The Preacher's Bride (19 page)

As Elizabeth listened, her stomach curdled until she thought she would be sick.

Sister Norton soon stumbled out of the cottage, carrying Lucy’s infant in one arm and holding the hand of another of her young ones. Deep lines creased the corners of the widow’s mouth, and blue veins crisscrossed her pale skin.

When Sister Norton reached her, Elizabeth lifted the little one from her arms and tucked the babe under the warmth of her cloak. The infant’s damp, sour clout left a wet ring on the old woman’s bodice.

Elizabeth kissed the chubby cheeks streaked with tears. The child’s wet clothes soaked into her too, but Elizabeth hugged her close anyway and brushed the child’s tangled hair away from her face.

“The children were crying and wouldn’t stop. The sound brought the neighbors in.” Sister Norton laid a hand on the head of the small boy at her side. “Poor, poor dears. No one should have to witness such a scene.”

“Where are the others?”

“One of the neighbors last saw the older children with Fulke.” Sister Norton’s eyes drooped. They had become the grandchildren the widow had never had. “I’m taking these poor dears home with me. Until the officials locate Fulke and decide what must be done, I’m prepared to keep them.”

“Being with you will bring them much comfort to besure.”

Sister Norton smoothed a hand over the infant’s cheek. Tears pooled in her weary eyes. “If only I had been more insistent that Lucy remain with us.”

“No, Sister.” Elizabeth laid a hand on the widow’s arm. “Don’t blame yourself. You gave her a taste of God’s love and goodness. You strengthened and helped her. No one could ask for more.”

Sister Norton glanced back to the crowd surrounding the cottage. “If only I could know her soul was with our Lord.”

Elizabeth could testify to Sister Norton’s efforts to share the saving love of Jesus with Lucy. But the young woman had never shown interest, almost as if life had been too cruel for her to begin to grasp the concept of a God who could care about her.

The infant squirmed and let out a wail.

Elizabeth pulled her closer to her bosom.

Sister Norton would need help.

Elizabeth’s heart squeezed with longing for the Costin children. But perchance God was giving her a new calling. The widows could certainly not take care of the young children by themselves and manage to earn the little they lived on. They would benefit from her help.

Her calling to help the Costins would soon end. That had become painfully clear that day.

Was God now providing an opportunity for her somewhere else?

Chapter
23

John riffled through the papers the constable had given him. His fingers glided along the tattered crease of one stained sheet until he reached the scrawl of smudged words—his words written in his messy handwriting, and the constable had recognized them as such.

He tossed the sheets onto his desk. Then he leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands behind his head. The disarray of his study was greater than usual and matched the tumult that had ransacked his mind the past few days since the death of the wet nurse.

He didn’t need to check whether any more of his papers had disappeared. Indeed, he wouldn’t need to worry about his papers disappearing ever again. He couldn’t find the energy to be angry at the wet nurse for having stolen from him these past months. All he could feel for her was pity. She’d likely taken them to protect herself, but in the end it hadn’t helped.

His mind flashed to the image of her body, the awkward tilt of her head on the floor, her blood forming a sticky puddle in the dirt. His gut tightened. Could he have done something more to save her?

The tinkle of laughter outside tugged his gaze to the oilskin window. The children skipped around Elizabeth as she knelt with Mary near Milkie. She patiently positioned the girl’s hands upon the cow’s teats, then sat back on her heels to watch Mary, encouraging and instructing her.

His gut twisted. She was truly a godly and loving woman. And any man would be blessed to call her
wife
.

“Oh, Lord. What have I done?” The wrinkled papers stared at him and pointed an ugly finger of accusation in his face. He’d been a sot for refusing to believe Elizabeth’s plea of innocence. He should have known he could trust her. Hadn’t he learned that by now?

He sat forward and slapped his hands on his desk. And now he was all but married to the Harrington girl. He’d begun the courtship over the past weeks, and even though it had comprised of nothing more than partaking of a few meals with her family, he could not breach the agreement now.

With a groan he slid the returned papers underneath another stack. Then he picked up his pen and dipped it into the ink. If he worked on his pamphlet, perhaps he would be able to forget—forget his frustration with himself, forget about the young woman outside the window, and forget about the fact that she would soon leave their family.

He poised the pen above a fresh paper, but his mind was suddenly devoid of any thoughts save the one of Elizabeth’s wide eyes filled with horror when she’d turned away from Lucy and let him gather her into his arms.

If he was completely honest with himself, he had to admit the bloodied corpse of the wet nurse had terrified him. He couldn’t stop thinking
What if it had been Elizabeth instead?

He fingered the tattered edges poking out from the stack. He couldn’t shove the stolen papers aside and forget about them any more than he could shove aside his fears and frustration.

He turned and glanced out the window again.

