The Preacher's Bride (20 page)

For the fraction of an instant, he pictured himself pounding on Elder Harrington’s door, barging inside and blurting out that he’d changed his mind, that he no longer wanted the man’s daughter.

But as quickly as the thought came, he shoved it aside—angrily. The repercussions would only stir up dissension, damage his ministry, and bring disgrace upon himself and Elizabeth.

He’d already made his choice. Now he needed to live with the decision—as frustrating as that might be.

Chapter
24

The pungent smell of onion burned Elizabeth’s nose and eyes. The knife made sharp chops against the table and the shriveled roots, the last of what she had stored from the previous fall harvest. With rapid slices, she diced them for the pottage of dried peas and barley bubbling in the pot.

“I’m past ready for fresh vegetables again,” she said.

“Me too,” Betsy replied from her spot on the floor with the other children.

The rumble of thunder sounded in the fields beyond the cottage, and Elizabeth glanced to the open shutter, hoping the rain would wait until Mary returned from milking the cow. ’Twould not be easy for Mary to carry the small pail of milk back to the house on slippery ground.

“Mary better hurry.” Elizabeth chopped steadily. “If she wasn’t so stubborn about doing it herself, I’d send you to help her, Betsy.”

“She doesn’t like my help with anything.” Betsy flipped a cloth ball into a wooden cup. “Thomas doesn’t know how to play the game.”

Elizabeth had sewn together stuffed straw balls for each of the children. Then she’d tied string to the balls and to the handles of their mugs and shown them how to toss the balls up and try to catch them inside.

She smiled as Thomas stuffed the ball in the mug, then dumped it out, stuffed it back in, then dumped it out again, repeating the motion over and over. “Thomas is indeed having a grand time, even if he isn’t following the game.”

Elizabeth scooped the cut onions onto a wooden platter, turned to the boiling pottage, and scraped them into the pot. With a long-handled ladle, she stirred the onions into the thick greenish-gray gruel.

She would soon be finished with her housekeeping job. ’Twould not be many more days before her leaving—at least if Catherine’s latest gossip was true. If so, John would trothplight to Lizzie Harrington by week’s end and post the banns not long after.

With a sigh, she lifted a spoonful of pottage and blew on it. She’d tried to resolve herself to the inevitable, but she couldn’t muster up fervor for helping the Sisters take care of Lucy’s orphans. Nigh three weeks had elapsed since Lucy’s death, and they hadn’t seen any signs of Fulke. The widows would benefit from her help. Surely God was giving her a new calling.

Why, then, couldn’t she embrace it with joy?

She sipped the pottage then dipped the ladle back into the pot and stirred.

The door, already open a crack for Mary, squeaked as it opened wider.

“How did you fare?” She banged the spoon against the edge of the pot and then moved the pot hook, swinging the kettle away from the flames to keep it from burning.

“How I fare will depend on you.”

Elizabeth jumped and dropped the ladle. It landed on the floor with a clatter. Her fingers shook as she slipped them into the pocket under her apron and felt for the paper she had tucked there.

William Foster’s boots tapped sharply against the cottage floor. Fear slithered through her, but she squared her shoulders and turned.

He swept his wide hat from his head, revealing his cold smile.

“Go away, Mr. Foster. You aren’t welcome here.”

“Now, Elizabeth, is that any way to treat someone who has the power of your life and death?”

She lifted her chin. “What do you want?” Her heart whispered a desperate plea to the Lord for strength.

“Oh, I want many things.” His footsteps echoed as he slowly, deliberately, began closing the gap between them.

She slid toward the table, anxious to keep a barrier between them.

“With the other wench dead, someone has got to do my bidding.”

She fumbled at the strings of her pocket and pulled out the sheet John had given her. With trembling fingers she shoved it across the table toward him. “There. Now leave.”

Guilt seeped through her as she watched him pick up the paper and stuff it into his doublet without so much as a glance. Even though giving him the decoy had been John’s idea, her heart agonized over the thought of giving the man anything.

Mr. Foster laid his hat on the table across from her and began tugging at the fingertips of his leather riding gloves.

“You have what you came for. I must insist that you take your leave.”

One finger at a time he continued loosening his gloves. “I don’t yet have everything I want.” He raised his gaze to her, the lust in his eyes unmistakable.

Fear coiled tighter and pinched the breath from her.

“You’re more comely than the other wench.”

From the look in his eyes, she understood then the depths of his evilness, the vileness with which he had treated Lucy. She wondered that Lucy had never given any indication of the abuse she had received from Mr. Foster. She supposed Lucy was so accustomed to having one man hurt her that she couldn’t resist another.

