by Jody Hedlund
Catherine smoothed a hand over the spotless apron covering her petticoat. “There are some who don’t even try.” She looked pointedly at Elizabeth’s smudged apron.
“There are some who shun vanity.”
“It’s not vain to take care with one’s appearance.”
“ ’Tis entirely vain to be thinking of the outward appearance of this woman at a time when the babe’s life doesn’t depend upon it in the least.”
As usual, her response left Catherine sputtering, unable to find a suitable retort.
“Now, shall we go?” Elizabeth smiled at Lucy.
The woman didn’t smile back. “The others won’t like me either, will they?”
“ ’Tis no matter. You’re desperately needed to save this babe’s life. Remember that.”
Chapter
2
Surely Mary wasn’t dead.
John’s muscles tensed with the urge to go back to her bedside, unwind the cloth, and shake her until she awoke.
He stabbed the tip of his knife into the roasted hen on the platter and ripped off a chunk. With his elbows resting on the table, he stared at the blade and the meat, twirling it around.
She’d been sick and weak all the months she carried the baby, but he had assumed once she gave birth she’d recover. . . . He never imagined she would die. . . .
“John, the women are done with the laying out.”
He nibbled the hen, tasting nothing. He had no appetite, but the elders had insisted he partake of the meal their wives had prepared. They sat with him at the table and tried to engage him in the discussions he usually loved. But today he couldn’t find the energy or passion to be distracted, even by talk of his favorite, Martin Luther’s Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians.
“John?” Vicar Burton stood beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder.
John’s preaching had demanded more time over the past months. He hadn’t neglected Mary, had he? If he’d been home more, could he have kept her alive somehow?
“John?”
He sighed and shifted his gaze to the vicar.
“The women are done with the laying out. They’ll leave the body on the bed overnight.”
“Then I’ll sit with her.” Maybe there was still hope she could revive during the night. If he watched her hard enough, maybe he’d see some sign of life.
Vicar Burton squeezed his shoulder.
John dropped his head and fought the ache in his throat. He’d held her cold hand between his all morning. He’d watched her chest rise and fall for the last time. When he’d kissed her thin blue lips, the stillness of death had greeted him.
“What shall be done with Thomas?” Vicar Burton asked.
“Thomas?”
“Your son. The baby.”
“Methinks there is naught to be done.” Without Mary, it was only a matter of time before the baby died. That was reality, and he couldn’t begin to think about the baby when his heart was breaking over the loss of the woman he loved.
Vicar Burton coughed; his stooped shoulders shook with the effort.
John took another bite of hen and tried to chew it.
“You’ll need a housekeeper, John. The children will need someone to look after them—”
“No.” He made an effort to swallow, but the meat stuck in his throat.
“Plenty of young women in the congregation would be willing—”
“No.” He couldn’t—wouldn’t even fathom the idea of another woman being in his home.
A sudden commotion by the door drew his attention.
“Exactly what do you think you are doing?” Mrs. Grew’s voice boomed through the room and commanded silence.
From his position at the table John could see a disheveled, poverty-stricken woman holding a baby. She had tugged aside her bodice and the stained shift underneath and had pushed the crying infant to her breast.
“Who is this foul woman? She is nursing the baby? Who gave her leave to do so?” Mrs. Grew’s tone turned shriller with every question. “I say, stop this instant. Stop at once.”
A young woman standing near the vagabond stepped in front of her, as if to shield her. “I brought her here, Mrs. Grew—to wet-nurse. And as you can see, she is succeeding where we’ve failed.”
The poor woman nursed the baby with her tangled hair falling over her face. In the quiet of the room, the infant’s greedy gulps had blessedly replaced his cries.
“And just what, may I ask, do you know about selecting a wet nurse?”
“To besure, I don’t have the wisdom you have in these matters—”
“To besure, indeed. You do not have the slightest idea what election ought to be made in this regard—her religion, lineage, countenance, behavior, milk, and her child. All must be carefully considered. This is not a decision to be made lightly.”
“Perhaps ’tis true under different circumstances. However, there’s not time—”
“The very soul of the baby is at stake. Everyone knows the milk is nothing but blood whitened. This woman is not of our religion or even our congregation. She is depraved. That depravity will be transmitted to the child by the milk. Wherefore, the child will be forever tainted with bad blood.”
“We’re all born depraved, Mrs. Grew. We all have bad blood. Thus, we all have need of the cleansing blood of the Savior.”
“Amen,” called Vicar Burton.
Inwardly John echoed the vicar. He’d always counted himself as the most depraved sinner of all, especially in the days before coming to know Christ’s saving power.
“I have seen enough wet nurses,” Mrs. Grew continued, “to know that to produce a sufficient milk supply they must always be of a middle stature. This woman is too little and much too lean. She will not be healthful enough to keep up with the baby’s demands.”
“Whatever milk she has to spare will be better than nothing.”
The girl held her head level and spoke evenly, as if she made an everyday occurrence of battling important matrons of the church.
“If this babe were mine, I’d be grateful for anyone, anyone at all who was willing to preserve him. Nothing else would matter—not stature nor countenance nor anything else. Only saving the babe.”
“Why save his life only to lose his soul?”
“Let us worry about his life now and place his soul in the Almighty’s hands for safekeeping.” The young girl’s voice sounded clear and convicting in the silent room.
“Amen,” Vicar Burton said again. “She has some very good arguments.”
John raised his brow.
The vicar leaned toward him. “One of Brother Whitbread’s daughters.”
John nodded. He didn’t have the energy to care except to admit the girl was skillful in her arguing.
Mrs. Grew slapped her hands on her hips. “This woman is simply unfit. Who knows what kind of sinful life she leads? What kind of morals? Moreover, she is filthy and battered.”
