The Preacher's Bride (18 page)

Chapter
21

We all think it’s time for you to remarry,” Gibbs said.

John’s stride faltered and he glanced at his friend sitting at the oaken table near the hearth holding one hand toward the low fire. The other arm hung useless, and the shortened sleeve revealed the blunt point of all that was left of his arm.

“So you’ve been a part of these meetings—the ones I’m not invited to?” John picked up his feet and paced faster. Tension radiated into each hard stomp of his boots.

“The elders of St. John’s only invited me to one.” Gibbs spoke quietly. Even though they were alone in the rectory of St. Peter and St. Paul, where Gibbs held vicarage, the troubled times urged them to caution.

“So you are turning against me now too?”

“None of us are turning against you, John. We are only discussing the best course of action to keep you and your family safe.”

“We are safe.” Even if the Royalists were growing more brazen over the past weeks, none of the turmoil had touched his family.

“We all know the Independents are losing power.”

John couldn’t disagree. Richard Cromwell was failing them. They had hoped once he was in authority, he would prove himself to be a strong leader like his father. But so far, he’d been a marionette in the hands of Parliament. “How many months does he have left?”

“Not many more. Perchance till spring.”

“Are there speculations of who will rule the Protectorate then?”

Gibbs shook his head. “It’s too soon to tell.”

In the many meetings John had attended and amidst the dozens of hushed conversations, no one could predict what the future would hold for the Independents. But everyone agreed that nothing would be the same as when Old Ironsides had been alive.

“I do know it won’t get any easier for you, my friend.” Gibbs straightened and rubbed his warm hand against the stub of his other arm. “Even our own Independent clergy are grumbling about giving too much freedom to unlicensed ministers.”

John had already heard the renewed surge of grumblings. “What can we do?”

“We must be prepared.”

“You know I cannot cease doing what God has called me to.” John stopped his pacing. “People are hungrier than ever before for the Gospel. Every day when I preach and teach, I see grown men fall to their knees in repentance.”

Gibbs nodded. “Your ministry is more effective than ten vicars combined.”

“Surely I cannot abandon God’s calling, even during the worst of trials.”

Gibbs reached his hand back to the low fire crackling on the hearth. He studied the flames for a moment. “You cannot cease. It’s true.”

John stalked forward again, pacing the length of the shadowed room.

“Should the Protectorate dissolve completely,” Gibbs continued, “some are making plans to leave for America.”

“I won’t flee the tide of persecution. I will suffer aright.”

“Perchance God would spare your life and have you serve Him best elsewhere.”

“If the call to preach God’s Word in America came during times of peace and prosperity, then I would not stand against it. But I could not in good conscience accept such a call during times of affliction, for fear that my desire to escape tribulations dictate my actions.”

Gibbs was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. “What you say is true. The Lord surely uses His flail of tribulation to separate the chaff from the wheat.”

“Would you leave for New England? If the Protectorate dissolves, surely you’ll come under persecution as well.”

“I wouldn’t leave, my friend. I’m old and wanting.” He touched what was left of his arm. “My place is here. My flock is here.”

“If you aren’t making plans to leave, then why would you suggest it of me? Aren’t we made of the same ingredients, you and I?”

Gibbs gave a small smile. “In our hearts, we’re brothers in the Lord. But besides that, our circumstances are entirely different.”

A quick rebuttal formed on John’s lips, but Gibbs silenced him by holding up his hand.

“John, you’re young. God has given you a special gift with words and with writing. Your work is just beginning.” He arose and then straightened with a wince. “I, on the other hand, have fought the good fight. I’m nearing the end. My wife is gone. My children grown. I don’t fear what mortal man may do to me, whether it be prison or even death. I’m ready to be with my Lord, should He bring me home.”

His friend’s words stirred his blood with passion. “I don’t fear what man may do to me either.”

“But what of your family, my friend?”

The gentle words stopped him.

“You have young children who would suffer for losing their father. Who would take care of them should you be arrested? Who would provide for them should you die?”

