The Preacher's Bride (24 page)

“Would you have me cower behind your petticoats?” He stood, a scowl creasing his forehead. “I have never let my enemies dictate my calling, and I won’t start now.”

“But you are gone so much.” She fumbled to find the right words to express the longing that had been building within her. “Not only do I want you to be safe, but I want to spend more time with you.”

“I thought you understood how important my ministry is to me—”

“I do understand. But must you spend so much time at it? Must you leave so early and come home every day so late—”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this.” His voice was thin with frustration. “You’ve never complained before. You’ve always supported my work. Why are you questioning what I do now?”

“I was merely your housekeeper for these many months past. How could I demand your time and affection?” Her voice was growing whiny, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Now I am your wife. Don’t most wives wish to spend time with their husbands—over a meal, or in their work, or even in quiet reflection?”

He was silent for a long moment. His jaw ground together as he stared at her. “I did not think you would be like other wives,” he finally said.

The words cut through her. “What did you think? That I would be your wife at night but your housekeeper the rest of the time?” Her angry words spilled into the room before she could bridle her tongue. She clamped a hand over her mouth and fought back sudden hot tears.

John turned away from her and kicked a loose stick into the hearth.

She sucked in a wavering breath. “I’m sorry, John—”

“It’s late.” His voice was low and terse. “Go to bed.”

She stared at his broad back for a moment. The tears in her eyes turned into heavy pools. She’d only wanted to be with him and to love him. Instead, all she’d managed was to make him angry.

“John—”

“Go to bed, Elizabeth. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Her heart squeezed painfully, forcing the tears out. She turned and staggered away, not wanting him to witness the wetness on her cheeks or to know how deeply his words had hurt her.

* * *

Elizabeth tucked her hair into her nightcap and lowered herself to the edge of the bed. She folded her hands in her lap, then unfolded them and held on to the bed frame.

The door was open a crack and allowed in only a sliver of light from the hearth. She couldn’t see into the main room but knew from the silence that John was still in his study.

Her tears were dry and now all she wanted was to be in his arms and to hear him whisper in her ear how beautiful she was.

’Twas only natural for all couples to disagree. Surely John’s arrest had scared both of them and stirred their emotions to unnatural tension.

Once he joined her, everything would be as it should between them.

And if he wouldn’t take heed to protect himself, perchance she ought to consider what
she
could do to protect him.

Catherine had alluded to the influence a wife could have over her husband and had suggested she may be able to sway him to abandon his preaching. At the time, Catherine’s words had seemed sacrilegious. But now—she had witnessed the power her touch had exerted on John. Did she dare use that power to influence him to stop his preaching?

Was there the remotest possibility that God had placed her in John’s life for this purpose? Did God have a new mission for her—to save John and by so doing save all of them from hardship?

Minutes passed. She waited until her fingers grew stiff from gripping the bed frame. She stood, tiptoed to the door, and peeked out. The door to the study was closed. With a soft sigh, she returned to the side of the bed to sit. Finally, her eyes grew heavy, and she lowered herself back onto the feather mattress.

She breathed in the woodsy, metallic scent of him in the blanket and smoothed a hand over his imprint next to her in the sagging mattress.

The warmth of memories slipped through her as she let her mind wander back to the intimacies they had shared.

She didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until the coolness of the night awoke her. With a start, she sat up. How long had she slept? Her fingers skimmed the mattress next to her and sensed the emptiness before she felt it.

A mixture of curiosity and worry propelled her from the bed. Perhaps John had come, saw that she was sleeping, and then left. Her bare feet met the cold floor. She padded to the door, widened the crack, and peered through.

John was unrolling a straw-filled mat in front of the hearth. At the creaking of the door, he halted his preparations. His gaze swung to her.

Through the darkness of the room, lit only by the dying embers of the fire, Elizabeth couldn’t make sense of the mat or what John was doing with it.

He straightened and fidgeted with a blanket.

Her eyes ricocheted from him to the mat to the blanket and back. Then slowly her mind began to comprehend his intentions. Her heart stammered to a standstill. Surely he wasn’t planning to sleep by the hearth? Surely he wasn’t still angry with her?

He stared at the mat.

