The Preacher's Bride (11 page)

“Brother Costin is gone much of the time,” she said. “How can I gain knowledge of his doings if I am rarely in his presence?”

The back of his hand crashed against her cheek and mouth with unexpected swiftness.

Pain shot through her jaw. The blow threw her off balance and thrust her against the table. Before she could catch herself, the sharp bones of his knuckles connected with her cheek again, then her eye. She cried out at the pain but couldn’t escape the force of his fist against her mouth. She tasted blood and swayed with sudden light-headedness.

As if in a distance, through the drumming in her head, she heard the frightened whimpers of Betsy and Johnny and the startled wails of Thomas. She clung to the babe, knowing she couldn’t let go or lose consciousness.

“I told you not to fail me.” His rancid breath fanned against her face.

She blinked and tried to bring the room back into focus. She lifted her fingers to her lips and felt the sticky warmth of blood.

His hand enclosed her upper arm and pinched her skin. “You must do what I’ve asked.”

“But, sir, how can I when he’s gone—”

“Find a way. Take his sermon notes. Letters. Tracts,” he hissed. “Get me something.”

“I’ve seen only good in him.”

With a fierce jerk, he smashed her body against his and crushed Thomas between them.

A new horror crashed through Elizabeth, and she struggled to pull away. She had to extricate herself from the luridness of his position before he suffocated Thomas.

“I always get what I want, one way or another.” His voice was low against her ear.

She jerked against him. At that moment she knew he was capable of anything, even defiling her.

“Costin shouldn’t be the only one having all the fun with you.” The hand pressing against her back began to slip downward.

Revulsion choked her and the helplessness of her position threatened to strangle her, along with the thought that the children were witnessing everything.

A knock sounded on the door. The man cursed under his breath, released her, and took a step back.

Fear propelled her away, and she flung herself toward the children. With a half sob she knelt before Johnny and Betsy and gathered them into her arms next to Thomas.

The knock sounded again.

The man glared at the door and then at her before finally donning his hat. “Don’t fail me again. Get me the information I want or you won’t fare so well next time.”

Her body shook with trembling, whether her own or the children’s, she knew not.

“Besides, I don’t think you’d like the entire shire of Bedford to hear about what really goes on behind closed doors in the Costin household. You wouldn’t want your
good
Brother Costin’s name to be sullied, would you?”

Elizabeth didn’t answer—she couldn’t think past the pain in her head.

The knock on the door changed into an insistent pounding. The man stalked toward it and flung it open, but then pulled back. The rise of his brow told her the guest wasn’t whom he’d expected.

“What do we have here?” His gaze slid down then up.

When there was no response, Elizabeth knew it was Lucy.

“Another of Costin’s women?” The man pinned Elizabeth with another hard look—one that assured her he wouldn’t hesitate to spread rumors if she didn’t cooperate.

She forced herself not to break eye contact, even though her insides screamed in protest.

With a final nod the man left.

* * *

“There’s more blood than pain.” Lucy pressed a cloth against Elizabeth’s lip. “And it always looks worse than it really is.”

Elizabeth bit back a cry. Blood had trickled onto her large white collar, her sleeves, and even her apron. ’Twas indeed a great amount of blood.

“Fulke ’as given me more split lips than I can count.” Lucy’s firm hold had stopped the blood flow, but Elizabeth’s cheek throbbed and her lip stung.

“A little pressure and it’ll be as good as new in no time.” Lucy’s soot-streaked face was lined with compassion. Since Fulke’s disappearance, the usual bruises and gashes had healed.

“Thank you, Lucy.” Elizabeth took the cloth from her and handed her the squirming Thomas. “I’m surely grateful the Lord sent you to the door when He did.”

She patted the scrap of linen against her lip and shuddered at what could have happened, horrified at the remembrance of the man’s hands upon her.

“ ’Twill be a bruise on your cheek.” Lucy moved to the chair next to Mary. Without caution, she pushed aside her stained shift and exposed herself to the babe, who grunted for his meal.

Elizabeth touched the tips of her fingers to the throbbing bone in her cheek.

“Why did the man hurt you?” Betsy asked. She sat on one side of her lap and Johnny on the other.

“Man hurt you.” Johnny sniffled and snuggled tighter into Elizabeth’s hold.

“What information does he want from you?” Mary’s voice wobbled. “What did he mean when he said you failed him?”

“Why did he hit you?” Betsy tugged at her arm.

“He hit you.”

“What do you owe him?”

The children’s voices made her dizzy. “ ’Tis a complicated predicament in which I find myself, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to answer all of your questions.”

She removed the cloth from her lip.

“Keep it there a mite longer.” Lucy patted Thomas as he sucked noisily. “The bleeding will be stoppin’ soon enough.”

