by Jody Hedlund
“Do ye have Mary?” His sister-in-law stood in front of a large kettle. Her gaze searched the doorway behind him. The worry in her voice snagged him and set his body on edge.
John surveyed the room. “She’s not here?”
In the commotion of the room he struggled to distinguish amongst the children. The older three were born of Sarah’s first marriage. The others, with Costin red hair, had come along after she’d married his brother. Willie, as kindhearted as ever, had taken in the young widow with her children in an effort to save her from having to live at the bridewell. The workhouse for the poor had a reputation for being a sentence of death. If overwork and hunger didn’t claim the vagrants consigned there, then rampant disease often did.
John had discouraged Willie from the match. He hadn’t understood why Willie would want to marry a woman simply to save her life. She was plain and the years had not been kind to her. He was sure she was younger than his nine and twenty, but she had the coarse hair and skin of a much older woman.
“Mary weren’t with us when we got back here after the morning service,” Sarah explained. “We was hoping she’d gone with you.”
“She isn’t with me.” He’d left with Brother Smythe after the service at St. John’s. He’d never taken one of the children before. Why would he start now? “Wasn’t she at the meetinghouse with you when you left?”
Sarah’s shoulders slumped and the lines in her face had the deep crevices of someone who had known much trouble. “I’m truly sorry, John. Truly I am. As surely as it rains, it’s my fault. Amidst the other families that walked with us, I didn’t check when we left Bedford to see if everyone was present.”
John’s mind whirled with all of the possibilities of what could have happened to Mary. Panic swirled through him and rose in his throat like bile.
“Usually Eleanor walks with Mary, holds her hand, guides her. But Eleanor claims she didn’t see Mary at the meetinghouse before we left.”
He followed Sarah’s gaze to Eleanor, the youngest of her daughters, close in age to Mary. The girl had always seemed responsible and had shown a kindness toward Mary that most did not.
“She weren’t nowhere around. Nowhere ’tall,” the girl whispered, eyes alight with fright.
“We don’t understand what could’ve happened,” Sarah said. “Mary never wanders off. She always stays right by me or Eleanor.”
“Betsy, Johnny, do you know what happened to Mary?” John’s voice was sharper than he intended.
Their eyes filled with tears, and they shook their heads.
“Did she tell you anything? Did you see her go anywhere?”
Again they shook their heads.
His thoughts returned to the visitor who had made threats to Elizabeth and the children earlier in the month. He’d checked with neighbors; none of them had seen anyone unusual in the neighborhood. And as he’d expected, he’d gotten nowhere in discovering who had visited.
The criticism against him was growing daily. He could easily picture a number of men as the culprit—especially Royalists who would do whatever they could to undermine the Puritan cause.
Had one of them finally resorted to the ultimate intimidation—using his children as a way to force him into complying? Was Mary even now abducted and held captive by someone who wanted his silence?
“Willie has been out looking for her most the afternoon,” Sarah said. “He’s worried sick to death about her.”
John’s stomach clenched, and he took a deep shaky breath to keep himself from getting sick.
“We’ll find her.” He slapped his soggy hat back on his head and hoped his words didn’t ring as hollow as he felt inside.
He turned to leave, but then stopped and glanced from Betsy and Johnny to Sarah.
“You go on.” Sarah waved at him with her dripping ladle. “They’ll stay with us here.”
He gave her a curt nod before he turned and bounded out of the cottage.
He’d lost his wife and had given up their newborn baby for dead.
How could he survive if he lost his daughter too?
Chapter
10
John swished through the long grass. Mud clung to his boots and slowed him down. The familiar run between Elstow and Bedford was usually one he could make before he had time to breathe heavily. But not today.
He hadn’t yet glimpsed the high tower of St. John’s over the treetops, and already his side ached and his breath came in heavy gasps.
“Mary!” He searched along the hedgerow. “Where are you?”
Only the lone call of a warbler answered him.
What had happened to her? Nausea churned in his stomach. What if someone had accosted her, intent on taking advantage of her blindness? She was a pretty young girl. Any filthy vagrant could easily use her and dump her in a ditch or field. What if she was lying abandoned with a broken bone or bleeding gash, crying out for help with no one to hear her?
He had to find her, especially before it got dark. The rain would shear one hour, maybe two from the day, precious moments that could mean the difference to her survival. Once night settled, his search would be futile. She might end up lost to him forever.
His eyes scanned every willow and elm and every spot of grass and brush. When he finally turned onto St. John’s Street, his lungs burned and his voice was hoarse from calling her name.
He barged into the meetinghouse, peered down the aisle and under each pew. Then with growing panic he banged on the rectory door. “Willie has already scoured the parish,” Vicar Burton answered. “Several of the neighbors joined in the search too.”
John blew out a shaky breath.
When he met Willie and the neighbors, they only shook their heads, having combed the streets and alleys of Bedford to no avail.
John turned his steps toward St. Cuthbert’s and trotted the distance with the lingering hope that maybe she had somehow made it home.
