The Preacher's Bride (3 page)

Chapter
3

No.” Samuel stood in the middle of the bakehouse. His body filled the space and left little room to maneuver. “If Elizabeth is busy as a housekeeper, then she’ll not want to settle down with a husband.”

“I hear what ye are saying, Samuel. I hear ye.” Her father’s fingers worked briskly as he shaped the pastry cases before him on the brake. He had already floured the table with its long-hinged roller used for kneading dough, and now the table served as his work space for the more delicate confections of his bakery.

Henry, her father’s helper, had broken away the mud seal on the oven and removed the stone slab covering. With sweat dripping from his face, he used a long-handled peel to remove the loaves that had baked during the night. They would sell most of the bread that day, but a few loaves belonged to cottagers like Samuel’s aunt, who prepared her own dough and paid a small fee to use the bakehouse oven—one of the few in Bedford.

The beehive oven was built into the thickness of one of the bakehouse walls. Even after an entire night, a considerable quantity of heat still radiated from it. Father and Henry would use the leftover heat to bake the other goods that required a lower cooking temperature.

The door of the bakery was open, but the warm breeze wafting inside didn’t give any relief to the heat of the oven or the fresh-baked loaves.

Elizabeth had whisked the sweet egg and milk mixture that would serve as the custard filling, and now she was as hot and soggy as if she had been weeding the garden in the sun at noonday. Her bodice stuck to her back and her petticoat to her legs.

“I don’t understand why
I
may not serve as the Costins’ housekeeper,” complained Catherine, lingering at Elizabeth’s side after delivering more milk and eggs.

“The children need someone who is concerned about their well-being,” Elizabeth said. “Not a vain young girl whose only interest is in making a good impression and winning herself a husband.”

“He’ll have to remarry eventually. It wouldn’t hurt to let him know I’m available and interested.”

“He has need of a housekeeper, not a housewife.”

“I am the better choice for both.” Catherine dipped her finger into the bowl of custard filling.

“We have already gone over this.” Elizabeth swatted Catherine’s hand. “Vicar Burton requested me.”

Catherine licked the sweet mixture dripping from her finger. “But I am free of obligations—”

“Enough.” Their father cut in without breaking the rhythm of his work. “For now, my Catherine, ye must assume Elizabeth’s tasks here where ye are needed. This is a great responsibility in itself.”

The look in Catherine’s eyes made clear she didn’t think their father’s ruling was fair. But respect took precedence. She dipped her head. “Yes, father.”

Their father had assigned her the task of caring for the younger children, including Jane’s. Their oldest sister had always carried a heavy work load in the bakery, since their father had not taken on another apprentice after Henry.

“I understand that Vicar Burton has asked for Elizabeth to do the housekeeping,” said Samuel. “However, I don’t think he’s aware of the situation.”

Elizabeth sighed and peered out the door, seeing the first light of dawn. She smoothed her coif and tucked in stray wisps of hair, ready to be on her way to the Costins’.

“I’m a master cooper now. I have the cottage next to Uncle’s. I am ready to be married. I’ve waited long enough for this time to come.”

“Samuel, my boy,” replied her father without looking up from the pastries he was shaping, “I understand ye have waited these many years to complete the terms of your apprenticeship and to afford a proper home of your own. But if it is Elizabeth ye want, then surely ye would be willing to extend your courtship.”

Samuel pulled up his breeches, which had the habit of slipping below his protruding belly. He hitched them high above his waistline, as if to give them plenty of sliding room.

The first chore she would undertake after they were married would be sewing points into his breeches so he could lace them to his doublet and keep them from perpetually falling down.

“How much longer, Brother Whitbread?” Samuel asked.

“We have barely begun our courtship, Samuel,” Elizabeth cut in. “We must finish our courtship, trothplight, post the banns. These things all take time.”

“How much time?”

“Jane and Henry courted for two years.”

Beneath his scruffy beard and scraggly hair, Samuel’s face blanched.

She ought to mention that Jane and Henry hadn’t had a choice. Henry’s apprenticeship had delayed them. But ’twould not help her cause to bring that to light. “Don’t you agree we should help the Costins during this terrible time of need? Surely you cannot prohibit my offering them charity.”