Words of invitation stuck in her throat, unable to squeeze past the nervousness and fear. With each passing second of silence, the trepidation grew until she felt as if she would burst with the pressure of it.

Finally he lifted his gaze and met hers directly. The message in his dark, brooding eyes was clear. He wasn’t planning to join her.

“After today and then tonight—” he started.

Anguish sliced through her. She bit her lip to keep the pain from escaping. Tears filled her eyes and blurred her vision. She was thankful for the darkness of the room hiding her pathos.

She hung her head and turned away.

“Things will be better this way for both of us,” she heard him say as she nudged the door closed.

With tears streaming down her cheeks, she leaned against the door and covered her mouth with her hand. Sobs begged for release, but she stifled them, knowing she couldn’t humiliate herself anymore. She’d made a fool of herself by going to look for him. If she let him know how much he had hurt her, she’d be a bigger fool.

Her throat ached and her chest burned. Her head pounded with a jumble of crashing thoughts. Never before in her life had she felt so low.

Chapter
30

John gripped his axe and leaned into the door.

The revelry in the streets of Bedford had grown louder with each passing hour of the night. The lutes, the voices raised in song, the dancing—at some point the celebration had changed into shouts, smashes, and screams.

His body tensed at another roar of laughter on the street outside the cottage and the accompanying cries of fright. His fingers tightened around the handle of his only weapon—one he wouldn’t hesitate to use if the drunken revelers attempted to break into his home.

He glanced to the corner near the smoldering hearth. Elizabeth’s arms surrounded the children, and they cowered soundlessly against her. Through the darkness their wide eyes watched his every move.

Sweat trickled down his temple, to his cheek, and dripped onto his shoulder. Even though the night was sultry, he had bound the shutters hours ago, not long after the news had reached them that the king had returned.

Even though Bedfordshire was mostly of Puritan Independent sympathy, there were still many who had grown tired of the strict Cromwellian laws and now embraced the return of King Charles II. John had heard enough rumblings among the laborers to know they longed for their drinking and gaming and dancing—and even if they didn’t support the Royalists, they would welcome a new leader who would restore England to her former ways.

Someone rattled the door and pounded on it.

John dug his shoulder into it and raised his axe.

“Wake up!” A man shouted from outside. “If ye don’t join the celebration, we’ll break down yer door and make ye!”

One of the children whimpered, and John shot Elizabeth a hard look. She clamped her hand over Betsy’s mouth and drew her closer.

His blood pumped with fresh energy. He’d die defending his family if he must.

The door shook again.

He wedged his boot against it. He could tolerate his enemies bullying him, but he wouldn’t let anyone touch his family—especially not a handful of drunken townsmen.

The door rattled again, and this time shook the cottage. John heaved his body against the planks and grunted in his effort to keep out the intruders.

More laughter came from the street, along with the crash of pottery. The heavy breathing of the man on the other side of the door slurred into a slew of curses, and finally his heavy steps thudded away.

John blew out a long breath and turned to look at Elizabeth and the children.

“Are we safe now?” Mary whispered.

“Don’t worry, love,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Your father is a strong man. He’ll protect us.” She pressed a kiss against the girl’s head.

In the danger and heat of the night, John suddenly couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than Elizabeth’s kiss.

The past nights sleeping in front of the hearth had been agony, knowing she was only a room away from him. Whenever he heard the soft squeak of the bed, he couldn’t keep from picturing her long thick hair splayed across the sheets, glistening in the moonlight.

He had to sternly remind himself that he was only doing what was right for both of them. Who knew how many more days he had left, especially now that King Charles had returned to power? Elizabeth obviously wanted more from their relationship than he was capable. He would only continue to hurt and disappoint her if he went to her at night.

Besides, he was busier now than ever, and he needed to keep his focus on his ministry. This wasn’t the time to cut back on his preaching.

Frustration surged to life again. How could she even suggest it? She knew how important his ministry was.

He rubbed his forehead against his shoulder and wiped away his sweat. Yes, he’d made the right decision.

If only his gut didn’t ache so much with the longing to hold her.

* * *

Elizabeth waited. Deep inside she knew it was only a matter of time before John would come to her again. He would put their disagreement aside and realize how much she loved him.

