The Preacher's Bride

by Jody Hedlund

  John shook his head. Gibbs was older and wiser than he—and usually right. But John couldn’t agree with him about remarriage. He couldn’t think about taking another wife yet. Maybe not ever. God’s call to preach had grown strong over the past years, and now he needed to focus on his ministry, not marriage.

  Besides, his children were getting along fine without a mother—or would be when Elizabeth returned.

  If Gibbs saw his housekeeper in action, he would surely have a different opinion. She was competent, his children liked and obeyed her, and from all he could surmise, she was a godly influence on them.

  What more did they need?

  * * *

  Elizabeth sat in the four-poster bed, the mending idle in her lap. The stillness of her hands contrasted the spinning of her mind and the restlessness that had plagued her all day. When she’d been ill, she’d only wanted to sleep. But now, after over a week, she had too much time to think, and her mind was taking full advantage of the opportunity.

  She couldn’t keep from missing the children and wondering if Thomas was getting enough to eat, if Mary was regaining strength, or if Betsy and Johnny were staying out of trouble. She couldn’t keep from worrying whether anyone had milked the cow or weeded the garden or picked the radishes.

  Even though she had reminded Catherine before she left in the morning, she knew ’twould be a miracle for the girl to accomplish everything. Rather than listening to her, Catherine had been more interested in vanity. She’d pinched her cheeks to redden them, cleaned the spots off her apron, and pulled tendrils out of her coif to hang about her face in a wanton display.

  Elizabeth sighed and picked up the petticoat she had been hemming. Certainly Catherine would accomplish her mission—to catch the attention of John. How could such a pretty, fair-haired young girl not capture a man’s notice?

  After so many days with Catherine, why would John want his plain and practical housekeeper back?

  “Are you still in discomfort, Aunt Elizabeth?” Her niece on the end of the bed looked up from the mass of wool yarn Jane had assigned her to untangle.

  “No, love. I’m not in discomfort.” Elizabeth tried to force more cheerfulness into her voice than she felt. “I am better—at least in body, if not in spirit.” She’d likely contracted Mary’s illness, although hers hadn’t been as life threatening.

  Her niece cocked her head and stared at the bruised side of Elizabeth’s face. The swelling had diminished and her lip had healed, but the discolor remained and still attracted the gawking of her family whenever they joined her.

  Her father hadn’t allowed any other visitors to her room—not even Samuel when he’d brought her a gift—a piggin with a long stave shaped into a handle.

  Elizabeth glanced to the far corner, where she’d instructed Anne to place it. ’Twas of good craftsmanship. Samuel had learned his cooper’s trade well.

  Her gaze came back to the narrow bedside table, to the candlestick. No matter how many times she lingered over it, wonder and warmth stole through her heart. Her gaze traced the intricate leaf pattern made of tiny holes pierced in the tin. It wasn’t the workmanship that fascinated her, though it was crafted just as well, if not better, than Samuel’s piggin. Rather what sent her mind whirling was the thought of the hands that had wrought such beautiful workmanship. For her.

  When Anne had delivered the gift, Elizabeth had accused the girl of confusion. Surely the gift wasn’t for her?

  Even now, a part of her mind refused to believe anyone would want to bestow a gift upon her. Anyone but Samuel . . .

  She tore her gaze from the candlestick and forced it back to the bucket. She ought to feel just as much gratefulness for Samuel’s gift.

  With a firm press of her lips she gathered the petticoat again and picked up the thread and needle. Why couldn’t she muster the appreciation?

  Surely she was just irritated that Samuel wanted her to stop working for the Costins and move up their wedding plans.

  “Elizabeth!”

  She raised her head at the urgent call. The stomp on the steps leading to the bedchambers grew louder.

  “Elizabeth!” Her sister Anne burst into the room and gasped for breath. The girl, on the verge of blossoming into a woman, had assumed the responsibility of managing the home since Catherine had gone to work for the Costins.

  Distress lined her sister’s face and sent anxiety shooting through Elizabeth. She struggled to sit up higher on the feather mattress, which sagged within the crisscross of ropes that held it in the wooden bed frame.

  “Elizabeth,” the girl gasped again.

  “What is it, Anne?”