“Mary?” he shouted as he ducked inside the dark cottage. Nothing but silence greeted him. The stomp of his boots echoed through hollow rooms. He pictured her lying unconscious, hardly breathing, unable to answer him.
Finally, after searching every possible spot in the cottage and forge, he stepped out of his forge and blew a frustrated breath.
She had disappeared.
He stared at the apple tree, where he had come upon everyone dozing yesterday. His racing heartbeat stumbled to a halt.
What if she had not been abducted nor merely separated from the group returning to Elstow? What if she had purposefully run off?
She had despised his decision to send the baby away. The rest of the afternoon and evening she’d spoken to him only when she had to. And when she’d returned to the loft and laid her pallet next to Betsy and Johnny, he’d heard her sniffling and tossing far into the night. He had left her to herself, reasoning it would just take time for her to accept his decision, to get accustomed to life without the baby.
But perhaps he’d been wrong to assume she’d come to terms.
He crossed toward the cow, his boots squeaking in the wet grass. The cow was tied to her post but had made her way out from under the lean-to shelter. He ran a hand across her flank, against the dampness of her coarse hair.
“What should I do, girl?” His voice trembled with all the helplessness that swirled through him.
The cow turned and looked at him with droopy eyes, seeming to understand his pain. Slowly she chewed at her mouthful of grass and gazed at him.
“What should I do?” This time his cry was raised to the Lord. “Help me, Lord, to find this precious blind daughter of mine.”
His mind clambered through his options and tried to make sense of where a girl of eight years would go if she had run away.
Sister Whitbread. His housekeeper’s name entered his head as if the Lord had whispered her name.
He slapped the cow’s rump, pulled down his hat, and started across the yard.
If anyone could help him find Mary, Sister Whitbread co
uld.
She was an intelligent maid—she’d proven herself plenty of times to have a quick mind and tongue.
When he arrived at the bakehouse, its wooden shutters were pulled up, closed for the Sabbath like all of the businesses. He glanced around to the other buildings, most of which had been rebuilt after the raid on Bedford during the Civil War. The fire set by Royalist soldiers had destroyed much of the area.
John thumped on the door and waited. His eyes darted to every trough and barrel, searching for any movement or sound. Time was slipping away, and if he didn’t find her, he’d only have himself to blame.
He pounded his fist against the door harder.
The shutters of the second-story window above him rattled. “Who’s there?” a man called.
The upper floor of the box-framed house projected outward from the main level. John had to step out from the jetty into the street to get a clear view of the window and make his presence known.
“It’s I, John Costin.” He pushed the brim of his hat upward and gave himself a better view of the upstairs window.
Henry peered down at John, his brows raised.
“I need to speak to Sister Whitbread.”
“Which one?”
What was his housekeeper’s Christian name? Surely after more than a month he knew her name? And surely Henry knew whom he was seeking.
Henry waited. His brows inched higher.
“I need to see my housekeeper,” he finally mumbled. He knocked the brim of his hat lower to cover his embarrassment.
Sister Whitbread’s face appeared next to Henry’s. “Brother Costin?” Her tone held a hint of worry, as if she knew his unusual visit brought bad tidings.
“I’m sorry to bother you this Sabbath. But I need to speak with you. Can you come down?”
She disappeared. After a moment she faced him again and nodded. “I’ll be right there.”
The light mist gave his upturned face a cold bath. He nodded to Henry, who returned the nod before moving away from the window. Then John ducked under the overhang to shelter himself.
Sister Whitbread soon stepped outside and threw a cloak around her shoulders. Her gaze searched his face. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Mary.” His voice cracked. “She’s gone and no one knows where.”
The maid’s eyes were an odd gray color, and at his words they darkened like rain clouds rolling in over the heath. “Where have you looked?”
“I’ve looked nearly everywhere.” He couldn’t keep the desperation out of his voice.
“How long has she been gone?”
“Methinks since after the morning service. No one has seen her since then.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment.
“She usually goes home with Willie’s family when I have to preach. But she didn’t go this time.”
“Not surprising.”
“It pains me to think of something happening to her. If you can help me find her, I’ll be indebted to you.”
“No, Brother Costin, you won’t be in debt to me.” Her face tightened with earnestness. “I want to find Mary too. I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
Relief washed through him. For the first time since she’d barged into his home, he was grateful for her—for her servant spirit, for her willingness to help, for her kindness. At the same time, he wanted to duck his head for the times he’d scoffed her help and taken her service to his family for granted.
“Let me explain to my father what’s happening. Then we’ll find Mary together. I think I may know where to start our search.”
He gave her a nod, his throat too tight to speak.
She slipped back inside and was gone for several minutes. When she returned she carried a basket filled with a jug, a loaf of bread, and blankets. She tucked it under her oiled cloak before stepping into the drizzle.
They hurried through the nearly deserted streets, their feet sloshing in rain-slickened muck. John wasn’t sure where his housekeeper was leading him, but he trusted her instinct.
When they reached the north end of Bedford and turned onto Bendhouse Lane, the wind from the open fields beyond the Friars had free access to them and beat them with its force.
She stopped in front of a low cottage, and then he knew. Even though he’d never been there before, somehow he knew whose home she had brought him to.