But in the days and weeks following the king’s return, the tensions between the Royalists and Puritans only increased, and John was gone from home for longer stretches. The Royalists, who had faced oppression, suffered fines and losses of homes and livelihoods, had grown bold. Even after the week of revelry that had accompanied the king’s return, Elizabeth continued to hear rumors of attacks against Independents, of beatings in broad daylight, of theft, of malicious revenge.

Her worry for John followed her every waking moment, and she wished more than ever he was only a simple tinker at work in his forge.

It wasn’t until she had missed her monthly courses for the second time that Elizabeth allowed herself to hope she might possibly be with child. She had none of the sickness or tiredness Catherine and Jane had experienced. She felt no different, except an occasional tenderness of bosom.

She didn’t share her suspicions with anyone. But every so oft, she would catch Mary’s face turned toward her, a puzzled expression creasing her dainty features, as if she sensed something different.

As the summer days lengthened, Elizabeth waited for John night after night in her bed, her ears alert to his every move. Disappointment crashed through her each time she heard the muffled thump of his straw mat unrolling onto the floor in front of the hearth. Her heart grieved that yet another night would pass without him.

By midsummer she knew she had to face the possibility that he wouldn’t take the initiative to seek her out.

“Perchance he will find affection for me again if he knows I am carrying his child,” she whispered into the sticky air of the dark night. She lay on her back and smoothed a hand over the gently expanding roundness of her abdomen.

With a push against the sagging mattress, she peered through the crack in the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. The urge to understand his rejection rose inside her like a swift summer storm. How could she live another night not knowing why he stayed away from her?

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and sat on the wooden box frame. Should she go to him? Did she dare?

Her heart pattered with an unsteady rhythm.

Before she lost courage, she slipped her bare feet to the floor and made her way across the room. Her hand shook against the door, but she pushed it open and tiptoed to where he lay.

He was tangled in a sheet. Her face flushed when she realized he wore nothing underneath the thin covering. His back faced her, and as she lowered herself to her knees, her breath caught at the sight of the splotchy scars pulling his skin taut.

Slowly, carefully, she skimmed her fingers along the edge of one of the scars. He had suffered agonizing burns during the war to dethrone the last king. He’d nearly lost his life to put the Puritans in power—all for the sake of the Gospel. Would his scars be for naught now that a new king ruled England?

The uneven skin was hot underneath her fingertips. She let the outline of the burn mark lead her fingers through the maze on his back.

His breathing grew heavier.

She ignored the urge to retreat and glided her fingers to his shoulder and down his arm. Then tossing aside all caution, she lowered her face and pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades.

He didn’t move.

Growing bolder, she brushed aside his thick hair and moved her lips to the back of his neck.

He gasped and turned. His thick arms wound around her and pulled her down to him. His chest rose and fell against her pounding heart. Then his lips chased after hers until they met in crushing passion.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured against her lips.

Pleasure rippled through her. This was what she wanted. This was where she wanted to be. “I love you.” Her declaration came out unbidden, soft and breathless.

His movements, even his breathing, ceased. He was still for a long moment, and then he struggled to sit up, pushing her away from him.

In confused desperation she reached for his hands, for his arms, for anything to keep the connection. But he strained away and shook his head. “I cannot do this, Elizabeth. I cannot.”

She sat back on her heels and bit her lip to hold back a cry of frustration.

“Go back to bed.” His voice was hoarse.

“Why? Why can’t we be together as we were before?”

“I wasn’t fair to you before—taking from you, but having nothing to give in return.”

“We can let that be a part of our past. Surely we can start again?”

“No.”

“If only you would talk to me. Please tell me what I’ve done wrong to make you loathe me.”

“Loathe you?” He gave a short laugh. “I don’t loathe you.”

“You must surely find me disagreeable to reject me this way.” Her breathing was labored as she tried to hold back the sobs that wanted releasing.

“You are not disagreeable. The problem lies the other way around. You are too agreeable, too pleasing, too tempting.”

“ ’Tis a problem? Shall I make myself unpleasant, then?”

He gave a groan. “No.”

She gulped hard and pushed down the ache in her throat. “What then? Tell me what I may do to please you.”

“You can do nothing to please me. I’m a marked man. My days are numbered. It’s only a matter of time before they plunge the arrow into my breast.”