He slid a glance to the children, who watched him with wide eyes. “I suggest we conduct the rest of our
business
in the other room.”

“We have no other business, Mr. Foster. You have all you’ll get from me this day.”

His smile faded. “If you knew what’s best for you, you’d do as I say.”

She took a deep breath to quell her shaking. Then she saw the knife lying on the table, bits of onion still clinging to its blade. Without thinking, she lunged for it, grasped it between both hands, and held it out before her.

The blade glinted. The tip was sharp, even if the long edge was dull.

Mr. Foster glanced around the room as if searching for another weapon.

“If
you knew
what was best for you, you’d take your leave.” She tried to keep her voice and hands from quivering.

Fury darkened his eyes, and his lips pinched together in a tight line. “You are a foolish girl. A very foolish girl.”

“I’m not like Lucy. You can’t push me into immoral deeds.”

“You’re a fool to resist me.”

“I’d rather die than submit to your evil intentions.”

Again he searched the small room. This time he spotted the broom near the hearth.

He darted around the table toward it.

Elizabeth backed toward the children and held the knife out in front of her.

“You would rather die?” He grabbed hold of the broom. “Then I shall grant you your wish.”

She stood near the children, her body tense, her mind whirling. She would be no match against him should he come at her with the broom.

He thrust the end of the broom into the low flames on the hearth and the fresh straw burst to life.

Her heart slammed hard in her chest, and she pointed the knife at him.

Strangely, however, he walked away from her, grabbed his hat and gloves from the table, and headed for the door. When he reached the doorway, he swung it open and turned to face her. “No one crosses me without paying for it.”

The straw was burning fast, the fire leaping up. She cringed as the flaming end of the broom came within inches of the doorframe. If he wasn’t careful, the fire would spread.

“I’m sure you remember what happened to the thatcher and his wife.” He glanced sideways at the burning broom.

Her eyes were riveted on the crackling, sparking fire.

“No!” With a scream she rushed toward him.

But he was too quick. In an instant he was outside and slammed the door shut.

She yanked it and heaved on the handle. “Please, open the door! Please!”

The clinking of a chain scraped against the planks of the door.

Her frantic heartbeat sputtered. She glanced toward the window. It was high, but they could surely escape through it.

She started forward, but he slammed the shutters closed before she could reach them.

Darkness shrouded the room and descended over her soul.

“The children!” Her chest heaved and fear made waves through her. “Please let the children out! They’ve done nothing to deserve this!”

Thomas’s cries were shrill and incessant.

The thump of something hitting the roof was followed by the sound of horse’s hooves galloping away.

With pounding heart she stared up through the cracks of the floorboards of the loft. For an instant, paralyzing fear gripped her. She had the oddest feeling she had already experienced the situation and was reliving a nightmare. She imagined the scorching heat surrounding her and the long fingers of the flames reaching out to grasp her. She backed toward the wall, desperate to escape their grip.

In a daze she searched the room for a place to hide. Through the open door of the bedchamber, the bed beckoned her to the dark, shadowed place underneath. A dreamlike haze urged her to find safety in the black cavern there.

Somewhere in a distant corner of her mind she heard crying—the frightened, pitiful cries of a small child, endlessly calling for a mother and father.

The yanking of her petticoat wrenched her mind back to the present.

“Did he leave?” Johnny looked up at her with innocent, trusting eyes. His fist grasped the folds of her skirt.

Elizabeth looked first at him and then at Betsy, who was trying to console Thomas. She blinked hard and tried to understand what was happening.

Murder. William Foster was murdering her.

He had locked her into the cottage and had thrown the burning broom onto the roof. Though the thatch was damp with recent rains, the rye yelms would still burn and the flames would spread—albeit more slowly—and would eventually reach the mud-twig walls and easily burn the entire cottage to its foundation, taking them with it.

Just like the thatcher’s wife.

They would be roasted alive. A cold shudder rippled through her.

“Lord, won’t you spare these precious children? Take me, if thou must. But please spare these little ones.”

Thomas’s wails had grown wilder. Elizabeth dropped the knife on the table, hurried to the infant, and drew him to her bosom. She pressed her lips against the silkiness of his hair and then against the sweet roundness of his cheek. Murmuring words of comfort in his ear, she hugged him tightly and rocked from side to side.

His cries subsided and his body relaxed. He fully trusted her and believed she would protect him. He was too young to understand how fleeting his safety was, that ultimately he would die if she didn’t do something.

