The Preacher's Bride (6 page)

Chapter
6

Who will come on the morrow to help?” Betsy picked up a stick of gorse and added it to the basket Elizabeth had made with her apron.

“I’m sure your father will locate a very capable person.” Elizabeth forced cheerfulness to her voice.

The girl had asked the question at least a dozen times since Brother Costin left. And each time Elizabeth had tried to reassure her, even though she struggled with the same concern.

Elizabeth had wanted to stay angry at Brother Costin for his unfair accusations. But now only heaviness weighed upon her heart—and guilt. She’d let her tongue get the better of her once again.

She glanced to the gray clouds that hung low in the sky. She’d spent the afternoon trying to understand why she longed to stay when Brother Costin didn’t want her there—had, in fact, never agreed to a housekeeper.

She believed God had called her to help the Costins. If He was ending her service there, then shouldn’t she accept His will? Wouldn’t He have something else for her?

Taking a deep breath, she filled her lungs with the damp scent of rain. She tried to push aside the thought that maybe God wouldn’t have anything else for her, that maybe it was time to marry Samuel.

Johnny plodded beside her on one side and Betsy on the other.

Her apron overflowed with gorse. The Costin cottage, situated on the edge of Bedford, bordered the meadows that stretched toward Newnham and gave them a steady supply of fuel.

“Buf-fly.” Johnny pointed to a fluttering among a cluster of thistles.

Elizabeth followed the direction of his finger. A flicker of orange-pink danced in and out of the ironweed and thistles. “ ’Tis a painted lady.”

She tiptoed closer.

The children imitated her.

“See the four small black spots on the bottom wings that look like eyes?”

“Why do they need four eyes?” Betsy walked closer.

“They’re false eyes—a wonderful design God gave this butterfly to protect it. Birds and other attackers are fooled by the false eyes and scared away. Therewith the butterfly is safe.”

Johnny pounced at one of the painted ladies, but it fluttered away, easily escaping the boy’s chubby fingers.

“God also gave them speed and agility to protect them from young children who want to catch them.” She smiled at Johnny’s attempt to chase the butterfly, thinking back to the days before her mother had died, when she’d done the same thing.

A splotch of rain fell against her nose, then another against her coif. “Time to turn back home, children. We’d best hurry before we get a soaking.”

The children began to run through the field ahead of her toward the cottage. Their squeals drifted through the increasing gusts of wind. She followed and watched their abandon, seeing in them the little girl she’d once been.

As much as she admired butterflies, she had not turned into one. She’d grown up to be a moth—plain and unadorned, practical and useful, but certainly not eye-catching or graceful.

If she’d been more pleasing to behold, would Brother Costin have relinquished her so easily?

By the time she reached the cottage, the splatters of rain had changed to a steady sprinkling. She ducked into the dark gloom of the interior, where the high shuttered window begrudged little light.

“Good day.”

Elizabeth halted. Unease slithered through her.

Her gaze scanned the shadows and landed upon a tall man standing in front of the hearth. He caressed the edge of his hat, and when he stepped into the low glow of the fire, one glance told her that he was not one of their kind. Everything about his attire spoke of a lavishness foreign to a Puritan—from his pointed doublet finished with a narrow sash to his loose breeches tied with ribbons.

“I’m here to meet with John Costin,” he said. “The blind child insists he is not hereabout. But I was told he would be home today.”

Mary stood against the wall holding the sleeping Thomas, her head cocked as if she was using her perceptive sixth sense to take in all that she couldn’t see. Johnny stood on one side of Mary and Betsy on the other, each clutching the girl’s petticoat, their eyes wide.

“She’s correct.” Elizabeth stepped further into the cottage. “Brother Costin is presently away on business.”

“Business?” His voice had a hint of sarcasm. “What kind of
business
did he say he was about today?”

Her unease pattered harder, keeping tempo with the beat of the rain on the dirt street outside the door. She narrowed her gaze on him. He looked familiar, a Bedford resident, most likely a Royalist who had weathered Oliver Cromwell’s sequestrations enough to live comfortably.

Even though most citizens of their small town had complied with Cromwell’s Puritan laws, there were many staunch Royalists who had remained loyal to the exiled king and his church.

What kind of dealings would such a man have with Brother Costin?