“Perhaps. But what has that to do with us? Can we not be husband and wife while God gives us the chance?”

“When the time comes, it will already be hard enough. Let’s not make it more complicated than we must.”

She was beginning to understand. “ ’Tis better not to love than to love and to lose it?”

“Methinks that sums it up.”

She thought back to when Thomas was a babe and John’s resistance to loving his son for fear of losing him. “Do you not think we would be wiser to cherish each moment we have as God’s gift? I would say ’tis better to love and be loved, if only for a day, than to have not loved at all.”

“The matter is complicated.”

A lone cricket’s chirping somewhere in the room suddenly chorused as loud as a hundred of them.

“You came to me before,” she said softly, shyly. “Why must that change now?”

His sigh was ragged. “I must continue to be steadfast in sharing the Gospel as long as God wills it. I can’t sacrifice more of my work, not now. I’m busier than I ever was before. I can hardly keep up with my tinkering, much less your demands—”

“Are not my
demands
only what God intended for marriage? Surely He would have more for us than mere coexistence.”

“I did not think you had demands of me, Elizabeth. And that is one of the reasons I believed you were the right wife for me.”

“I am the right wife for you. If you would only let me help you—”

“I’ve said it before—you must help me by taking care of the children. That is the primary reason the elders pushed me to remarry, and you know that.”

“But must it change us?”

“Don’t make this harder than it must be, Elizabeth. I cannot give you the time you crave.”

The weight of pressure inside her chest was rising. She held her breath to keep back the sobs.

“And I wouldn’t want the worry of having another child. It would be nothing but a burden.”

“Burden?” she choked out the word and resisted the urge to lay a hand on her stomach.

“I would not wish to leave you helpless and with child.”

“Would God not take care of me—of us all—just as He has always done?”

“Go back to bed, Elizabeth.” He rolled onto his mat and turned away from her. “You would argue with me all night, but I will not let you persuade me otherwise. I have made my decision in this matter, and it is final.”

Elizabeth scrambled to her feet, her legs tangling in her night shift. With tears blurring her vision, she stumbled away, desperate to get back to her bed, where she could bury her face and let her sobs loose.

* * *

In the following weeks Elizabeth couldn’t hide her sadness. As much as she tried, she knew Mary could sense it. And the girl seemed to know the source as well.

“Father is gone altogether too often these days.” Mary sawed through an apple with a dull knife on the wooden block Elizabeth had arranged before her in the grass.

Elizabeth’s sharp blade methodically clanked as she made swift work of slicing. Without a pause she grabbed another apple from the pile next to her, her knife making neat, even slices, thin enough for the stringing and drying process.

“He’s too strong-willed,” Mary said, as if the expert in such matters.

Elizabeth didn’t respond. Even if she had the words, she was in no mood to discuss John. Of late, her tears flowed easily, and thinking of him and his refusal to love her was a sure way to rouse all of the hurt she carried in her heart.

A glance at Thomas told her he still slept. In the shade of the apple tree, with the gentle breeze fingering through his red hair, not even the sight of his sweet face brought her joy as it usually did.

She finished her apple and laid down her knife. Then she put a hand on her lower back, arched it, and tried to work out the ache that came much more quickly in recent days. Her gaze darted to Johnny and Betsy in the field, chasing each other instead of gathering nuts as she had instructed them.

She didn’t have the energy to reprimand them. She sighed and shifted her sore hindquarters. Her movement awakened the life inside her with a sudden flutter of thumps and taps. The sensation was becoming more common, especially at night when she lay motionless in bed.

It was getting harder to hide her condition. She hadn’t told anyone, but lately Sister Norton had begun to look at her differently, and she’d seen others whispering and casting glances toward her swelling middle.

The excitement she had initially felt upon realizing she carried John’s child had long since deserted her. John’s one word haunted her.
Burden
. A babe would only be a burden to him.

Mary stopped working and lifted her face toward the cottage, her keen senses alert. “Father?”

Elizabeth’s heart gave a lurch. She struggled to push herself off the ground, stood, and fluffed her petticoat to hide the babe, as had become her habit.

She turned and saw John striding past the garden, coming toward them. His eyes were riveted to one place, her stomach.