The Preacher's Bride (7 page)

Samuel cleared his throat and once more pulled up his breeches. “Brother Costin. I must ask that you allow Sister Whitbread to leave her duties as housekeeper much earlier in the evening.”

John wanted to say he wished the maiden would leave much sooner too, but he held his rudeness in check. “Methinks I will certainly encourage her to leave earlier from now on.” He raised his brows at her.

Without breaking his gaze, she put on her hat and began tying it underneath her chin. “Perhaps if Brother Costin will arrive home from his daily absences at an earlier hour, then I’ll be at leisure to depart sooner.”

Her response was like a well-placed parry. Instead of backing away, she’d deflected his, which only stirred his craving for a battle of words. He stepped forward, ready to place another measured strike. “Thus when I’m late in homecoming, as will occasionally unavoidably happen, perhaps Sister Whitbread shall be all the hastier in taking her leave.”

He grinned at his quick, witty response.

Her eyes took on a spark. She too stepped forward, meeting his challenge with a strike of her own. “If Brother Costin is only
occasionally
late, he would know what his children need without his housekeeper having to stay late to inform him.”

His grin widened. She was good. Even if arguing with him as her elder and as a man
was
out of line for a godly Puritan woman, she was adept with her words.

As if realizing she was overstepping the bounds of respect, she turned and reached for a small jug on the table, but not before he caught sight of the red creeping into her cheeks. “Shall we be on our way, Samuel?”

Samuel nodded, his mouth agape, as if he had wanted to join in their parley but had not had the slightest chance of getting a word in.

She trudged to the door.

“We are agreed, then?” Samuel tugged his dark beard. “You will let her leave earlier from now on—”

“Of course, Brother Muddle,” John said. “I’ve never prevented her from coming or going. She seems to have a will of her own—”

“My will is only to please God.” With her eyes still sparking, she gave one more sword swipe. “He has called me to help your children during this time of need, Brother Costin. ’Tis not
my
will. ’Tis
His
calling.”

Her words threw him off guard. He could think of no good response, no quick thrust back. He could only stand speechless at the conviction of her words. He could no more argue with her about her calling than the Royalists could argue with him about his.

“Let us take our leave.” As if knowing she’d had the last word, the wounding strike of the battle, she turned and stepped out into the rain. Samuel bustled after her.

When they were gone, John stared unseeingly at the door.

“She is quite convincing.”

He turned.

Mary stood in the half-open doorway in her shift with a night coif covering her plaited hair. She was a miniature of his wife, and the sight of her, as usual, brought a pang of fresh pain. She stared at him with her beautiful blue eyes. He learned long ago that while she wasn’t able to look at anything in the physical sense, she could see everything, sometimes even clearer than he.

“I cannot remember a time when anyone left
you
without the last word, Father.”

“Methinks you should be abed.”

“Will she come back?”

“I asked her to.” He sighed and stuck his fingers into his damp hair, combing it back.

“I think she will. She likes us. She likes you.”

“She would rather see a rope strung about my neck.”

Mary just smiled.

Chapter
8

If His Majesty King Henry VIII had not purged England of its abbeys, you would have made a perfect nun.” Catherine jerked a ladle through the mead, and it sloshed over the side of the kettle.

“You’re just upset at me because I confronted you on your irresponsibility.” Elizabeth swept the last of the crumbs out the back door of the bakehouse. She drew in a deep breath of the cool dawn air with its lingering scent of woodsmoke and freshly baked bread.

“Not everyone can be as godly as you.”

“I’m only trying to please God through my work.” Elizabeth turned back into the room. “You would be wise to do the same.”

A last glance told her the kitchen was finally tidy, a duty Catherine had ignored along with many others. “I’m tired of coming home every night to find that you’ve been neglectful of your duties. I shouldn’t be required to take care of two households.”

“Then maybe you should stay here, and I’ll go to the Costins’.” The pale light of the hearth fire cast an angelic glow over Catherine, highlighting her slender yet supple body.

