The Preacher's Bride (14 page)

The thatcher squinted down at Elizabeth and studied her through the slits of his eyes framed by arches of untidy gray eyebrows.

The young man cursed under his breath and raised his riding stick. “You are a foolish old man.” He brought the whip down hard and aimed it at the thatcher’s face.

Before the strip made contact, the thatcher snatched it with bare fingers and yanked it out of the attacker’s hand with a strength that nearly pulled the man from his horse. Then he brought the switch around and snapped it at the man, slashing him across his leg.

The attacker’s horse whinnied and sidestepped, moving the young man out of reach just as the thatcher snapped the whip forward again.

This time the switch slapped only air, and the old man chortled. “Think you it isn’t so pleasant to be on the other end for once?”

Her assailant steadied himself on his horse and clenched his jaw. “You will pay for this.” His words were low and ominous.

“You might be able to ride around on that horse of yours and amuse yourself beating helpless girls. But you can’t never bully me. I’m not afraid of the likes of you.”

The young man spat at the thatcher’s feet. “Someday you’ll be afraid. I’ll make sure of it.” Then he turned to Elizabeth.

She clutched the thatcher’s wife.

“And you—” He spat on her skirt. “I’m not done with you yet. Just you wait.”

He jerked his hat low over his eyes. Then he dug his heels into the flank of his horse and galloped away.

Chapter
15

John paced in front of the meetinghouse, each step heavy with the weight of his frustration. “None of it is true. Not one word of it.”

“Calm down now, Brother,” Vicar Burton said. “We shall learn the truth when she gets here.” The vicar stood before the entryway with several elders. Their anxious eyes followed John back and forth.

John couldn’t blame them. He was full of questions too. Heat burned through his blood and radiated through his whole body. He tugged at his doublet and wished he could shed a layer or two of his meeting clothes. The sun hadn’t reached its high point, and yet his body was already sticky with sweat.

When he’d arrived a short while ago and made his way into St. John’s, he’d tried not to notice the stares, the whispers behind hands, and the accusation on faces. But when the elders and Vicar Burton had approached him and asked to meet with him in private outside, he’d realized something was seriously wrong.

“We have heard that Elizabeth herself has claimed you are using her as your mistress,” one of the elders said.

“Why would she say such a thing?” John shook his head. “It’s not true—not in the least.”

Disappointment roiled through his gut. After all the weeks working for him, surely Elizabeth wouldn’t stoop to spreading rumors, would she? He didn’t want to believe she’d merely been biding her time, waiting until an unsuspecting moment in which to tell vicious lies—lies to trap him into marriage. Maybe another maiden would attempt such deceit, but not Elizabeth.

He dragged in a deep breath of warm summer air and tried to calm the churning in his stomach. He’d believed Sister Whitbread was different, that she truly was serving his family out of her devotion to God and out of her growing fondness for his children. She had seemed genuine—a girl who spoke her mind and lived without pretense.

How could he have misjudged her? Certainly he hadn’t.

“Come now, John,” Vicar Burton said with a cough. “We’re not saying the rumors are true. And we’re not saying we don’t believe you. We only want to hear what she has to say for herself.”

“When she arrives, she will put these rumors to rest.” At least he hoped she would. He dreaded to think how the rumors would damage his reputation if they spread—even now would put a blemish on him. Elizabeth needed to arrive quickly and tell everyone the truth.

The large wooden door of the church squeaked on its rusty hinges. Samuel Muddle lumbered out, followed by his uncle.

“We’ve heard the most disturbing of rumors.” The uncle approached the elders. His forehead wrinkled underneath the brim of his hat.

“We’re aware of what’s being said,” Vicar Burton replied. “And we hope to clear any misunderstandings as soon as the Whitbreads arrive.”

Samuel puffed out his chest and glared at John.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard.” Indignation sprang to life in John. “But none of it is true.”

“Elizabeth Whitbread is a chaste woman.” Samuel’s voice filled with accusation. “If anyone is to blame, it must be you.”

“There is no wrongdoing!” John balled his fists and fought the urge to pummel them into Samuel’s bulging belly. “Why must everyone assume the worst?”

“Because you’re a rogue.” Samuel took another step forward.

John stiffened. If Samuel Muddle wanted a fistfight, then he’d get one. Even though he’d put off the fighting ways of his past, he hadn’t forgotten how to give out a few good punches.