“I don’t prohibit charity—”

“Would you have me leave the poor motherless children to fend for themselves?”

“No, of course not—”

“Then you cannot object to postponing our plans in order to extend a gracious hand of service to the Costins during this hardship.”

“I guess I can’t object.”

“Everyone will understand why we must postpone, and they’ll be grateful. They’ll laud you for your sacrifice.”

Her father cleared his throat and leveled a frown at her, a warning that she’d gone far enough in her efforts to convince Samuel.

“If ye are agreed, Samuel, my boy,” her father said, “then my Elizabeth will marry ye at summer’s end.”

“That’s more than three months.” Samuel plucked at his beard.

“Elizabeth must be ready by then.”

Her father’s statement was directed at her.

“I will be ready.” Would she, though?

“You will promise this?” Samuel asked.

Could she promise?

For the space of a few seconds she didn’t know if she could make such a promise. Then she shook off the notion. Samuel was a good man, even if he wasn’t handsome. He was like the big barrels he crafted—round and hefty. But she was nothing special to look at either, with her stocky bones and wide girth, her hair the color of bread crust, and her eyes plain and gray. Compared to Jane or Catherine, or any of her other sisters, she had missed inheriting their mother’s beauty. No wonder a man like Samuel Muddle had chosen her—she was one of the few he bargained he could win.

“Will you promise?” he asked again.

The scraping of the peel against stone echoed in the room as Henry finished taking the last brown loaves out of the oven.

“Very well. I promise.”

“Let there be an agreement betwixt us. At summer’s end, you’ll finish your housekeeping, and we’ll make haste to take our vows before the magistrate.”

“Agreed.”

“Only until summer’s end.”

“Summer’s end. I promise.”

* * *

Breathless, Elizabeth stood on St. Cuthbert’s Street before the Costin cottage. She had hoped to arrive before Lucy. From the sound of Thomas’s hungry cries, she guessed she had achieved her goal. She prayed Lucy would be faithful to wet-nursing or be lured back by the prospect of more money.

Elizabeth shifted the warm bread loaves under her arm and knocked.

She heard nothing but the babe crying. Was Brother Costin gone? Could he not hear her knock above the baby’s cries?

After another long moment, she pounded the door with her palm. “Brother Costin?” She listened, then pummeled harder. “Brother Costin? Are you home?”

At the sudden sound of crashing and a grunt of pain, she shoved the door open.

In near darkness, lying on the floor, tangled under an overturned trestle was Brother Costin. Platters and mugs littered the ground around him, along with the bones of last night’s meal.

“Brother Costin, are you hurt?”

He grunted.

She crossed the room and bent over him.

Blood ran from his nose across his mustache and dripped from his chin.

“You’re bleeding.”

Brother Costin touched the blood.

Elizabeth grabbed the nearest rag from the floor and shoved it against his nose.

“Ouch!” He squirmed.

“You must be still.”

“And you must stop pressing so hard.”

“Forgive me.” Elizabeth loosened her grip.

He held his head still.

She couldn’t keep from scanning the weary outline of his face. Even sprawled on the ground, his shoulders dwarfed hers, and the magnitude of his presence tugged at her long-held awe of him.

“My nose. It’s broken.” His voice was low. “Though ’twould not be the first time.”

In all of the years she’d known Brother Costin, she’d never had reason to speak to him or seek him out. He had joined their Independent Congregation five years prior. At that time, she’d been a girl of only twelve, and he’d seemed so much older, someone she respected, like Vicar Burton.

But she wasn’t a girl of twelve anymore, and he suddenly didn’t seem so old. Rather, he was very much a young, vibrant man. At that moment she was in a closer proximity to him than she’d ever been with any man—he was at her fingertips, with the heat of his breath brushing her wrist.

The impropriety of their predicament slapped her in the face.

She jerked her hand away and stumbled backward. Her legs bumped against the trestle, and the force of her body pressed it down onto Brother Costin.

He groaned.