Elizabeth pressed the rag back to her face. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her hand shake, and the quaking traveled to the core of her being.

“I ’ave to find a new place to live.” Lucy scraped at her scalp with dirt-encrusted fingernails. “Mr. Dugar figured out I ’ave been lying to ’im about Fulke. He said if Fulke is gonna keep missing work, then we gotta move out.”

Elizabeth willed herself to stop trembling. Shaking was for weak women. Strong women faced their difficulties fearlessly.

“Besides, I can’t pay ’im rent. He said if Fulke doesn’t work for ’im, then he got no choice but to charge us more.”

“Do you have a place to go?” Even as Elizabeth asked the question, she couldn’t seem to find the concern she knew she should have for Lucy.

“I’ll find one soon enough.”

Elizabeth nodded but placed a hand to her forehead. The throbbing in her cheek radiated outward and pounded through the rest of her head.

“The only problem I ’ave is Martha. She’s gonna have to find her own place now, or I’m gonna get into some trouble.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t gotten into trouble already for having her with you.”

“We’ve been careful. Martha only goes out at night.”

The temptation to lie down and close her eyes overwhelmed Elizabeth. Morning had only begun, but she was as tired as if she had worked a full day. Perhaps the blows to her head had knocked all the energy out of her.

By noon she knew something more was wrong than her bruised face and swollen lip. When Sister Norton ducked into the cottage after her morning at the market to check on Mary, Elizabeth nearly fell into the woman’s arms from exhaustion.

The widow gleaned information from the children about the strange man who had hurt Elizabeth. Sister Norton insisted Elizabeth go home and assured her she would stay the rest of the day to care for the children.

Elizabeth wasn’t sure how she made it to the bakehouse, but she mustered all her leftover strength to pull herself up the narrow stairs to the bedchambers. She couldn’t make it to the middle room she shared with her sisters but instead collapsed in the head room on the bed Jane shared with Henry and their children.

Then the world turned black.

Chapter
12

John couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so angry. The tap of his tinman’s hammer against the thin layer of tinplate echoed the persistent thud of rage pulsing through his blood.

“Methinks even if I find out who attacked her, I’ll be helpless to bring him to justice.” John’s face dripped with sweat. The forge was indeed sweltering, but the heat of his temper was no less cool.

For two days he’d attempted to discover who’d been behind the attack against Sister Whitbread, but he’d gotten nowhere in his inquiries. And even if he had, what could he have done?

John clenched his teeth and restrained his muscles from pounding the delicate tin too hard.

Gibbs leaned against the doorframe and watched him. “You’re making enemies. That is true.”

“They can attack the innocent and take advantage of the weak, but because I am a poor tinker there is naught to be done.”

“I believe you have started the difficult uphill climb, my friend. The more successful you are, the more our great enemy will attempt to stop you.”

“I won’t let the devil stop me.” Another billow of fire fanned through his blood and stoked his temper. And he wouldn’t let a group of disconcerted Royalists stop him from carrying out God’s calling. Not now, not when his ministry was growing so quickly.

“God is indeed working much success of late,” Gibbs said.

John nodded. “Everywhere I go, large numbers of people are coming out to hear the Gospel.” He ceased hammering and suspended the narrow tool in midair. “How can my adversaries deny that God is at work saving souls?”

“They only see that you are drawing people away from the Anglican Church and converting them to our Puritan ways.” Gibbs glanced out the door toward the cottage.

“And they are jealous. They accuse me of blaspheming Scripture because I’m preaching without one of their licenses, but really they envy my success. They would not have a simple man like me prove more skillful than their university graduates of noble blood.”

“Changes are in the wind, my friend. Even some of our own kind are growing dissatisfied with Cromwell—especially the generals.”

John had been stationed with Gibbs at the garrison in Newport Pagnell during the war. Gibbs was now minister of the Independent Congregation there. Although the need for an army post no longer existed, the garrison was still a gathering spot for many of the officers who had served under Cromwell, and Gibbs was privy to their murmurings.

“I’m afraid we cannot count on Old Ironsides or his policy of religious tolerance forever,” Gibbs said.

In the silence of the forge, the faint cries of Thomas and the squeals of the other children coming from the cottage sounded altogether too loud. Brother Whitbread had sent another of his daughters to replace Sister Whitbread, who was not only recovering from her wounds but also battling illness.

The replacement had neither the skill nor fortitude of Sister Whitbread—to say the least.

John tossed the narrow hammer to the floor and reached for the hand snips. He lifted the candlestick from the wooden mold and held it up. He turned it slowly. The crimping was finally taking the shape of a gentle wave.

He did not oft have the luxury to create tinware. His life was full of demands and his tinkering work spent repairing.

“It’s beautiful,” Gibbs murmured.