Elizabeth smoothed a hand over her stomach. The stoutness of her own form rose up to mock her and stir a twinge of unexpected envy. What would it be like to have just a fraction of Catherine’s beauty?

She pressed her lips together and gave herself a mental shake. She was wasting time by dwelling on vanity. “I’m taking my leave to the Costins’.” She bustled to the table and tucked her hair into her coif. “And because of your negligence, now I will be late.”

Catherine sniffed. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“You must take your responsibilities seriously. ’Tis practice for managing your own home someday.” If only Catherine had benefited from more guidance from their mother before she’d died.

“It’s not fair. It should have been me. I’m the more likely choice, since you’re already courting Samuel.”

“We’ve discussed this before and ’twill do no good to discuss it again.” Elizabeth retied her apron and turned her gaze from the yellow stains and streaks of dirt that covered it.

“I don’t understand why you get to go. He’ll never be interested in you.”

“I don’t care in the least if he’s interested in me. This is service to God. Nothing more.”

“He won’t look at you. But he’ll certainly notice someone like me.”

Elizabeth shrugged off the sting of the girl’s words and reached for her basket. “The only thing he’ll notice is your lack of responsibility.”

Catherine breathed an exaggerated sigh. “Here I stand, wasting my youth and my beauty, when I could be winning the affection of a man—a well-respected and handsome man.”

“The job is not a position in which eligible young maidens flaunt themselves before Brother Costin, hoping he will choose them. ’Tis really a housekeeping job, Catherine. ’Tis hard work. You wouldn’t like it.”

“He’ll have to remarry someday. Why shouldn’t he choose me as wife?”

“Perhaps one day you will be the next wife of Brother Costin.” Elizabeth reached for the loaf of bread and tall jug of milk and tucked them into her basket. ’Twas possible. Catherine turned the eyes of many a man. “But for now, you must focus on becoming responsible. A careless young woman won’t make any man a godly wife.”

With Catherine’s complaints following her, Elizabeth started out in the faint light to the Costins’. The short brisk walk gave her time to clear her mind of her self-doubts and refocus on what was truly important—her service to the Lord.

When she arrived at the cottage, she hesitated outside the door. Her parting words of the previous evening echoed through her mind and made her heart lurch. She had overstepped proper boundaries in her exchange with Brother Costin. What must he think of her now?

First chance she had, she would make amends. She squared her shoulders and braced herself to face him. Then she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

“You’re late.” Brother Costin’s stern voice greeted her. The children were perched on their benches at the table, and Brother Costin sat in his chair at the head, his Bible open in front of him.

She
was late? All thoughts of overstepping her bounds evaporated. She placed her basket on the floor and slanted Brother Costin what she hoped was a censuring look. Was he truly accusing
her
of being late—he who was always tardy?

“Father told us he will allow you to remain our housekeeper.” Betsy’s dimpled smile lit her face, and she looked up at her father with wide adoring eyes.

“Allow me to remain?” Her gaze snapped to him. Surely he was growing a tad presumptuous again.

Even though his face was a mask of seriousness, his eyes had the hint of a sparkle. He pushed back from the table and stood. “Since you’re now officially in my employ, I must ask that you arrive promptly in the mornings.”

“I beg your pardon, Brother Costin, but I hardly think you are the one to demand promptness.”

He ambled toward her and didn’t stop until he stood directly in front of her. “Hold out your hand,” he said softly. “I have something for you.”

The gentle crinkles in the corners of his eyes made her stomach dip low. She held out her hand.

He lifted his hand to hers and pressed several coins into her palm. Then he bent her fingers closed around them. “For the market. Today.”

For a moment she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his weathered fingers against hers.

“You were right. The children need more,” he said.

She lifted her gaze to his. Her heart skipped ahead of her tongue.

One of Brother Costin’s brows cocked, and a grin played at his lips. “Methinks I’m now having my turn at tongue-tying.”