“You have a past reputation, Brother Costin,” Samuel’s uncle said. “I’m sorry. But it still follows thee.”

John straightened his fingers and tried to rein his frustration. He wouldn’t help matters by resorting to a fistfight with Samuel. He’d only prove Samuel’s uncle right. Besides, he’d brawled enough in his past to know it would only add fuel to his anger.

“I forbid Elizabeth from working for you any longer,” Samuel said.

“Now, let’s not be hasty.” Vicar Burton waved his hand at the street. “Brother Whitbread is coming even now.”

John swung his gaze to the bowlegged man walking toward them. His cane tapped a slow rhythm on the dirt street. Only Henry and Jane with their children attended him. Elizabeth was nowhere in sight.

Where was she when he so desperately needed her skillful tongue to smooth out the situation? John wanted to groan in frustration but instead blew an exasperated breath.

When they turned off the street onto the stone path, Brother Whitbread came to an abrupt halt, his face creased with worry.

“Have ye heard the news of mine daughter?” His gaze skimmed the crowd.

Vicar Burton nodded. “Indeed, Brother. That’s why we’ve gathered.”

“Something has got to be done, Mr. Burton.” Brother Whitbread thumped his cane on the stones. “This cannot happen again.”

“I think we can all agree with that,” the vicar replied.

“We must put a stop to the attacks—” Brother Whitbread started.

“We must bring an end to the rumors—” John said at the same time the old man spoke.

“What rumors?” Brother Whitbread’s eyes narrowed.

“What attacks?” John stared at the baker.

Except for the twitter of a sparrow in the scraggy elm near the street, silence descended over the churchyard.

“Perhaps you had better go first, Brother Whitbread,” Vicar Burton finally said. “I daresay we’re all perplexed.”

Brother Whitbread’s gaze traveled over the men, confusion in his kind eyes. “Have ye not heard, then? My Elizabeth, my daughter—she was attacked this morning whilst she delivered bread to the poor.”

John’s breath stuck sharply in his chest. “No.” Not again.

“We had not heard.” Vicar Burton’s voice lowered with concern.

“How is she?” The words squeezed past the tight dread closing off John’s throat.

“She’s in pain. But she’s of hardy stock, my Elizabeth.”

“What happened?” Samuel Muddle stumbled over his words. “Who attacked her?”

Brother Whitbread wobbled. Henry stepped to his side and braced him. “It was the same man as the last. Only he took his riding whip to my daughter this time.”

John’s mind flipped back to the picture of Elizabeth on her bed after the last attack, the purple and black welt against her pale cheek. His heart kicked against his ribs. What kind of brute would prey on his housekeeper? With a riding whip, no less?

Samuel pointed a trembling finger at John. “This too is your fault, John Costin. You’ve been nothing but trouble for Elizabeth.”

John’s skin bristled at the allegation
and
something more uncomfortable—something akin to guilt. He would take full responsibility for putting Elizabeth in danger because of her association with him, but Samuel Muddle didn’t need to add to his public disgrace.

“Methinks you have never liked her working for me and are just looking for an excuse to have her stop.”

“We’d be married by now if it weren’t for you.”

“Elizabeth is a grown woman. She made her own decision to work for me.” John willed calmness to his voice. “Perchance she housekeeps because she is looking for a reason to postpone marrying you.”

“That’s not true.” Samuel’s face puffed with crimson. He strained forward, but his uncle’s hand upon his arm restrained him. “She
is
ready to wed me.”

“Then why does she continue to work for me?”

“She won’t . . . I won’t let her . . .” Samuel sputtered and pulled at his breeches.

John couldn’t hold back a smirk. Samuel’s tongue was no match for his—nor for Elizabeth’s. She would easily tire of his witless words. She needed someone who could keep her sharp as well as in her place, and Samuel Muddle was not that man.

“I won’t let Elizabeth work another day in your house, Brother Costin.”

“That’s not your decision.”

“But she must stop.” Samuel’s tone turned into a whine. “It isn’t safe for her anymore.”

“I will find a way to keep her safe.” But even as he said the words, the emptiness of them echoed through him.

“I think I have to agree with Samuel.” Brother Whitbread shook his head sadly. “My Elizabeth is in too much danger working for ye, John.”

John met the kind eyes of the baker, and deep in his soul he knew the old man was right. Fresh frustration pumped through him. He wanted to lash out at his enemies for hurting her again. He’d gladly take the stripes across his back if he could spare her the pain.