John rubbed his fingers over the smooth metal in the shape of a long cup.

“Which benefactor requested such a fine work?”

John ducked his head. A tinge of guilt and embarrassment added to the heat of his face. He spun the candlestick in his hand, wishing his friend hadn’t inquired.

A crash and another loud cry from the direction of the cottage propelled John to his feet.

“I can wait, my friend.” Gibbs nodded toward the door. “I believe you need to restore order to your home.”

John set aside the candlestick, arose with a sigh, and started toward the cottage.

When he reached the doorway, he folded his arms across his chest and watched. The young Whitbread girl was attempting to swift the babe. The squirming infant squalled as if being tortured. The girl was flushed with the efforts of consoling him and seemed oblivious to the game of war Betsy and Johnny played behind overturned benches. Each behind opposite barricades threw newly picked beets at the other, screaming war cries while dirt and red dye from the beets splattered on the floor and walls.

Mary, meanwhile, stood in the middle of the war zone and yelled for them to stop, tears trickling down her cheeks.

The fire in the hearth was too high and too hot for midsummer and was overheating the room. The strength of the flames on the bottom of the kettle forced black smoke between the crack of the lid and sent a cloud into the room with the stench of burning pottage.

Mary turned her head in his direction. “Father?”

At her one word silence descended upon the room.

Thomas’s cries faded. Johnny and Betsy cowered behind their benches. And the young girl turned to face him.

“Brother Costin,” she said with a bright smile—too bright.

John didn’t feel like smiling.

“Would you like a cup of ale?” She lowered her lashes and tilted her head. He’d seen that look often enough of late from the young maidens who wanted to catch his attention.

“How is your sister doing?” He bent over and picked up a battered beet.

“Elizabeth?”

He nodded, although he realized he still didn’t know her given name.

“She’s doing well enough,” the girl said with little enthusiasm. “She’s abed but no longer feverish.”

“You can tell Elizabeth we’ll welcome her return.”

The sparkle of her smile diminished.

He narrowed his brow and hid his satisfaction at her reaction.

She stammered over her reply before finally settling with “Yes, I’ll tell her.”

With deliberate carefulness he placed the handful of beets onto the table next to the remains of the previous meal. Then he straightened to his full height. “It appears you need to attend to our midday meal.”

She glanced at the smoking kettle and gasped. Her gaze bounced between Thomas and the kettle, as if she didn’t know what to do with either.

“Give the baby to Mary. Have the other two clean up this mess, and then send them out to the forge to await my discipline.”

John shook his head. He backed out the door and bumped into Gibbs.

“Methinks my housekeeper’s return can’t come soon enough,” he mumbled as he walked with his friend into the deserted street.

Gibbs adjusted his hat. He met John’s gaze directly. “I know it’s not long since Mary’s death, my friend. But perhaps it’s time to consider taking another wife.”

“Absolutely not!” The words roared out before he could stop them.

“Now, hear me out, John. It’s soon to love again, that’s for certain. But many a man marries for other reasons, especially a man who has children needing a mother.”

“We’re getting along fine.” He paused and forced himself to speak more slowly and softly. “It’s a misconception that children need to replace their mother. When my mother died, I didn’t want a new mother, certainly not within a month’s time, while the dirt was still fresh on her grave.”

“You were much older, my friend. And your children are so young. They need the influence and guidance of a mature, godly woman. The presence of a housekeeper isn’t enough.”

John shook his head. Gibbs was older and wiser than he—and usually right. But John couldn’t agree with him about remarriage. He couldn’t think about taking another wife yet. Maybe not ever. God’s call to preach had grown strong over the past years, and now he needed to focus on his ministry, not marriage.

Besides, his children were getting along fine without a mother—or would be when Elizabeth returned.

If Gibbs saw his housekeeper in action, he would surely have a different opinion. She was competent, his children liked and obeyed her, and from all he could surmise, she was a godly influence on them.

What more did they need?

* * *

Elizabeth sat in the four-poster bed, the mending idle in her lap. The stillness of her hands contrasted the spinning of her mind and the restlessness that had plagued her all day. When she’d been ill, she’d only wanted to sleep. But now, after over a week, she had too much time to think, and her mind was taking full advantage of the opportunity.

She couldn’t keep from missing the children and wondering if Thomas was getting enough to eat, if Mary was regaining strength, or if Betsy and Johnny were staying out of trouble. She couldn’t keep from worrying whether anyone had milked the cow or weeded the garden or picked the radishes.

Even though she had reminded Catherine before she left in the morning, she knew ’twould be a miracle for the girl to accomplish everything. Rather than listening to her, Catherine had been more interested in vanity. She’d pinched her cheeks to redden them, cleaned the spots off her apron, and pulled tendrils out of her coif to hang about her face in a wanton display.