As if sensing her discomfort, he sauntered toward her. In his narrow face, his eyes were too big, too brazen. His gaze roved over her, taking her in from head to toe.

“Has Costin taken himself a mistress? Or has he more than one wife?”

Heat flamed into Elizabeth’s cheeks. “Neither. I’m the housekeeper.”

“The housekeeper? Oh, I beg your pardon.” He stared at her bosom. “It would be devastating if someone overheard me. Indeed, it would be quite a detriment to Costin’s reputation.” He lifted his gaze and met hers. “Would it not?”

His eyes glinted like the blade of a knife.

“I don’t understand.” She was tempted to take a step backward, but she didn’t want him to know he was beginning to frighten her.

“I think you understand. Call it what you will. Housekeeper. Maidservant. But we all know it’s more than that. It would hurt Costin for word of this to get out. It would hurt your reputation too. Don’t you agree?”

“Perhaps. Were it true.” The heat in her cheeks seeped into her blood and spread to the rest of her body. “But ’tis not true. Not in the least.”

“Ah, but how do we know that?”

“On my word.”

His lips turned up into a cold smile. “Do you really think people are going to believe
your word
? You, a mere maiden?”

She swallowed a knot of panic. “I can assure you, I’m nothing more than housekeeper to Brother Costin.”

He gave a short laugh. The glint in his eyes grew sharper. “Fortunately, I can help.”

“How can you
help
?”

“I can help ensure no one knows about your indiscreet relations with Costin.”

“You can’t help me with it because no such relations exists.”

“Let me make myself clear.” His tone took on an edge. “If you help me, I’ll make sure no rumors are started. If you don’t help me, then I cannot guarantee anything. So you see, you help me, and I help you.”

Anger started to mingle with her fear—anger that she was helpless to stop this man from saying whatever he wanted and ruining both her and Brother Costin’s good names.

“Exactly how am I to help you?”

He glanced at the children. Her gaze followed. Their eyes glistened with fear.

He leaned close to her. “I want information. Watch Costin. Report what he’s doing, where he’s going, what he’s writing.”

His foul breath fanned over her face, and she took an involuntary step back. Was his soul as rancid as his breath? For surely only someone with a rotting black heart could manipulate this way.

She wouldn’t tell him his manipulation was useless, that after today she wouldn’t be around to do what he was asking. “Brother Costin is a good man,” she whispered, darting a glance at the children. “Why would you want information about him?”

The man’s features hardened. “John Costin is a blight on the security of true religion.”

Elizabeth knew by
true religion
the man was referring to the Anglican Church and its ritualistic ceremonies that had dominated England for over a century.

Elizabeth shook her head. Puritan preachers like Brother Costin were hardly a blight. They were sharing the truth of salvation and bringing hope to those long held in bondage to empty traditions.

“John Costin presumes too much.” The man’s tone was condescending. “He is an unlearned, simple, poor tinker with no training or calling, and therewith he is taking liberties with the holy Word of God.”

“Liberties?” Her head told her she would be safer to agree, but her heart demanded that she defend Brother Costin. “I’ve heard Brother Costin preach many times and can’t think of anything he’s ever said that contradicted the Bible.”

“Only a man with an education in the Scriptures and with the years of required and proper training ought to preach and teach.” His voice rang with conviction. “Anyone else who does so endangers the soul of Christianity, interpreting and twisting Scripture until it no longer resembles the truth.”

“Brother Costin might not be educated, but he knows the Bible as well as any ordained preacher.”

“Are you educated?”

Like most girls, she could neither read nor write, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t think or reason. “My father has taught us from the Scriptures every day and has helped us to memorize—”

“You’re a stupid wench. You know even less than Costin.”

Words of rebuttal sprang to life, but the anger in his eyes stopped her. The war had been over for many years, but the tension between the Royalists and the Independents had only increased. And now, apparently Royalists in Bedfordshire were growing to dislike the increasingly popular John Costin.

“You must do what I’ve asked. That’s all.” His gaze slid over her again, leaving an ugly trail. “And if you help me, then you can rest assured, I’ll keep your secret.”

Protest rose within her, but before she could speak to defend herself, he grazed her upper arm with the back of his fingers. The shock of the touch cut the words off her tongue. She jerked away from him. Her eyes clashed with his, and the carnality within them sent alarm racing through her.