She glanced through the ceiling cracks again and saw thin wafts of smoke filtering into the loft.

If only she could get help . . . get someone to open the door . . .

Her mind flashed to Mary outside milking the cow.

“Children, come with me.” Her voice was sharper than usual, and their eyes grew frightened once more.

Mary could go to the neighbor’s.

“Come with me quickly.” She herded them toward John’s study, and as she passed the table she picked up the knife.

The children hesitated at the door of their father’s forbidden closet. Elizabeth didn’t have the fortitude to explain that much more was at stake than their father’s anger. “He’ll understand,” she reassured them.

She used the knife to cut through the oilskin covering bound tightly across the window. After a few minutes of jabbing and slicing, she opened a hole.

She peeled back the tear and peered toward the forge. Mary’s milking pail sat next to Milkie, but she didn’t see the girl anywhere.

“Mary!” With each call her voice grew hoarse and the tension inside tightened.

Finally, in desperation she stabbed the oilskin, yanked it, wrenched it wide enough to fit the children through.

At last, with sweat beads slicking her forehead and her chest heaving from her efforts, she reached for Betsy. The girl offered no resistance when Elizabeth stuffed her through the hole. She was thankful the girl was obedient and daring enough to follow her instructions without questioning or crying.

“Go to the forge,” she ordered from the window once all three were safely outside. “Go there and don’t leave. Do you understand?”

Betsy nodded and pulled on Thomas’s leading strings.

“Don’t leave for any reason.” With tears on their cheeks, they hastened to obey. “Betsy, you must watch Thomas and Johnny. They’re your responsibility. You’re to wait in the forge with them until help arrives.”

She watched until they disappeared inside the forge. Then she stood back and stared at the hole in the oilskin. The window was too small for her to fit through. Even if she managed to chop away more of the skin, she wouldn’t be able to squeeze through the opening. Her mind whirled at a dizzying speed and passed by all the possible escape routes again. Finally, her thoughts screeched to a halt.

Only one thing was certain.

There was absolutely no way to get out of the house.

She was trapped.

Chapter
25

All that mattered was that the children were safe.

Smoke from the burning thatch permeated the cracks in the loft floor. The haze was just a cloud, high and hovering. But Elizabeth’s body shriveled at the thought that the smoke would begin to push lower until eventually she wouldn’t be able to breathe.

She watched it swirl above her. Perhaps the smoke would kill her first. Then she wouldn’t have to experience the pain of having her flesh burned.

A shudder made a trail to her knees and threatened to buckle them underneath her weight. “Lord, please send help.”

She lived to please the Lord, to serve Him, to do His will. Would He let her suffer this way? Surely not. Surely He would reward her for her faithfulness. Didn’t He promise to take care of those who served Him well?

With her back against the wall, she slid to the floor. The flames crackled in the thatch, and the scent of damp smoke permeated her senses. The neighbors would see the flames and smoke by now too. They would come to help.

She crawled to the door and banged it with her fists. “Help! Someone help! Please let me out!”

The shouts in the street were faint. Even if they saw the fire, would they be able to get past the chain on the door and free her from the burning inferno before it was too late?

Smoke poured over the rafters near the ladder and began to bathe the room with thick grayness. It rolled across the ceiling, and panic sprouted out of fear and urged her to hide.

Her mind screamed with the need to find a safe place. She fixed her eyes on the bedchamber door and the dark place under the bed, but she couldn’t make herself move. Her arms and legs were paralyzed. For a long instant the room swirled before her. She was sure she was dying.

Then her raging heartbeat gave way to a shaky, unsteady feeling. A clammy sweat dampened her hands and head, and she found herself scrambling forward on hands and knees toward the bedchamber.

In seconds she made it to the bed and began shoving crates and baskets out of the way. When she had cleared a big enough space, she crawled underneath.

Clods of dust and cobwebs itched her sweaty face. Loose mattress feathers and dried insects stuck to her forehead. She rested her cheek against the cool boards and took a deep breath of the mustiness. The pounding of her heart echoed in the stillness.

She’d heard accounts of the day the Royalist army had ridden through Bedford during the Civil War, killing and maiming and setting fire to the town. She’d only been an infant, too young to remember anything. But the soldiers had murdered Robbie that day.

She’d heard her mother talk about that dreaded day often enough. Her mother had blamed herself for not better protecting Robbie when the Royalist soldiers had turned onto High Street. Their father had been away delivering bread to the parliamentary army, and her mother had been large with child and nearing birthing time. She’d had three young children to protect, and she’d been knocked unconscious during the rampage. But none of the excuses mattered. She’d held herself responsible for the soldier’s blow that had taken the life from her son.