* * *

“Father is still very sad, isn’t he?” Mary asked as they sat in the shade of the apple trees behind the cottage, trying to keep cool during the hottest part of the day.

Elizabeth’s fingers grew idle among the folds of Johnny’s shirt, pausing in their feeble attempts to lengthen the linen and make room for his growing body. Her gaze trailed over Mary, who was resting on her back in the grass, to Thomas, swaddled and asleep next to her, then finally to Betsy and Johnny, playing near the hedgerow, heedless of the heat, lost in their make-believe world of knights battling dragons.

“When Father is home, he doesn’t want to be here.”

Elizabeth glanced at the empty forge. The darkness of the small shack surely reflected the emptiness of Brother Costin’s heart. “ ’Tis only natural that your father is still grieving over losing your mother.” Two weeks had passed since Brother Costin had asked her to stay as their housekeeper, but just because he had agreed to her presence in his home didn’t mean he was nearly finished grieving his wife.

“I miss her too.” Mary’s voice wobbled.

Elizabeth lifted her needle and looked at the girl. Mary hadn’t cried once over the loss her mother—at least not that she’d seen. Johnny and Betsy still had bouts of crying and missing their mother. But Mary had been the strong one, the one who comforted the others, the one who tried to make everyone else happy.

A tear slipped out of the corner of Mary’s eye.

Elizabeth’s heart swelled with a sudden ache. She dumped her sewing onto the grass and reached for the girl.

Another tear trickled down Mary’s cheek.

“Oh, love.” Elizabeth drew the girl up and wrapped her arms around her.

Mary wound her thin arms around Elizabeth and pressed her face into Elizabeth’s chest. Silent sobs shook the girl.

Elizabeth hugged her tighter and kissed the top of her head. “Oh, love. Oh, love.” She held her and rocked back and forth, watching Johnny and Betsy wave sword sticks in the air as they fought an imaginary creature. They shrieked, and then Betsy led a retreat, with Johnny eagerly mimicking her every move.

Mary’s sobs diminished until she lay still in Elizabeth’s arms.

Finally she gave a loud sigh. “Sometimes I think Mother’s death is my fault.”

“You do?”

Mary nodded.

Elizabeth pressed another kiss into her curls. “Oh, love, ’tis not your fault. ’Tis not anyone’s fault. Only our sovereign God determines the number of days we have.”

“But if I wasn’t blind, I could have helped her more—”

“Here they are, Sister Spencer,” a voice clucked behind them.

“I told you,” came another voice, louder and brasher. “Didn’t I tell you they would be in the back keeping cool?”

Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. Sister Norton and Sister Spencer were making their way past the garden toward them, the one tall and thin like a Maypole and the other short and round like a large kettle.

“Seems we have guests,” Elizabeth murmured to Mary. She kissed the girl’s head one more time, and then pushed herself off the ground.

“Good day, Elizabeth.” Sister Norton took one long stride to three of Sister Spencer’s choppy ones. “We’ve just come from market and have good news for you.”

An empty basket swung at Sister Norton’s side. The two widows supported themselves by selling eggs, butter, and garden produce at the market square, as well as the bone lace they spent long hours sewing. The earnings were meager, and the women could hardly afford the rent of the small cottage they shared. But it kept them from having to live at the bridewell.

Sister Norton ducked into the shade of the tree. She hunched her shoulders to keep from bumping her head against the tiny apples beginning to swell in place of the blossoms that had fluttered away.

“It’s actually good news for the poor baby Thomas.” The taller woman tugged the collar at her neck and peered down at the sleeping infant. “Ah, ah. Poor, poor baby.”

His face was pale and lean. Lucy’s wet-nursing was irregular, and the babe survived on less mother’s milk than he needed. But he was still alive, and for that Elizabeth was grateful.

Sister Norton bent closer to Elizabeth. “Sister Bird’s baby died yesterday morn. She agreed to wet-nurse Thomas to ease the discomfort of having an abundance of milk but no baby.”

“Truly?” Elizabeth looked from Sister Norton to Sister Spencer. A bud of hope pushed to the surface of her heart.