“Perhaps when you’re finished as Costin’s housekeeper, I’ll make you mine.” He grabbed her wrist and rubbed it with his thumb in a circular pattern.

Repulsion swelled through her stomach, and she stumbled backward. The linen of her apron slipped from her fingers, and the heavy load of gorse clattered to the floor onto the man’s feet.

He cursed then kicked at the twigs.

Elizabeth pushed the sticks around with her foot. She was innocent in the ways of men and ways of the world, but she sensed enough to know this man could easily let his lusts take control of him, making him the kind of man with whom she would never want to be alone.

“I’ll be back.” He slammed his hat onto his head and adjusted it so that the long plume slanted outward. “When I come, you must have the information I’ve requested.”

Chapter
7

Eventide was the worst part of the day.

John hesitated in front of the cottage door. Rain dripped from the brim of his soggy hat into his soaked cloak. He was chilled through to his skin and had been since he’d started home from south of Harrowden.

He’d always loved returning home after a busy day. Mary’s gentle eyes would light up, and she’d slip her slender arms around his waist and bury her face against his chest.

But Mary wouldn’t be there tonight or any night hereafter. And that thought alone was enough to propel him away from the cottage, back into the oncoming night.

The ache in his chest pulsed. With a grunt he dropped his tool bag and pulled out a chisel. He scraped at the thick layer of mud on the bottom of his boots.

Darkness was approaching, and he’d put off the inevitable long enough. He had to go inside, as he did every night, and face the emptiness.

With a stomp of his boots he pushed open the door and ducked into the cottage. A sweeping glance told him the children were abed. The wet nurse suckled the babe, and the Whitbread girl mended by the light of the hearth.

At the sight of him, she arose and began folding Johnny’s breeches. “Good evening, Brother Costin.”

He nodded at her and tried to push aside a nagging guilt that his late homecoming would force her to walk the narrow streets of Bedford in the dark. “You must hurry home now.”

He slipped out of his dripping cloak and hung it on the peg on the wall beside the door. Then he shed his hat and shook his head, flinging his hair back and forth like a dog shaking its fur, spraying water in all directions.

With a final shake, he dug into the pouch at his waist and retrieved a tuppence. As he turned to toss it onto the table, the Whitbread girl shifted her gaze away from his wet hair and began refolding Johnny’s clothes.

“Two pence for the wet nurse.” He wasn’t sure if that was enough, but he’d only earned a shilling himself that day and couldn’t afford to give her more. Actually, he didn’t want to give her more. What was the use? The baby would soon die.

The wet nurse pried the baby loose, her eyes upon the coin.

John started toward his study and stopped long enough to retrieve a candlestick and light the candle’s wick.

“I’ve kept the pottage warm for you, Brother Costin,” Sister Whitbread said breathlessly after him.

“You must go.” He’d already detained her overlong. “I’ll see to it myself.”

She didn’t respond.

He stopped in the doorway and glanced at her. “My thanks anyway, Sister. Now no more dawdling.”

He closed the door and placed the candle on the small shelf above his desk. In the overcast evening, the light threw long shadows. The room hardly afforded him space to turn around, especially amidst the discarded clothes, scattered papers, sermon notes, and pamphlets.

He unbuttoned his doublet, peeled off his shirt, along with a plain wide linen collar, and dropped them to the heap on the floor. He stretched both arms above his head, wishing he could ease the ache in his heart as easily as he could the ones in his body.

“Brother Costin?” Sister Whitbread rapped against the door. “May I speak with you?”

He stifled a sigh. Hadn’t he told her to go?

Crossing his bare arms behind his head, he sat back in his chair. It creaked under the weight of his body. “Sister Whitbread, the hour is late. Make haste and be on your way.”

He waited for a long moment, and upon hearing nothing more, he sat forward and reached for his latest tract.

Not only had God gifted him with a preacher’s tongue, but he’d also given him a skillful pen. Lately, the words had flowed onto paper as effortlessly as when he preached.

Of course, the Royalists didn’t like either his preaching or his writing. He’d heard increasing criticism from the nobility and the displaced clergy. They were no longer curious nor amused about the tinker turned preacher. Even some of the wealthy Independents, those he’d considered friends, had begun to mumble about his popularity, about how he was rising above his position.