The bakehouse had been one of the businesses nearly burned to the ground. If it hadn’t been for the quick thinking of neighbors, they all would have perished in the fire. A few brave men had pulled their unconscious mother from the flames and managed to find her and Jane under one of the beds.

Elizabeth choked on a sob. She prided herself for being a strong woman and not succumbing to fear and disaster. Her mind told her she ought to climb out from under the bed and face the fire with bravery and integrity instead of cowering like a child. But dread nailed her to the floor.

A sudden banging and shouting at the door startled her.

Her heart thudded forward with hope. “Help! In here. Under the bed. Help!”

The door cracked under the battering and shook the walls of the cottage. The fierceness of the pounding grew until at last a splintering noise reverberated through the dwelling.

“Elizabeth!” John shouted from the main room.

A sob slipped from her lips.

“Elizabeth!” His voice was frantic. “Where are you?”

“Here! I’m here!”

Footsteps slapped the floor and gave way to a fit of coughing.

She knew she should slide out from the bed and show herself, but she couldn’t make her body work.

“Elizabeth! Where are you?”

She clawed at the floor to propel herself out of her hiding place, but her body wouldn’t obey her mind.

His heavy boots stomped into the bedroom.

“John!” she cried.

A moment later he was down, flat on his stomach, his eyes probing the shadows. He reached out a hand and grabbed her arm. “Thank the Lord. Can you move?”

“I’m too frightened.”

His grip tightened and he slid her out, even as everything within her resisted. He was too strong, and in an instant she was out.

The heaviness of the smoke assaulted her, and she could hardly see John through the haze.

Bright flames danced amidst pieces of falling thatch. She cowered and looked back to the dark recess under the bed. Fear urged her to go back.

He shielded her with his body, and his strong hold on her arm prevented her escape to her hiding spot. “Trust me, Elizabeth. Grab hold of my neck.”

He bent nearer until his face was only inches from hers. The intensity of his eyes and the depth of his determination breathed life into her.

She reached her arms around his neck and buried her face in the safety of his chest.

He staggered to his feet, lifting her into his arms.

Immediately the thickness of the smoke surrounded them, and the heat of the flames above pressed down.

She held her breath and crushed her face against him.

He lurched forward, half running, half lunging toward the smashed door. He crashed through the splintered boards and would have fallen if one of the neighbors hadn’t caught and steadied him. The man swatted burning wisps of thatch from John’s back and helped him stumble to a safe distance down the street.

John gasped for a fresh breath and sank to his knees.

His arms trembled against her, but instead of releasing her, he pulled her against him even tighter. In an instant his lips grazed her forehead.

The softness and warmth of the pressure went all the way to her heart and set it fluttering with a strange longing. His mouth moved to her ear. “I thought I’d lost you.” His hoarse whisper was threaded with desperation. The heat of his breath caressed the sensitive skin of her neck.

“Elizabeth!” Anne cried. “Oh, Elizabeth, you’re safe!”

Anne and Sister Norton pushed against them, and neighbors surrounded them, but their voices and questions came to her from a distance. For a long moment John’s rasping breath was the only sound in her world.

Her sister reached for her, but John tightened his hold.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, the bright blueness of his eyes racing across her face.

“No more than you.” Her own breath came in heavy gasps.

His gaze stopped its frantic search and hovered upon her lips.

She couldn’t keep her own gaze from straying to his mouth. She could almost feel the soft brush of his lips upon her forehead again, and the remembrance swirled that strange ache in her stomach, but this time into a current too fast for her innocent heart to understand.

“The neighbor’s house is on fire!” The shout came from nearby and pulled Elizabeth back to the reality of the inferno raging behind them.

“The children?” Fear strangled her words.

“They’re safe,” Anne reassured her.

“It’s a good thing Mary got help when she did,” said Sister Norton, shaking her head. Their gazes followed hers to the thatch of the neighboring cottage. A crowd of men had begun ripping at it to keep it from burning the entire structure to the ground.

Their cries of alarm loosened Elizabeth’s paralyzed tongue, and she struggled to break free of John’s hold. “ ’Tis all my fault. I must help them.”

“No. Don’t go anywhere near the cottages.” His harsh command halted her. When his gaze swung back to hers, the possessiveness in the depths of his eyes brought her heart to a stuttering stop.

Warmth seeped into her blood and gave her the sensation of flittering on a gentle breeze. She’d never had a man cherish her before, but what she saw in his eyes came as close as she’d ever seen to love.