John’s first thoughts went to his brother Willie. Willie had always had a compassionate heart and would take his children as if they were his own, even if it meant he would go without to provide for them. Undoubtedly he would go without, for Willie was a poor man, barely able to feed and clothe the family he had. Adding four more would be a hardship—especially a babe and a blind child.

“If you won’t plan for yourself, you must at least plan for your children. It’s time, John. It’s time for you to marry again.”

“I don’t have the desire for it, neither do I have the time.”

“The elders are all agreed and asked me to help persuade you. If not for yourself, then for the children.”

John forced his words of refusal down. He thought of his daughter Mary’s angelic face framed by dangling golden curls, her beautiful smile, her crystal blue eyes, and her sharp, perceiving mind that saw what her eyes did not. What would happen to this precious blind child if danger befell him? The world would trample her, reduce her to nothing.

The image of her dirty, listless, and begging in the cold pierced his heart.

Gibbs watched him. “It would be best for the children to have a mother to look after them should something happen to you.”

Deep inside John knew Gibbs was right. Last spring, before Mary had died, a Royalist judge had threatened him with imprisonment. Even though his Independent friends had easily reversed the charges, the danger of his unlicensed preaching had become a reality. Mary had been large with child. Had he gone to jail, he would have hated being away from Mary and the children. And yet he would have had a small measure of comfort knowing his wife would take care of the children and home in his absence.

But what would happen now, especially when he was losing the support of some of the influential Puritans? If his enemies were to bring charges against him again, would he have any friends left to come to his aid?

“You are busy, but I think you must make time for marriage now too.” Gibbs stepped to the hearth, reached for the poker, and stirred the fuel. The flames flickered higher and cast long shadows.

“You’re rarely wrong about anything.” Even as he said the words, his body tightened with resistance. “And it’s likely you are not wrong about this either.”

Gibbs turned and gave him a smile. “Then you’ll consider finding a wife?”

John wanted to growl. Instead he began pacing again. “I suppose if the elders have asked you to speak with me, then they have finally grown serious about it.” They’d murmured about wanting him to remarry, especially when his enemies had been spreading rumors. But since his confrontation with William Foster, there had been fewer rumors. The man had denied any involvement in the attacks on Elizabeth, claimed innocence regarding the slander, and feigned insult when asked about the thatcher and his wife. Except for the dark look of sin in the man’s eyes, John would have believed the man’s smooth talk.

“Surely your congregation has many godly young maidens,” Gibbs said. “You should have no trouble finding one that’s suitable.”

John tried to think of the maidens who had vied for his attention, whose mothers had pushed them forward and tried to bring them into his favor. But he could picture only one—his housekeeper.

She was sturdy and strong. They had more provisions for the winter through her resourcefulness than they’d ever had in previous years. She was a hard worker, the kind of woman who wasted little time. Whenever he saw her, she was busy.

There had been times when he’d thought that should he
have
to remarry someday, he’d want to find someone like Elizabeth. Not that he wanted to marry or even planned to, but if and when he
must
marry, he had decided she would make a good wife. Especially because his children already loved her.

More importantly, Elizabeth didn’t expect much from him—not his time, nor his attention, nor his affection.

Such a woman would make the perfect wife for a busy man like himself.

“If only . . .” His shoulders sagged with the same disappointment that had burdened him since he’d learned of Elizabeth’s betrayal. Even though she claimed to have taken only one of his papers, he continued to lose them. If she’d stolen one, what was to prevent her from taking others?

The ache in his chest pulsed harder. If only she’d remained faithful. If only he could trust her . . .

He shook his head. He couldn’t marry a woman he didn’t trust, no matter how strong and diligent. Elizabeth Whitbread was not a wifely candidate.

If the elders and Gibbs insisted that he should remarry, then he would have to find someone else.

Too bad he couldn’t think of any other woman who’d make a finer wife.

Chapter
22

I have some delicious gossip.” Catherine smoothed a hand over her rounded stomach.

Elizabeth paused in sweeping the crumbs from the table and narrowed her eyes at the girl. “For shame, sister. I won’t listen to gossip. Saint Timothy instructs young women not to partake in idle talebearing.”