She scrambled to get off, but her feet tangled in her petticoat, putting the bulk of her weight on the bench and on him.

“I think you’re killing me now,” he said through clenched teeth.

With a jerk of her petticoat, she fell off the trestle and landed in an ungracious heap.

He lifted the bench. Then with a wince he got to his feet and rubbed his side. “Methinks you would have been satisfied breaking my nose. It would have been most kind of you to leave my ribs alone.”

She cringed. How was it she’d only just arrived and was already failing to make a good impression?

He wavered then braced his hands on the table.

“Shall I send for the physician?” she asked, pushing herself up.

“I’m tired, is all. It was a long night. And I must have finally fallen asleep at the table.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “The beating on the door startled me.”

Elizabeth struggled to her feet and smoothed down her petticoat and apron.

He combed his fingers through his disheveled hair, but it only stuck up more. “You’re here too early.”

Thomas’s pitiful cries drew her attention. “It seems to me I’m late.”

“We won’t be departing for St. John’s until midday.”

“But you’ll need me before then.” In a dark corner of the room, Elizabeth spotted the cradle.

“I won’t have need of anyone. And I’d prefer to be left alone. Come back later when the parish bells ring.”

“That wouldn’t be wise.” Had she misunderstood Vicar Burton? Hadn’t he instructed her to begin housekeeping this morn? “
You
may not need anyone. But the babe most certainly does.”

He listened. Then he rubbed a hand across his eyes. Weariness stooped his shoulders with its weight.

What could she say to ease his grief? She hesitated, but the babe’s hoarse cries beckoned to her and dragged her across the room.

“Ah, little one,” she cooed when she reached him. His swaddling bands were unraveled and his dress in disarray. His thin arms and legs flailed at the air. She scooped him against her chest. His sourness assaulted her, and the moisture from his soiled clout pressed against her arm. Likely no one had shifted him since she’d done it the previous evening.

“You’re the wet nurse, then?”

“Would that I was.” She slipped her finger between Thomas’s lips and pressed it against the roof of his mouth. His crying faltered, then he began sucking. The trick would only soothe him temporarily. If only Lucy would arrive before he realized he wasn’t receiving nourishment from her finger.

“I’m Elizabeth, the daughter of Robert Whitbread, the baker.”

“Then you were the one who argued with Mrs. Grew over the wet nurse?”

“ ’Twas I.”

“You have a skillful tongue.”

The compliment caught her off guard with warm pleasure. “I don’t think Mrs. Grew was impressed.”

“Then you’re here to fetch the wet nurse?”

“I’m here to work as your housekeeper.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t need a housekeeper, nor do I want one.”

Heat infused her cheeks. She took a step back, grateful for the early morning shadows. It would seem Vicar Burton had been anxious to hire her but hadn’t been so anxious to tell Brother Costin the important information.

“I’m only a tinker. I can hardly afford a wet nurse. And now a housekeeper too?”

“Money or no, you have
need
of a housekeeper.”

“
Need
or no, I don’t want a woman in my home.”

The pain in his voice bridled Elizabeth’s quick response. How could she argue with a man in the depths of grief, the scent of the decaying flesh of his wife setting in?

On the other hand, how could she ignore this calling from the Lord to serve? And how could she allow this man’s despair-ridden reasoning to dictate the situation? Surely if she walked out the door as he wanted, she would leave the babe to certain neglect and death.

“Where are your other children?”

“They are in Elstow—with family.”

“They’ll be back today, won’t they?”

“To besure. For the funeral.”

“Who will care for them when they return? How will you look after them
and
labor to provide for their well-being? ’Twould be a most difficult task.”

“Mary is nigh eight. She’s old enough to help.”

“To help, perchance. But not old enough to shoulder the responsibility of the others, especially the babe.” She would refrain from mentioning that the major obstacle was not Mary’s age, but her blindness.

“Family and friends will surely aid,” he said, although his tone lacked conviction.

“You have no family in Bedford. And Elstow is not close enough for the daily supervision the children will require.”

He tilted his head back and gazed at the ceiling.

“If you can’t pay me what is due a housekeeper, then I shall accept whatever you can afford.”