He leafed through the pages of his pamphlet. He was nearly finished writing it. Too bad his adversaries couldn’t understand God had called him to mend souls, not just kettles. It was a divine appointment—not one he’d sought, but one that had come to him shortly after his conversion not too many years ago.

Didn’t they see how God was working through him?

“Brother Costin, if I might speak to you for just a moment.”

He tossed the paper back to his desk. Was she still there? “Sister Whitbread, did I not send you home?”

“This cannot wait.”

Something in her tone set him on edge.

“We had a most frightening visitor today after you left.”

“Visitor?” He grabbed a dry but wrinkled shirt from the floor. “What kind of visitor?”

“He didn’t give his name.”

John stuffed his arms into the sleeves and yanked open the door.

Sister Whitbread gave a gasp and spun away.

He tugged at the shirt but it stuck to his damp skin. “What did he want?”

She kept her back to him. “He said he wanted to meet with you. But I’m not so sure that was his true intention.”

“What do you mean?”

“He made threats.”

Apprehension rippled through his gut and he squirmed to unravel the fabric at the base of his shoulders. “Did he threaten the children?”

“No. Not the children.” She continued to face the opposite way. “But he insinuated he would spread rumors about you.”

“What kind of rumors?” The pressure around his middle cinched tighter.

Red crept up her neck. “They were . . . very distasteful rumors—”

So those who opposed him were planning to attack him now? Did they really believe they could connive against him and somehow force him to stop his preaching?

With a last pull, his shirt finally fell into place. “The man—did he tell you his name?”

“If he did, I don’t remember it.” She spoke over her shoulder, finally taking a peek at him and then pivoting to face him. “He appeared to be gentry. Royalist. Narrow face. Big eyes.”

John’s mind whirled over the long list of Bedfordshire Royalists. “Your description could fit any number of men.”

“He was most certainly not a friend to our Puritan ways nor to your preaching.”

“Well, whether he likes me or not, there is nothing he can do to stop me.” Not when Cromwell, the leader of their country, was himself a Puritan and gave all men the freedom to share the Gospel. “On the morrow I’ll ask the neighbors if they saw anyone.”

“Speaking of the morrow—”

“No more speaking tonight, Sister Whitbread. Time to go home.” He reached for the door. “Surely your father will be worried about you.”

She stepped forward and braced it open with her foot. “Did you locate someone to replace me?”

“Of course not.”

She faced him squarely. “You said this was to be my last day of service. The children have been worried about who will come to help them in my stead, and I want to make sure you’re prepared before I take my leave.”

His mind flashed back to that morning, to the sorrow in Betsy’s voice when she’d declared that she missed her momma and wanted to have a new one. The words had pierced him like a sword through flesh. She wanted a new momma when her natural-born mother had narry been in the grave two weeks? How could she?

He shook his head, feeling the pain again. Deep inside he knew Betsy did not wish to replace her mother. She’d expressed her yearnings and sorrows in her childish way.

But still, her request seemed disloyal, even traitorous, to ask for a new momma so soon. His own mother had died shortly before he’d joined Cromwell’s army. He had despised his father for taking a new wife within a month’s time and had vowed if he ever lost a wife, he wouldn’t do that to his children.

He couldn’t imagine he’d ever want to remarry—he would never desire anyone but Mary. Besides, God’s call on his life had only grown stronger over the past years, and it left little room or time for the cares of the flesh.

“Brother Costin, if you need me to come one more day while you find someone else to care for the children, I will.”

Had he really told her today was to be her last day of service? If he had, he’d been a fool.

“Have you given thought to a new caregiver?”

“No.”

She sighed. “Brother Costin, while your children are well trained, I don’t believe they’re capable of independence. They need a caretaker.”

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head. He didn’t disagree with her. As much as he resented the presence of any woman in his home who was not his wife, he’d begun to realize it would be nigh impossible to accomplish his work, especially his preaching, without help.

The fact was he needed Sister Whitbread to stay.

What he needed to do was confess his pride, apologize to this woman for his wrong accusations of earlier, and then ask her to remain his housekeeper, for he certainly did not want the trouble of finding someone else.

“My children are in need of a caretaker. You’re correct, Sister Whitbread. But no, I don’t want you to come one more day while I find someone else.”

She sighed louder.

He twirled his thumbs around each other behind his head. Then with a deep breath he forced the words out. “I would like you to come not just one more day, but every day—if you would, please.”