“It’s not idle.” Catherine had grown more beautiful as the months passed and her body swelled with child. Now as February came to a close, her eyes were brighter, her skin creamier, her body fuller.

A weight of envy settled in the pit of Elizabeth’s stomach. Samuel Muddle had been good to Catherine and had done everything he could to make her happy. Perhaps Catherine didn’t yet reciprocate Samuel’s love, but she had adjusted to being married to him and enjoyed his attention and flattery.

Elizabeth glanced to the hearth, where the men had gathered after finishing their late Sabbath meal. Samuel bent near the flames warming himself, along with her father and Henry. Would Samuel have been as good to her as he was to Catherine? Would she have been happy and expecting her first child?

She sighed and turned her attention to cleaning the long plank table.

Catherine leaned toward her. “I heard it only this morning at the meeting,” she said quietly.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Elizabeth retorted more sharply than she intended. “ ’Tis wrong to gossip.”

As usual Catherine paid her no attention. Her eyes sparkled as she leaned even closer to Elizabeth. “Brother Costin has been in discussion with Elder Harrington about courting one of his daughters. Lizzie, I suspect.”

Elizabeth froze. Ice crusted over her insides as though a snowstorm had blown through her suddenly and without warning.

Catherine smiled. “I knew you would be interested.”

“John—Brother Costin is courting?”

“I don’t know if he has started courting yet. But Sister Harrington told some of the matrons this morning that Brother Costin had called on them to get permission for courting.”

Elizabeth’s mouth turned dry, and she could hardly form the words of her question. “It is arranged, then?”

Catherine straightened and situated one hand on her lower back and one on her protruding belly. “To think I once wanted to be the next wife of John Costin.” She gave a small laugh. “Now I pity the woman who must marry him.”

“Pity?” Elizabeth felt anything but pity. Shock. Despair. And perchance envy. But never pity.

“They said that any woman who marries Brother Costin will find herself soon a widow.”

“That’s not true.” Even though Richard Cromwell was becoming more and more unpopular, and it appeared his short reign as Lord Protector was doomed, Elizabeth could not believe much would change. Her father and Henry both said the Independents still held enough power in Parliament to hold the Protectorate together. They would appoint a stronger leader next.

“Either way, John Costin won’t have need of a housekeeper much longer.” Catherine’s smile turned to a smirk. “What will you do then, sister?”

Feeling the pressure of tears in her eyes, Elizabeth ducked her head.

An intense longing deep inside welled up and burned against her chest and throat. How could John think of marrying Lizzie Harrington? How could he think of marrying anyone except
her
?

Sudden clarity pierced her. She had been waiting for him these past months, since the day he had come to her when she was picking gooseberries—the day he had hinted he would someday want to marry her.

Had she been wrong? Hadn’t he said she would do well as a wife? Hadn’t he said if he had to marry again, he would want to find someone like her?

That was what he had said, for the words had seared her memory, and she had reviewed and savored them many times since.

Had she perhaps misunderstood him? Had she read more into his words than he’d meant? Panic sent a cold chill through her body.

But he’d shown some regard toward her when he’d crafted the candlestick for her—surely a man wouldn’t make so fine a gift for just any woman.

She swiped the last crumbs from the table and let them fall to the floor.

Catherine must be wrong. John could not be getting ready to court someone else.

Her sister said no more about it as they gathered for family worship. No one mentioned it as they reviewed the sermon and as Father taught them from Scripture. As much as she wanted to discover the truth, Elizabeth dared not ask about the rumor, for then she would be as guilty as Catherine of gossiping.

All night she tried to tell herself that Catherine had not heard right and that rumors were never true. The next morning, however, the moment she entered the Costin cottage, thick dread clouded around her. It took only one look at the children sitting at the table to know something was not right. And she had the feeling that
something
had to do with the rumor.

Mary’s expression was pale and stricken. Tears lingered in her eyelashes. The muscles in John’s jaw and cheeks were taut, and his hair stuck on end. When he saw her, he refused to meet her gaze. Instead, he pushed away from the table and mumbled about having to get an early start in the forge.