Sister Spencer gave several nods; her cheeks jostled from the motion. “She came to market this morn and said as much herself.”

“ ’Twould be very helpful.” Elizabeth’s mind began to spin. She didn’t know Sister Bird well, but perhaps the woman would be willing to come at the times Lucy could not.

“They had the funeral for the babe last eve.” Sister Norton spoke in hushed tones. “Ah, poor, poor wee one. Healthy one day, gone the next.”

“They had the poor baby wrapped in a winding sheet and ready for burial before anyone even knew he was dead,” Sister Spencer added.

Thomas began to squirm, and his face scrunched into the beginning of a cry. Elizabeth reached down and picked him up. “When can Sister Bird come?”

The two women glanced at each other sideways.

“
Come
, my dear? Did you say
come
?” Sister Norton straightened, bumped her head on a branch, and then slumped again. “Ah, Sister Bird cannot
come
here to wet-nurse. She has five other yonkers to tend. We must take the baby to her.”

Elizabeth nodded. She could do that. She often took the babe to Lucy. ’Twould make additional work. But if it would help him, then it must be done. “I’ll take him to Sister Bird during the parts of the day that Lucy isn’t able to make it here.”

“Oh no, no, no,” Sister Spencer said. “Sister Bird made it very clear the beggared woman wasn’t to continue wet-nursing in any way. Already the child has received bad blood and has been exposed to all manners of depravity. Sister Bird doesn’t want any further contamination.”

“Lucy was only a temporary help. You knew that, my dear,” Sister Norton said more gently. “Now we’ve found permanent arrangements.”

Elizabeth pressed the tip of her finger into Thomas’s mouth. He latched on and sucked it hungrily, finding from it a small measure of comfort during his constant waiting for nourishment. With her other fingers she caressed his pale cheek. Every day he grew weaker and more listless. Was it just the natural course of never having a full belly? Or was there truly something bad about Lucy’s milk that was hurting the babe?

“I shall have to dismiss Lucy, then?”

Sister Spencer nodded. “This is for the best.”

Elizabeth wasn’t sure if it really was for the best, but it seemed like the most logical way at present to get the babe the milk he needed. “Did Sister Bird say what times of the day she wants me to bring Thomas?”

“
Tisk. Tisk.
I see that we’ve not been very clear, Sister Whitbread,” Sister Spencer said. “We must take the baby to live with Sister Bird.”

Elizabeth’s gasp echoed Mary’s. “Send the babe away? I can’t do that.”

Sister Norton’s eyes filled with compassion. “Ah, my dear. I know this is all very difficult. But I’m sure you understand this is the way of things.”

Elizabeth swallowed her protest. Not many wives could leave their families and responsibilities to wet-nurse, unless it was for the nobility.

Her chest tightened and an ache formed at the back of her throat. She looked down at Thomas. Even though his tongue and lips were moving, he’d fallen back asleep.

Despite his fussiness of the past three weeks, she’d grown to love him, and the thought of letting him go into someone else’s care was as unthinkable as sending away her own baby. But even as her arms tightened around him, she knew she would have to let him go.

“We cannot send Thomas away,” Mary said, as if she had been able to hear the agony clamoring in Elizabeth’s head. “We’ll keep Lucy. She may not be exactly what he needs, but having her is better than sending him away.”

Elizabeth reached for Mary’s hand and grasped it. Her heart agreed with what Mary said, but her reasoning prevailed. Thomas needed more than he was getting, or he would dwindle away to nothing.

“Ah, ah, you poor dears.” Sister Norton smiled sadly. “This will be much easier for the baby than for you. He’s young and will adjust to a new home—especially one where his belly is full.”

“He won’t like it.” Mary’s thin body tensed. “He’ll miss us.”

“Tisk. Tisk.”
Sister Spencer frowned; the deep folds of her face added severity to her countenance. “Even if he doesn’t like it, he’ll be better off. He’ll get the milk of a godly woman.”