Mary was here. He could feel it in his gut.
Sister Whitbread knocked on the door.
It opened a crack, and a girl’s face peeked through.
Distinct, unhappy cries greeted them. Even with the wind blowing in his ears, the wailing was familiar and strong. Always before he had blocked out the noise—not wanting to waste hope on the baby, not wanting to see the baby alive when Mary was dead. But at that moment the crying brought an ache to his chest.
“Tell your mother Brother Costin is here to see her,” Sister Whitbread said.
The girl slammed the door.
“Sister Bird?” Sister Whitbread leaned into the door.
The door opened a second time, another crack. The same face appeared.
Again John heard the crying. Why was the baby distraught? What was the purpose in sending him away to wet-nurse if he wasn’t satisfied?
“Is your mother coming?” Sister Whitbread asked with more patience than he was feeling.
Just then the door opened wide, and Sister Bird stood before them fixing her coif above untidy hair. One of her cheeks wore the imprint of a grainy blanket.
“Brother Costin.” She bowed her head to him.
He nodded. Before he could say anything, Sister Whitbread pushed past the matron and the handful of small children clustering around her.
“Sister Bird, I’m sure you won’t mind in the least if I hold Thomas.” Sister Whitbread had already set aside her basket and had started across the one-room cottage toward the wooden cradle. “I know he can be quite fussy, and I’m sure you could use a break for a few minutes.”
Worry flashed across the woman’s face, but she watched as if she had not the strength to move. “I was told not to let you near the baby—that it’s because of you he’s so whiny.”
“Oh, nonsense.” Sister Whitbread waved her hand.
John ducked inside the cottage. The odor of excrement assaulted him and forced him to breathe through his mouth.
“Truthfully, you mustn’t touch him,” Sister Bird said but without much force.
Sister Whitbread stooped and picked up the wailing infant. She pressed a kiss upon his head and crushed him to her bosom.
The ache in John’s chest pulsed outward and constricted his throat. He swallowed hard to get past the tightness. This baby was a piece of Mary and himself. His flesh and blood.
Sister Whitbread smoothed a hand over the baby’s head, over his face, and down his arms as if she was trying to get as much of him into her hungry soul as she could. She bestowed another kiss on his forehead and then put one of her fingers into his mouth.
Instantly he ceased crying, and the room grew quiet.
John swallowed hard again.
“How has he been nursing?” Sister Whitbread didn’t take her gaze off the baby, who looked back at her with as much earnestness as she was him, sucking frantically at her finger.
Sister Bird sighed and picked up one of the whimpering infants at her skirt. “Truthfully, he’s hardly nursed since he came. I’ve been tryin’ real hard. But he’s been turnin’ from me and spittin’ me out. He won’t take the spoon. He won’t take the sleepin’ cordial. He won’t take nothin’.”
Sister Whitbread’s brow furrowed into deep lines as she again stroked a hand over the babe’s head.
“He’s been cryin’ all the time. My husband couldn’t take any more of it and left to stay with kinfolk.” Sister Bird’s shoulders slumped further at the admission. She turned to face John. “I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t working out, then?” A gentle breeze of relief blew through him. He didn’t understand it, but somehow
he knew God was giving him a second chance with this baby he’d given up for dead.
“My husband don’t like crying babies. I know what happens when he gets himself angry enough. I’m afeared it wouldn’t be safe for the baby—even if it is a Costin.”
“Then we’ll take the baby home with us.”
Sister Whitbread gasped. Her eyes flew to his and locked there for a long intense moment. His heart began to thump with the conviction that he wanted his son to live, but he would need this girl to help make that happen.
Her eyes glistened with joy, and she gave him a wavering smile.
The ache pushed again at his throat.
“Mrs. Grew is going to be terribly angry.” Mrs. Bird’s voice shook. “She told me not to stop nursin’ the baby for any reason.”
“The child is mine. Last I knew I could still make the final decisions about his welfare.” Mrs. Grew had gone too far. The woman didn’t know what was best for his son—not more than he did.
He started to turn, but the truth socked him in the gut and nearly bent him over. He hadn’t known what was best for his son. Instead, he’d ignored his son all this time, had let his own pain and the memories of Mary interfere with the care of the baby. Well, not anymore. “He’s coming home with me. If Mrs. Grew doesn’t like it, then tell her to see me.”
John glanced around the simple cottage, to the sagging bed, the overturned benches, and the piles of soiled clothes. “Now, where’s Mary?”
“Blind Mary?” Mrs. Bird raised a trembling hand to her forehead. “She’s not here.”
“Maybe she’s outside.” The worry in Sister Whitbread’s eyes urged him back outside.
He stepped into the drizzle and pulled his cloak tighter. Though it was overcast, he prayed the long summer day would still afford him enough light.
He made his way around the side of the cottage and called Mary’s name. When he came to the back, he scanned the small garden plot. It was overgrown with tall weeds and littered with scattered piles of twigs, broken slats of barrels, shards of pottery.
“Mary?” Her name trailed away with the wind.
He strained to hear any sound.
