucked shirt billowing. Watching her as if she and she alone encompassed the whole of his universe.
A few paces away, she stopped. Her pulse thudded in her throat. Standing before him, her carefully formed words dissipated. The remembrance of what had passed between them when she’d seen him last weighted the air.
“I thought you might be here.”
He made no response. Water dripped from the ends of his hair, the bruise around his eye dark, his jaw unshaven. But no anger filled his gaze. Only … brokenness.
“I came back”—she swallowed—“to tell you the truth. I heard what Trevenick said to you about the share. I know what you did. I went to see him because I thought I could somehow make it right. Because I couldn’t fathom why you would make such a sacrifice for a stranger. And”—she drew in a breath—“because I didn’t believe I could ever replace the loss of your dream. I took matters into my own hands, and chose dishonesty over coming to you. Whatever hurt or mistrust I caused you, I’m sorry.” She stopped, waiting. Stripped vulnerable by her words, yet freer because of them.
He took a step toward her, and another, until he’d spanned the distance between them. He took her hands in his, gazing down at their intertwined fingers.
“My forgiveness is freely granted. You need not have asked it. It is I who must seek it from you. There is a part of my past you do not know. Mary, my first wife, chose Trevenick’s attentions over fidelity to our marriage vows. She …” His throat jerked. Her own ached with unshed tears. “… conceived his child, and died shortly after bearing it, the child with her. After which Trevenick showed not the slightest scrap of pain or remorse. I was a younger man when it happened, and thought I had moved on, but I had not. I deeply regret my words and actions. Through them, I wounded a woman I’ve grown to love.” His voice broke. “You speak of unworthiness. It is I who is unworthy of you. Of your trust. Your heart. A return of my feelings. I dare not ask it—”
A sound between a sob and a laugh escaped her throat. “’Tis already yours. My trust. My heart. My love. All of it.”
This man who had suffered fathoms of heartache in his past had sacrificed for her, proven himself by word and deed, and now voiced a love he’d already lived out in countless moments.
She could trust him. Truly. He wasn’t her father. He was good and steadfast and aye, imperfect, but so was she. They both had scars, regrets, and parts of themselves they hadn’t yet shared, but right now, none of that mattered.
“You’re certain?” His gaze delved into hers, his voice ragged.
“I’m certain.” A smile tugged at her lips.
For a long moment, he studied her, as if he wanted to drink in the whole of her. Then, as waves crashed and sun fell warm upon them, he lowered his lips to hers. He tasted of salt and held her tenderly, his strong hands tangling in her curls. She cupped the back of his neck, pulling him closer, fingers twined in his damp hair.
Love looked like scrubbing the floor after spilled milk, glancing up at her with half a smile as he plunged the rag into the bucket. It looked like cliff-side walks, cried-out tears in the arms of one who cared, evening haircuts by the fire. Her carrying water to the forge as he wiped his hands on a rag, a grin easing over his sweat-damp face. It looked like hard work to build a simple life, realizing that love wasn’t easy, but that all worth fighting for was rarely so.
And it looked like this kiss. Gentle. Cherishing.
Josiah.
Minutes later, breathless, they drew away, his hands framing her shoulders. Her head spun from the sweetness of his lips against hers. Kissing him again was a temptation she’d not long be able to resist. But first, she must ask one thing. She took a deep breath, drawing in courage with it. “Do you think you’ll ever regret the loss of the share?”
At first, he said nothing. Wind tugged her hair in front of her face. She didn’t push it aside, eyes on him. “Nay.” He shook his head. “At times, I may miss the mine, but not the share. Having any part of the Trevenicks could never lead to good.”
“But if you’re not content—”
“That day, at the auction, I felt a moment’s loss at what I thought was treasure. But now I see it wasn’t treasure at all, but a poor imitation of something I thought would bring back the life I once had.” He cupped a hand against her cheek. “You are more to me than all the mines in Cornwall.” A tear slid down her cheek at the fervency in his voice. “My wife.” His mouth brushed hers. “My heart.” He kissed her again then leaned his forehead against hers, hands framing her face. “My love.”
Author’s Note
The opening scenes of this story were inspired by Thomas Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge, where the dissolute Michael Henchard sells his wife and daughter at a harvest fair. I first discovered this story as a teenager and have since been intrigued by whether such auctions were a fictional license of Hardy’s, or if they actually occurred in England. While researching this novella, I discovered records of several such sales, and historians give evidence to many more. Desperation and poverty, as well as family discord, led men to alienate themselves from their spouses and children in this drastic way. One hopes, as in Hardy’s novel, the women found contentment with their new families.
A heartfelt thank-you for coming along to Cornwall with Josiah and Elowyn! I pray the journey has blessed and encouraged you as you dwell in the love of a heavenly Father who calls you His. Because you are His, you are worthy.
Blessings,
Amanda
ECPA bestselling author Amanda Barratt fell in love with writing in grade sch
ool when she wrote her first story—a spinoff of Jane Eyre. Now Amanda writes romantic, historical fiction, penning stories of beauty and brokenness set against the backdrop of bygone eras not so very different from our own.
She’s the author of several novels and novellas, including My Dearest Dietrich: A Novel of Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Lost Love. Two of her novellas have been finalists in the FHL Reader’s Choice Awards.
Amanda lives in the woods of Michigan with her fabulous family, where she can be found reading way too many books, plotting her next novel, and jotting down imaginary travel itineraries for her dream vacation to Europe. She loves hearing from readers on Facebook and through her website amandabarratt.net
A TEMPERED HEART
by Angela K. Couch
Dedication
Dedicated to Terry Jean
An angel child—the aunt I never met.
For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us afar more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.
2 CORINTHIANS 4:17
Chapter 1
Charlottesville, Virginia
April 2, 1861
Thomas Flynn coiled the chain onto the desk, its music a gentle clink, clink, clink. A haunting song, but what did it matter so long as another debt was paid, one more link loosened from the fetters binding him?
“Finest work I’ve seen.” The station manager slid a drawer open and withdrew a slip of paper from his desk—the loan agreement Flynn had signed to fulfill his master’s dying wish of having his remains returned to North Carolina to be buried in the town of his nativity. Relatives had seen to the burial but had not felt compelled to reimburse Flynn the cost of travel. What could they possibly owe him? After fifteen years of breaking his back for Matthias Leighton as his apprentice, there was no better reward than being handed the run-down shop and its heavy lease. And the debt.
The clank of coins dragged Flynn’s attention to the station manager’s purse, shaken to release a few coins to its owner’s palm.
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