Was it possible to believe John cared for her? Now, when it was too late to matter?

“Get the children and go to your father’s house,” he said more gently. His gaze caressed her face. “And stay there until I come for you.”

Her throat constricted and tears stung her eyes.

Anne reached for her again, and this time John released her into the young girl’s arms.

Only when he turned away and began to weave through the crowd did a tear slip out and make a cold trail down her cheek.

“Are you hurt?” Anne’s hands fluttered over her and swept the loose hairs away from her forehead.

“No.” The word was out before she realized how untrue it was. She grasped her chest and fought against the pain pulsing upward to her throat.

Oh, what she wouldn’t give to have his heart for her very own.

* * *

Later, in the back room of the bakehouse, near the warmth of the hearth, Elizabeth cradled Johnny under one arm and Betsy under the other. Their eyes drooped in the first signs of sleep.

The hum of voices in the room and the patter of rainfall outside the back door had soothed her aching heart only a little. The darkness of the evening had settled. The glow of the candles and the fire bathed the room with soft light, and she tried to find solace in the thought that God had spared her life and protected the children.

From her spot on the floor with her back against the wall, she had the perfect angle for watching John without his knowing. He sat at the table with the other men—her father, Vicar Burton, and elders who had gathered to console John as well as give advice. John’s brother, Willie, had also come and offered to make room in his cottage for John and his children.

Elizabeth watched the way the flickering candlelight enriched the red hues of John’s hair and how it cast shadows over his cheek and chin, highlighting the strong angles of his face. Every time her gaze strayed to his mouth, to his lips, she imagined them against her forehead.

Even though John hadn’t been chaste, she wasn’t sorry he’d given her the feathery kiss on her brow. Whether he’d done it out of relief or gratitude or a momentary lapse of sanity, she didn’t know.

Whatever the reason, she couldn’t stop thinking about the brief moment of intimacy and the way he’d looked at her—the affection in the depths of his eyes. Surely she hadn’t imagined it this time.

When finally Willie stood to leave, John rose with him. “You’re sure I cannot convince you to come stay with Sarah and me?” Willie asked.

John shook his head and stretched his hands above his head. “Mayhap in time. But methinks for this night, the children would be better warm and dry here. They will feel secure with Elizabeth.”

Her father had offered their home to John and the children. Although John had insisted on returning to the cottage remains and sleeping in the forge, he’d wanted the children to stay with her.

John glanced her way, to the faces of the children, to her fingers gently combing their hair. Then his gaze traveled up to intertwine with hers.

His eyes were dark and troubled.

The ache in her heart swelled again.

“This is the second time in her life my Elizabeth was pulled from the flames.” With a grunt her father pushed himself up from his bench. His cane thumped hard against the floor. “I’m indebted to ye, John.”

“No, I am indebted to you, Brother Whitbread,” John said without breaking his gaze from her. “You’ve entrusted your daughter into my care these many months—despite the danger I’ve brought her.”

“God has indeed protected her.” Her father’s voice trembled. “He has miraculously spared her life these many times. And I cannot help but think our almighty Lord has a special purpose for her.”

Something in John’s eyes reached out to her, and her heart pattered erratically.

Willie looked from her to John. He studied John’s face before he broke into a wide grin. “I believe God is giving us a sign.”

At his words, silence descended in the room, as if the voice of a prophet had spoken.

Willie thumped John on the back. “God’s trying to show you that He wants you to be with Elizabeth Whitbread. Why else would He keep preserving her life, if not to be your helpmate?”

The steady tap of rain filled the silence.

His words sank to her core. Fear and hope swirled together, and she couldn’t keep her body from trembling.

Willie looked around. His grin faded and confusion creased his brow. “What did I say wrong?”

“This is a very serious matter of which ye speak, my boy,” her father said. “If the Lord is indeed giving us a sign, then we would be wise to discuss the situation further.”

“It’s obvious to me, Brothers,” Willie said slower, probing John’s face. “God has preserved John’s life more times than I can count, and now he’s done the same for Elizabeth. Certainly God is bringing the two of them together for a special purpose.”

The others in the room began murmuring. Elizabeth didn’t dare look at John to gauge his reaction to his brother’s words, and she certainly couldn’t look at Elder Harrington to see how he was taking such news. Instead, she focused on the silky strands of the children’s hair as it slipped through her fingers.

She wanted to grab onto Willie’s words and refuse to let go of them. Deep inside, she wanted to believe he was right, but she was too frightened to let herself.