When the door closed behind him, Elizabeth didn’t move.

“You know, then?” Mary finally asked, rubbing Thomas’s back, as if by doing so she could bring comfort to herself.

Elizabeth fumbled with the cuff on her sleeve. “I’m not certain.”

“Father’s going to marry one of the Harrington girls.” Betsy’s voice rang with disdain. “And we told him we don’t want her for a momma. We told him we want you.”

“He is going to marry her?” Fresh despair paralyzed her. “What about the courting?”

“They’ll court first.” Mary spat the words as she would a bitter herb. “But he’s determined to find a new wife.”

“We told him we want you,” repeated Johnny with sad eyes.

Elizabeth fought the growing panic winding through her body. Why wouldn’t he consider her? Surely he remembered what he’d told her. He thought she was strong and diligent and would make a good wife.

“He said he couldn’t marry you,” Mary continued, “and that we’re too young to understand his decision.”

“He didn’t explain himself?”

“I told him he’s making a big mistake, just like when he gave Thomas away to the Birds.”

“But did he give any reasons why he didn’t want to marry me?”

“He wouldn’t say.” Mary patted Thomas as he began to fuss. “And I’m
not
too young to understand.”

Elizabeth tried to push down the lump in her throat. Her one desire at that moment was to run, run hard and fast to somewhere she could be alone, throw herself down, and give in to the cries begging for release.

She had gambled and lost. She had given up Samuel Muddle, along with the certainty of marriage and a family, for the dangling hope she would be able to marry John Costin instead.

She wanted to marry John.

Moreover . . . she loved him.

Her heart constricted at the admission. She turned her back on the children and brushed tears from her cheeks. She loved the way his eyes lit with passion for his ministry. She loved his courage and his dedication and his zeal. And she’d hoped one day she would be the one to stand beside him and partner with him.

She couldn’t imagine anyone else capable of helping him the way she could.

Sister Norton had been right about one thing. The widow had seen the love growing inside her long before she had.

“What will you do?” Mary asked softly. “Will you tell him how you feel?”

Elizabeth wiped her cheeks. She took a deep breath to steady her voice. “Your father is a godly man, children. We’ll accept his decision as God’s will. And we’ll respect and honor it.”

Mary scowled.

Elizabeth’s throat burned with the effort to keep from crying. “And you know I’ll always love you children. Nothing will ever change that.”

The rest of the day passed in a haze of pain. She went through the motions of living. Somehow she managed to garner enough strength to gather gorse and roots. But all the while she worked, her heart bled with the anguish of knowing she wouldn’t be there to see the fruit of her labor. She wouldn’t be with the children to watch them grow. And she wouldn’t be the one who claimed John’s heart and affection.

When Anne appeared near the end of the afternoon, Elizabeth gazed at her wearily.

Her breath came in jagged gasps, and her face was creased with worry. “Sister Norton is on her way to Lucy’s. She asked me to send you and to make sure you bring Brother Costin with you.”

A wisp of uneasiness curled through Elizabeth as she realized Lucy had not come to nurse Thomas all day. He had fussed more than usual, but she had attributed it to the possibility that he was cutting a tooth.

Now that Thomas was in his ninth month, his need for nursing had diminished. Lucy came less frequently, but she still came for the small amount of money it brought her.

Elizabeth blew into her cold, red hands. “What is it, Anne?”

“Lucy’s in trouble.”

“The pillory again?” Elizabeth rose, straightening her petticoat. Had Mrs. Grew found another way to torment the poor woman?

“Fulke beat her,” Anne said with a trembling voice. During the time Lucy had lived with Sister Norton and Sister Spencer, Anne had grown to care for the poor woman and her children. But a fortnight past, Fulke had appeared without explanation. After months of being gone, they had come to believe he was dead. Yet he’d tracked Lucy down and demanded she return to him.

They had attempted to convince her to stay with the Sisters. But Fulke had claimed to be a changed man, had promised to treat her better.