Elizabeth sighed and picked up the petticoat she had been hemming. Certainly Catherine would accomplish her mission—to catch the attention of John. How could such a pretty, fair-haired young girl not capture a man’s notice?

After so many days with Catherine, why would John want his plain and practical housekeeper back?

“Are you still in discomfort, Aunt Elizabeth?” Her niece on the end of the bed looked up from the mass of wool yarn Jane had assigned her to untangle.

“No, love. I’m not in discomfort.” Elizabeth tried to force more cheerfulness into her voice than she felt. “I am better—at least in body, if not in spirit.” She’d likely contracted Mary’s illness, although hers hadn’t been as life threatening.

Her niece cocked her head and stared at the bruised side of Elizabeth’s face. The swelling had diminished and her lip had healed, but the discolor remained and still attracted the gawking of her family whenever they joined her.

Her father hadn’t allowed any other visitors to her room—not even Samuel when he’d brought her a gift—a piggin with a long stave shaped into a handle.

Elizabeth glanced to the far corner, where she’d instructed Anne to place it. ’Twas of good craftsmanship. Samuel had learned his cooper’s trade well.

Her gaze came back to the narrow bedside table, to the candlestick. No matter how many times she lingered over it, wonder and warmth stole through her heart. Her gaze traced the intricate leaf pattern made of tiny holes pierced in the tin. It wasn’t the workmanship that fascinated her, though it was crafted just as well, if not better, than Samuel’s piggin. Rather what sent her mind whirling was the thought of the hands that had wrought such beautiful workmanship. For her.

When Anne had delivered the gift, Elizabeth had accused the girl of confusion. Surely the gift wasn’t for her?

Even now, a part of her mind refused to believe anyone would want to bestow a gift upon her. Anyone but Samuel . . .

She tore her gaze from the candlestick and forced it back to the bucket. She ought to feel just as much gratefulness for Samuel’s gift.

With a firm press of her lips she gathered the petticoat again and picked up the thread and needle. Why couldn’t she muster the appreciation?

Surely she was just irritated that Samuel wanted her to stop working for the Costins and move up their wedding plans.

“Elizabeth!”

She raised her head at the urgent call. The stomp on the steps leading to the bedchambers grew louder.

“Elizabeth!” Her sister Anne burst into the room and gasped for breath. The girl, on the verge of blossoming into a woman, had assumed the responsibility of managing the home since Catherine had gone to work for the Costins.

Distress lined her sister’s face and sent anxiety shooting through Elizabeth. She struggled to sit up higher on the feather mattress, which sagged within the crisscross of ropes that held it in the wooden bed frame.

“Elizabeth,” the girl gasped again.

“What is it, Anne?”

Anne put a hand to her chest and dragged in a deep breath. Her gaze darted to the open window.

The heat of the July afternoon had permeated the second-story room, and even with the shutters open, Elizabeth could feel narry a breath of air. But ’twas better than the bedroom she shared with her sisters in the middle room, which had no windows at all.

“You must come, Elizabeth.” The girl’s tone was laced with panic.

Had something happened to Mary again? Or Thomas? “Whatever is the matter?”

“Come see.”

Elizabeth scooted to the edge of the bed and lowered her feet over the side.

“Hurry.” Anne pulled her up. “Sister Norton said you must hurry.”

“Bear with me, Anne. I’ve hardly been out of bed in a week.” Her legs shook as she stood. “Tell me what’s wrong. Is it one of the children?”

Anne took hold of her arm. “It’s Lucy. She’s in trouble.”

“Trouble? What kind of trouble?” Had Fulke returned? Had he discovered Lucy’s secret earnings from the wet-nursing? ’Twas only a matter of time until Lucy would be battered and bruised again—especially when Fulke realized Lucy had deceived him by hiding the coins.

“You must do something to help her.” Elizabeth clung to Anne and limped across the room to the window. “Sister Norton said you would know what to do.”

Anne pointed outside to the public greens north of the bakehouse on High Street.

A crowd from the nearby marketplace had gathered, and for a moment Elizabeth only saw the tops of hats and coifs.

Then her stomach dropped with a sickening thud. A woman was locked in the pillory.

“Lucy,” she whispered. Horror spread through her.

Lucy stood behind the long rectangular wooden structure that was fastened to a tall beam. The Bedell had clamped her head in a crude circle formed between two hinged boards, and he had locked her hands into the smaller circles on either side of her head, which would prevent her from protecting herself from anything the townspeople might throw at her. Her bright red hair fell in a tangled mass over her face, hiding her eyes.

Elizabeth caught sight of the figure locked in the stocks next to the pillory. “Martha.” Lucy’s sister sat on the ground with her feet fastened into the small holes of another set of wooden boards. She slumped and her hair too fell in disarray in front of her face.