William Foster was stalking across the yard toward Elizabeth.

A burst of anxiety and anger ripped through him, and he sprang to his feet. What did that evildoer want with Elizabeth now?

His blood pumped hard with the need to get to her. He tripped over the clutter littering his study and stumbled through the cottage. Foster had hurt Elizabeth before. And now that Lucy was gone, was he back to harass Elizabeth?

John slammed open the door and charged around the cottage, his blood pulsing hotter with each pounding step.

“Foster!” he called as he sprinted into the back.

Annoyance flitted across Foster’s countenance before he had the time to hide it. More disturbing was the sharp lust in the man’s eyes directed at Elizabeth.

“John Costin,” he greeted with a thin smile that lacked warmth. “I didn’t realize you were home this afternoon.”

“What are you doing here, Foster?”

Elizabeth’s face was pale and her body rigid. But she had lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders as if she would stand up to Foster and face danger without flinching.

The fire of his temper heated and combusted with all the worry and frustration he’d felt over the past days. Elizabeth would be no match for a man like Foster. He would do what he wanted with her and then beat her senseless, just as he had likely done to the wet nurse. Although the constable had no proof to link Lucy’s death to Foster, John didn’t doubt he played a role in it.

“What do you want?” John stopped before the man, and his fist contracted involuntarily with the desire to slam his face.

“No need for hostility.” Foster tucked his riding whip through his belt. “I was merely delivering a message.”

“Don’t go near Sister Whitbread again. You have issues with me, not her.”

“Possessive, are we?” Foster raised an eyebrow. “There will come a day when you won’t be around. Then I shall have my turn.”

“State your business, Foster.” John braced his shoulders, ready for battle. If the man didn’t leave soon, John would dishonor the Lord by his violence.

Foster tipped his hat back and revealed more of his face. Even though his expression was placid like the surface of a pond, a poisonous serpent lurked beneath and swam in the murkiness of his soul.

“Word has arrived that the Royalist Army is in London.”

John had already received the news that morning. It signaled severe trouble—possibly the abolishment of the Protectorate, certainly the end of Richard Cromwell’s leadership. The Puritans could only hope that somehow they could manage to sway the rump Parliament, still largely Presbyterian, to find a new leader supportive to their Independent cause.

“In good conscience I could not pass without warning you, out of brotherly concern, of course.” The sharp swords in the man’s eyes slashed at John. He had no doubt William Foster would rather see him suffer than save him.

“Instructing people to forsake their sins and close in with Christ is not a crime now and will never be.”

“Very soon we shall find only those properly trained and sent forth by the bishop doing such instruction.”

John lifted himself to his full height. If Foster wanted a verbal battle, then he’d get one. “A call from God and fire in the soul cannot be kept within the bounds of a bishop’s license or statutes at large.”

“What does a tinker know of such weighty matters as callings and fire in the soul?” Foster’s gaze slid to his tinker shack and the places where the wattle and daub walls had fallen away. “If a tinker can preach, then who will stop the illiterate laborer in the field from preaching? Who will be able to stop anyone who says he has a
calling
from blaspheming and distorting the Word?”

“If such a man was to receive the gift, even so let him minister the same.”

Foster’s gaze lingered overlong on the cow’s post and the boards falling to the ground.

Elizabeth had used the time of their interchange to move away and had gathered the children. Now they clung to her petticoat, watching Foster with wide eyes.

“God gave you the gift of mending pots, John Costin,” Foster said. “You’d be safer to stick with what you know.”

“And you would be safer if you took your leave now and never came back.”

Foster glanced at Elizabeth.

John’s fingers tensed into tight fists, and he took a step toward Foster.

The man backed up and started to stride away. “It won’t be long, Costin,” he called over his shoulder, “till you’ll finally be forced to stay in your place.”

John stared at Foster’s back until he disappeared around the cottage. He could only pray the man wasn’t right.

“What did that snake really want?” he asked, turning to Elizabeth. He uncurled and stretched his fingers, his body tense with anger.

“He didn’t have the chance to say.” She gave Betsy and Johnny comforting hugs and then nudged them back to their play. “ ’Tis no doubt he wanted me to spy again,” she said quietly, once they had run off. “I’m just glad you were home.”

Sudden helplessness overwhelmed John. Elizabeth very well could have been home alone, and Foster could have done anything he wanted with her, as he’d done with the wet nurse. With a groan, he stuck his fingers into his hair.

“Please,” she rushed. “I have not stolen again, nor will I. My life isn’t so valuable on this earth that I would sin to save it.”

“No, Elizabeth. I know you won’t steal.” Now he understood why she had taken his paper. She had needed something—anything—to try to protect herself from Foster. And once again she needed a way to stay safe. But how could he protect her?