It hadn’t taken much to sway Lucy back into his arms. When Fulke had secured a place for them to live, Lucy had taken the children and returned.

Elizabeth glanced toward the forge. The clinking of an anvil reverberated within. “We won’t bother Brother Costin. I can handle the situation on my own.”

“The constable wants him.” Anne forced a smile at Betsy and Johnny, who waved at her.

“It must be serious.”

“Sister Norton wouldn’t say more. But she said it was urgent for you
and
Brother Costin to go.”

Elizabeth looked again at the forge and hesitated. Her whole body resisted the idea of facing John.

“You must hurry. I’ll stay with the children until you return.”

Elizabeth nodded. She took a deep breath of the cool, damp scent of soil and made her way to the forge. When he saw her, he acted as though he would ignore her. But with the news of the constable’s request, he laid aside his tools, untied his apron, and departed with her. He said nothing to her as they traversed the muddy streets.

She pulled her cloak tight about her and kept her gaze focused ahead, all the while chastising herself for wanting to look at him and let her heart dwell on his admirable features. With each squelching step her mind throbbed with the reminder she had loved him and lost him.

“Costin,” the constable boomed from the dark interior as they approached Lucy’s cottage. “There you be.”

The crowd parted to make room for them. John ducked his head and entered but stopped abruptly.

Elizabeth pulled up short but couldn’t keep from bumping into the broadness of his back. At the contact with his warmth, heat fired to life in her cheeks, and she took a step away.

John held up his arm, cautioning her, keeping her from sidling around him. “I don’t want you to come in, Elizabeth.” His command was soft yet terse.

She knew she ought to obey him, but annoyance fanned to life amidst all of the hurt that had collected in her heart during the day—annoyance that he had avoided her all day, chosen another woman over her, and now ordered her around as if he had some right over her.

“Sister Norton said I was needed too. You aren’t my husband. You have no right to assume control over me.”

With a huff, she slipped under his arm and pushed him aside. She squeezed through the doorframe into the crowded one-room cottage. She peered through the dimness and glimpsed Sister Norton holding Lucy’s infant.

Then her gaze landed upon Lucy. With a gasp Elizabeth drew back. Nausea gurgled through her stomach and pushed up her throat. Weakness spread through her.

She swayed and the solid strength of John’s arms caught her. He grabbed her shoulders and spun her around against his body.

She buried her face in the span of his chest, wanting to block the carnage from her view, from her mind. But the picture of Lucy’s bludgeoned corpse sprawled on the floor was branded to her thoughts. Blood seeped from her skull. Matted hair hung in loose clumps away from the scalp. Her bruised and swollen face was almost unrecognizable.

She shuddered with the shock of the brutality.

John’s arms wound around her middle, and he pressed her face into his chest. She dragged in a shaking breath of the metallic scent that permeated the fabric of his shirt.

He lowered his head so that his mouth was near her ear. “I told you to wait outside, Elizabeth. I’ll handle this.” The warmth of his breath tingled her cheek, and she closed her eyes. She was exactly where she wanted to be, in the protection of his arms. How could she ever think about leaving him . . . forever?

He pulled back and stared into her eyes with an intensity that burned down to her soul. “Don’t come in again.” The blueness of his eyes caressed her face with a gentle concern that made her want to do anything he asked.

She allowed him to guide her around him and out the door. The neighbors moved aside, and she staggered away until she braced herself against the crumbling wall of the cottage next door. She groped the wattle and tried to steady her uncontrollable shaking, not sure if her body was reacting to the chill in the air or the sight of Lucy’s body.

It didn’t take long for those milling in the crowd to give her the details of what had happened. Fulke had caught Lucy with another man. No one knew exactly who, but they had witnessed a gentleman’s horse tied up outside the cottage. Some said they had heard the gentleman beating Lucy, that he was the one responsible for her murder. But others claimed they had heard Fulke raging when he found the man and Lucy together. After the man had ridden away, they’d heard more yelling and screaming and cursing—they were sure Fulke was the one to blame, otherwise he wouldn’t have left as rapidly as he had.