She was silent.

“I ask your forgiveness for my accusations earlier this day. They were presumptuous and unfounded, and I am sorry for them. Especially since you have shown nothing but kindness and self-sacrifice in your efforts to help.”

Her gaze swept across the untidy closet.

He spun his thumbs faster. “Well?”

“I forgive you. And I’ll return on the morrow and thereafter—until summer’s end, when I’m wed.”

He stopped fidgeting and dropped his arms, resting them on the sides of his chair. “Very well. Then you may reassure the children of this.” All was settled. He reached for his tract. “Now would you please close the door on your way out?”

“Actually, Brother Costin, all is not
very well
.”

The terseness of her tone forced his focus back to her face.

“If I am to stay, then I must have the means to care for the children.”

“I am but a poor tinker. And I have just given the wet nurse more than I can spare.”

“I’m not concerned for myself.” Her clear gaze met his and didn’t waver. “But the children cannot survive without the proper provisions.”

Was she insinuating he wasn’t taking care of his children?

“The food stores are nearly depleted,” she continued. “We are scavenging for roots until the garden grows. But ’tis not enough.”

He stared at her in surprise. This woman was bold—rebuking him this way.

His gaze skimmed over her. She was neither tall nor short of stature. Her build was round and full, her face pleasant but plain, and the hair that had come loose from her coif was dark blond, almost brown. She was quite ordinary. In a crowd, she would blend in, would give no one cause to search her out.

She cleared her throat. “I understand that late spring and early summer are always a hungering time . . . the time when the gleanings are either gone or rotten.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but the red splotches on her neck couldn’t hide her embarrassment at his perusal.

No doubt about it, she was a Puritan maiden—the epitome of chastity.

But she was right—the children should not go hungry.

A tap on the cottage door propelled him to his feet. He reached for his candle and made his way toward the door.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Sister Whitbread,” bellowed a voice outside.

“ ’Tis only Samuel Muddle,” said Sister Whitbread behind him.

“Brother Muddle, the barrel maker?”

She nodded.

“Why is the barrel maker seeking you at this hour? Surely you don’t need barrels repaired at this time of night.”

“He . . .” She hesitated. “He’s the man I’m intending to marry.”

“Samuel Muddle?” John raised his brows.

Her cheeks were pink, and John couldn’t tell if the color was left from his earlier appraisal or if she was embarrassed again.

“He’s a good man.”

“There’s no doubt of that. But he is rather big—”

“Surely we should invite him in?” Her face
was
redder.

“Surely.” He grinned and then swung open the door.

Samuel Muddle held an oiled cloak like a tent above his head, a useless attempt to keep his bulging middle and lower half dry.

“Brother Costin.” The man nodded in greeting.

“Come in, Brother Muddle.” John backed away and gave the man room to enter. He didn’t know Samuel Muddle well, but the man’s uncle had been a long-standing member of the congregation and had apprenticed Samuel when his parents had died.

Samuel shuffled through the door and lowered his cape, making a puddle on the floor around him. His eyes sought Sister Whitbread. She met his gaze straightway, but John didn’t see any gladness or eagerness in her expression, such as would befit someone on the verge of marriage.

“It’s nigh dark.” With one hand Samuel hefted at his breeches, which had sunk low enough that another few inches and they would be slipping all the way to the floor.

He half hoped they did. Then Sister Whitbread would really have cause to hide her eyes in her apron.

“With the evening growing late, your father and I began to worry. We thought it best I walk you home. We didn’t want you out alone under these conditions.”

“Thank you. ’Twas thoughtful of you both.” She reached for a straw hat on the table. “But you shouldn’t have troubled yourself. ’Tis not altogether too late nor the distance too far.”

“It will not be long until curfew.” Samuel nodded to the gloomy evening outside the door, illuminated by the dim light of John’s candle. “No maiden should be abroad at this hour. It’s not safe. Not in the least.”

She looked as if she were about to argue with him further, but then she nodded curtly. “Very well.”

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw a movement in the crack of the parlor doorway. Mary was awake. She had been sharing the room with the babe to tend to his needs at night, whereas he had taken to throwing a pallet on the floor in front of the hearth. The thought of sleeping in the room he had enjoyed with his wife sent him into despair. Letting Mary take over while he slept on the floor had been no hardship.