“Then she is in need of our kindness and charity all the more—”
“Worst of all, this woman has red hair. The experts agree a wet nurse ought never to have red hair.”
The Whitbread girl didn’t respond. Instead her eyes flipped to John, to his hair. The others followed her gaze.
Mrs. Grew turned until she discovered what had captured their attention.
If the circumstances had been different, if everyone had been there for any other reason, John would have enjoyed playing along with the Whitbread girl’s method of litigation. As it was, he could only manage to comb his fingers through his hair, hoping to embarrass Mrs. Grew into silence. She’d taken charge of the laying out, and for that he was grateful, but now she’d overstepped her bounds.
“Red hair is not grievous of itself,” stammered the woman. “It is merely undesirable in a wet nurse—”
“We shall keep the woman.” John pushed away from the table. What did it matter if they had this wet nurse or another? The baby was already weak and would die soon too.
&nbs
p; Besides, he was weary. He’d had enough of Mrs. Grew’s prattle. And now he wanted to escape. “Methinks when one is sick, one cannot be choosy with a physician. Nor when one is drowning can one afford to send away the rescuer with the rope.”
Feeling like a judge delivering his verdict, he stood and strode to his study. He scraped the door shut and barricaded himself into the closetlike room, away from the rest of the world. He wished he could as easily block out the pain that wracked his body.
* * *
Elizabeth nuzzled the sleeping babe in her arms. His silky reddish hair tickled her lips.
“Ah, the poor dear.” Sister Norton tucked the edge of his cloth tighter. “This is probably the first time he’s ever had a full belly.”
The babe’s lips puckered with dreams of suckling. He had resisted the strange scent and texture of Lucy for only an instant before latching on.
“I’m afraid I’ve made an enemy of Mrs. Grew.”
“She was none too pleased with me either. But for the present, this is the best solution, until someone more suitable can be found.”
“My Elizabeth, my daughter,” her father called from his chair by the hearth. “Time to be going home, my daughter. The bread cannot wait any longer.”
How could she relinquish the babe now that she had him? What would happen to him if she left?
“My daughter, my Elizabeth,” he called louder, thumping his cane on the floor.
Sister Norton held out her arms for the babe, but Elizabeth turned away from her and started toward her father. She couldn’t hand him over—not yet.
“Father.” She nodded at him.
“Gather your sister and let us be on our way.”
Elizabeth glanced around the room, still crowded with members of their Independent Congregation. She didn’t spot Catherine, who was likely outside flirting with the young men.
Vicar Burton approached them. His breathing was wheezy, as though he struggled to catch his breath. Whenever this happened, his shoulders hunched further, and his chest sank inward like a bowl. “Your daughter Elizabeth has a persuasive way with words, Brother Whitbread.”
“Yes, Mr. Burton, that she does. She has attempted to persuade me many a time.”
“She is not only gifted at caring for the baby, but she is a natural-born lawyer as well.”
“A lawyer, ye say? Too bad she is a girl, then.” He gave a halfhearted laugh, sadness turning his gray eyes cloudy. The lines on his face deepened, and Elizabeth knew he was thinking of his only son, murdered by the king’s soldiers during the English Civil War.
If only she had been a boy. Or if only she had died instead of Robbie. Her father wouldn’t have cared about a daughter, especially because he had seven of them, plenty to spare. But losing his only son? He could never replace his son.
“Too bad she is a girl,” her father repeated.
“Come now, Brother. God gives abilities to everyone, even to women. And he does not bestow those abilities without expecting us to use them for Him.”
“Right ye are, Mr. Burton. But this daughter of mine will never be a lawyer. Who’s ever heard of a woman becoming a lawyer? She would serve herself better by focusing on the talents that will make her a good wife and mother.”
“If that is how you feel, Brother Whitbread,” the vicar wheezed, “then perhaps you will not object if I beseech Elizabeth to take on the housekeeping for the Costins.”
Elizabeth straightened. Housekeeping for the Costins? Her?
Her father settled both of his big hands on top of his cane. “Housekeeper, ye say?”
Vicar Burton nodded. He glanced at the closed door of the study. “John will need help. He can’t continue his preaching without someone to care for the children.”
“I’ll do it, Father.”
Her father shook his head.
“I want to help.”
“Ye have a good heart, my daughter. But I fear such a position will interfere with the plans we are making with Samuel Muddle.”
“Surely a good man like Samuel will understand.” At least she hoped he would understand. He had become insistent over the past weeks, especially since he had finished his cooper’s apprenticeship.
Her father shook his head and deepened his frown. “Could ye make use of another daughter, Mr. Burton? I have my Catherine and my Anne. They are younger than my Elizabeth but are good workers too.”
“Elizabeth has already proven herself today.” Vicar Burton coughed.
Sister Norton stepped in. “No one else knows the wet nurse the way Elizabeth does. She should be involved, at least until we can find another.”
Her father said nothing.
“This may be a calling from the Lord, Father. Haven’t you said, along with Vicar Burton, every man and woman receives a calling from the Lord, that the Great Governor of the world has appointed to everyone a proper work, wherein we should spend most of our time so we may glorify God?”
The vicar nodded and smiled.
“If God is calling me to help the Costins during this time of need, how can we say no?”
Her father was silent, thumping his cane against the floor.
“At least for a while. It would not have to be forever.”
“John would certainly be grateful,” added the vicar.
Her father gave a last thump of his cane. “Fine. Fine. My Elizabeth may be housekeeper for the Costins. It is a losing battle, arguing against my Elizabeth.” The twinkle in his eyes softened his grumble.
Elizabeth smiled and hugged the babe closer to her bosom.
“But only,” Father continued, “if Samuel has no objections to waiting. The fellow has been persistent of late. It would do my Elizabeth no good for him to get tired of waiting. It would do her no good at all.”
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.”