“Truly, I promise you. I won’t take from you again. I learned the lesson God had for me—”

“I know you learned, and I know you won’t take again.”

“I— What did you say?”

Shame washed over him. He’d been too hard on her; he hadn’t listened to her. As usual, he’d let his temper have control. In God’s eyes, his quick judgment had been no less sinful than her stealing. Perhaps his was worse, for he’d harbored pride and unforgiveness in his heart these past months when she’d shown humility and repentance.

“You weren’t the one taking the papers,” he said.

“I wasn’t? I mean, you believe me now?”

“I know it wasn’t you.”

“How?”

“The constable found some of the missing papers on the wet nurse.”

Elizabeth nodded, as if the news made perfect sense. “She would have been easy prey for Mr. Foster.”

“His horse was at the cottage the day of her murder.”

She shuddered. “Now I know why he has left me alone these past months. He had someone else doing his evil deeds.”

John folded his arms across his chest and watched the play of emotions on Elizabeth’s face. He was sure she was thinking the same as he was. Now that the wet nurse was dead, was today’s confrontation with Foster a foreshadow of what was to come? Would he harass Elizabeth again?

She met his gaze directly. Her eyes filled with determination. “God is my shield and my protector. Whom shall I fear?”

He liked the color of her eyes. It was unusual—like the gray of stones, strong and unshakable.

“ ’Twill not be much longer either,” she said hesitantly. A rosy hue flushed the cream of her cheeks.

“Not much longer?” A breeze gently lifted the loose strands of her hair and caressed her neck with them.

“With courtship underway, you won’t need me many more weeks. ’Twill not be long before you have a wife.”

Her words splashed against his face like thawed river water on a spring day. He took a step back, as though somehow he could avoid the reality of what she’d said.

But reality stalked him as it had the past days since Lucy’s death. He was bound to marry another woman. He’d already made an agreement with Elder Harrington. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember the girl’s name, that he didn’t know anything about her except that she was young and pious. He’d given his word that he would marry her, and now he must follow through or lose the respect of the community.

His insides twisted, and he tore his gaze away from Elizabeth.

He focused instead on Mary, holding tight to Thomas’s leading strings, laughing as she followed slowly behind him. The infant toddled in the matted grass, held to his unsteady feet by the lengths of fabric attached to the back of his dress.

The boy’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright, and his smile as wide as a sunlit meadow. A pang shot through John’s heart. Thomas would soon reach the first anniversary of his birth—something he’d never dreamed would happen.

Elizabeth’s steadfastness had saved the baby. Her devotion and determination had held his family together, made them stronger, helped his ministry thrive. How would they get along without her?

The aching swirl in his gut tightened. He’d been a fool to let her go.

“Methinks you will need to steal from me again.”

“No. Never.”

“Yes. Stealing is the best way to keep Foster from harming you.” The least he could do was keep her safe in the remaining weeks.

She straightened her shoulders. The gray of her eyes had turned to polished iron. “I have promised, and I won’t break my word.”

“What if I steal papers from myself and give them to you? You wouldn’t be breaking your word then, would you?”

She started to respond, then stopped and raised her brows.

He forced his lips into a grin.

Understanding dawned in her eyes.

“And I would know which are the best papers to steal, since they are my own. This might even be the occasion to write a few more especially convicting sermons about rich men abusing the poor. These would be the best to steal, don’t you agree?”

Elizabeth smiled. “ ’Twould be a good opportunity to preach to Mr. Foster about the sinfulness of his ways.”

“Indeed it would.”

Her smile was fresh and guileless and reminded him of the godly woman she truly was. Certainly she was not perfect—stealing his paper had shown that. But she was humble and upright in heart.

“I’m sorry for not believing you earlier.” He couldn’t keep his gaze from lingering on the tendrils of her hair dancing about her face.

“No, ’tis I that offended you. Though I don’t deserve it, I still covet your forgiveness.”

“I give it to you now and am sorry I didn’t give it long ago.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded, feeling something inside that he shouldn’t toward Elizabeth—something he hadn’t felt in a very long time—a warmth, a thawing, the beginnings of a desiring.

As if sensing that something in him, she ducked her head and focused on the cuff of her sleeve.

The strange stirring made him want to draw nearer to her. By the shy lowering of her lashes and the pink innocence of her cheeks, he realized she didn’t know the effect she was having upon him. She wasn’t trying to ensnare him nor was she flirting with him. She was completely unaware of the freshness and vitality of her womanliness, and that only added to her allure.

Elizabeth Whitbread was an appealing woman, and as his eyes drifted over her, he wondered that in the many months she had worked as his housekeeper, he had never noticed it.

He shook his head. It was neither fair to Elizabeth nor to the Harrington girl for him to entertain such desirings. He would do best to put such thoughts of Elizabeth far from his mind.