“If only mine enemies would attack me instead,” he mumbled, but then stopped. What if his enemies
were
attacking him?

He reached for Vicar Burton. “The rumors. Elizabeth didn’t spread the rumors. She had nothing to do with them.”

Samuel rolled his eyes.

“Elizabeth once told me the attacker threatened to spread rumors that would destroy me. And now he has carried through.”

“Who would want or have need to spread such rumors?” Vicar Burton patted his handkerchief across his damp forehead.

“I can think of many Royalists who would like to silence our Brother Costin,” Elder Smythe said.

“By spreading vicious lies they hope to see me defamed and bespattered.” John doffed his hat and ran a sleeve across the mop of hair sticking to his brow. “And they are right. Who will want to listen to a preacher charged with the grossest of immoralities?”

His heart dipped with the thought of the repercussions the falsehoods could have on his ministry. Surely no one would come to hear him preach now. People would shun him.

“Elizabeth, my daughter, will testify before the whole congregation that you have only been kind and honorable to her in every way.” Brother Whitbread leaned heavily against Henry. “We can make efforts to refute the lies of your enemies, John. But my Elizabeth will still be in danger as long as she is working for you.”

“I will post the banns,” Samuel cut in, “and we will get married as soon as possible.”

“If she marries Brother Muddle with all haste, then our enemies will have no more fodder for gossip,” said another elder.

The elders murmured and nodded among themselves. John heaved a sigh and dug his fingers through his damp hair.

“If Sister Whitbread doesn’t work for Brother Costin, then who will?” Elder Smythe asked. “Surely none of our women will be safe.”

“I would not want to place my daughter in harm’s way,” said another.

“But I must have someone.” A twinge of panic pushed John to his full height. “The preaching ministry is demanding more and more time away from home. How can I continue without help?”

Again the men spoke around him, their voices growing louder.

“John needs someone . . .” Vicar Burton started but then trailed off on a cough that wracked his body and left him speechless.

God had called him to preach. Surely he wouldn’t want the ministry to suffer now—not when he was beginning to reach so many people. “Don’t you see?” he shouted above the clamor. “This is exactly what the Anglicans want. They want to prevent me from preaching. And they think that by starting licentious rumors and frightening away my help, they will force me to stop.”

The passion of his words brought silence.

“We cannot give in to their tactics to scare us from spreading the true Gospel of our Lord.”

Several of the elders nodded.

“If I do not continue with my preaching, then our enemies will think they have won—that they can badger us into submission. This is what they want—to control us and to frighten us into doing their will.”

More of the men nodded.

“My foes have missed their mark in their open shooting at me,” he continued. “If all the fornicators and adulterers in England were hanged by the neck till they were dead, John Costin would still be alive. I call not only men but angels, even God himself, to bear testimony to my innocence in this respect.”

He stood, his wide shoulders braced like his feet for battle. “No. I will not fear them or their slanders of the blackest dye. They will not scare me away from my preaching.”

“How will you defend yourself, John?” Vicar Burton asked through a wheeze. “How will you uphold your reputation?”

“Sister Whitbread will give testimony. And I will defend myself with my preaching and writing, as I always have. The truth will be made known and will prevail.”

He listened to the calls of agreement.

“Since we are all of the belief that we must stay strong against our opposition, then you will not object to Sister Whitbread continuing her housekeeping duties.”

Samuel gave a loud grunt of protest, but before he could speak, Brother Whitbread held up his hand and silenced him. The baker’s shaggy brows came together, and his gaze met John’s, peering down into his very soul.

“I do not like the danger of the situation,” Brother Whitbread said.

“And I don’t like it either,” John added.

Brother Whitbread stared deeper. John wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but finally he sighed and looked at Samuel.

“Since we are unable to come to an agreement, we must let my Elizabeth decide.” He straightened himself and hobbled forward with his cane. “When she’s feeling better, she’ll make the decision.”

Samuel nodded. Brother Whitbread walked past them to the church door, and only then did Samuel toss John a triumphant smile.

A sickening lump lodged in John’s gut. What would happen if Elizabeth chose Samuel over him?

He’d surely have a difficult time finding a suitable replacement—if he could find one at all. His ministry would indeed suffer.

But for some reason that wasn’t what bothered him the most.