  Anne put a hand to her chest and dragged in a deep breath. Her gaze darted to the open window.

  The heat of the July afternoon had permeated the second-story room, and even with the shutters open, Elizabeth could feel narry a breath of air. But ’twas better than the bedroom she shared with her sisters in the middle room, which had no windows at all.

  “You must come, Elizabeth.” The girl’s tone was laced with panic.

  Had something happened to Mary again? Or Thomas? “Whatever is the matter?”

  “Come see.”

  Elizabeth scooted to the edge of the bed and lowered her feet over the side.

  “Hurry.” Anne pulled her up. “Sister Norton said you must hurry.”

  “Bear with me, Anne. I’ve hardly been out of bed in a week.” Her legs shook as she stood. “Tell me what’s wrong. Is it one of the children?”

  Anne took hold of her arm. “It’s Lucy. She’s in trouble.”

  “Trouble? What kind of trouble?” Had Fulke returned? Had he discovered Lucy’s secret earnings from the wet-nursing? ’Twas only a matter of time until Lucy would be battered and bruised again—especially when Fulke realized Lucy had deceived him by hiding the coins.

  “You must do something to help her.” Elizabeth clung to Anne and limped across the room to the window. “Sister Norton said you would know what to do.”

  Anne pointed outside to the public greens north of the bakehouse on High Street.

  A crowd from the nearby marketplace had gathered, and for a moment Elizabeth only saw the tops of hats and coifs.

  Then her stomach dropped with a sickening thud. A woman was locked in the pillory.

  “Lucy,” she whispered. Horror spread through her.

  Lucy stood behind the long rectangular wooden structure that was fastened to a tall beam. The Bedell had clamped her head in a crude circle formed between two hinged boards, and he had locked her hands into the smaller circles on either side of her head, which would prevent her from protecting herself from anything the townspeople might throw at her. Her bright red hair fell in a tangled mass over her face, hiding her eyes.

  Elizabeth caught sight of the figure locked in the stocks next to the pillory. “Martha.” Lucy’s sister sat on the ground with her feet fastened into the small holes of another set of wooden boards. She slumped and her hair too fell in disarray in front of her face.

  Elizabeth’s already weakened legs turned as soft as cream and she grabbed on to Anne to keep from collapsing. “What happened? Why are they being punished?”

  “Listen.” Anne nodded toward the public green, where a man was stepping forward to face the crowd.

  The patch on his coat signified him as the Bedell of Beggars. He limped, dragging one foot along behind him.

  “I assign these vagrants to receive twenty lashes apiece and spend one hour in public disgrace for their crimes.” The man’s voice rang out over the gathering.

  “No.” Elizabeth covered her mouth to stifle a cry.

  The man pointed at Lucy. “This one for harboring a vagrant without permission and for wandering the streets of Bedford as a vagrant herself in deliberate idleness and vice.”

  His finger shifted to Martha. “And this woman for her illegality in residing in this parish, her idleness, and vice.”

  “Oh, Lucy,” Elizabeth moaned. Martha was only one vagr
ant among the many that passed through the parish. Surely the churchwardens would make better use of their money assisting the beggars, rather than paying the informants who drew their attention to the presence of the rogues.

  “After their punishment for laziness and other vices,” the Bedell of Beggars continued, “these slothful, sinful vagrants will be thrust from this parish and sent to a house of correction to learn diligence and work.”

  “No,” whispered Elizabeth with a jolt of urgency. The house of correction, the bridewell, the workhouse. They were all names for the same place: the prison of death. She couldn’t allow the Bedell to send Lucy there—or anywhere.

  She grabbed Anne’s arm with trembling hands and turned away from the window. “Take me down there, Anne. I must do something to stop this.”

  “Sister Norton was right.” Anne gave her a shaky smile. “You’ll make everything right.”

  Elizabeth didn’t have the heart to tell her young sister she had absolutely no idea how to stop the horror unfolding before their eyes. What could she do when the Bedell of Beggars had already pronounced his verdict and was even now carrying it out while she stumbled down the stairs?

  When they floundered to the bottom and shuffled outside to the front of the bakehouse, Sister Norton was waiting on the street. She rushed to Anne’s aid and reached for Elizabeth.

  Sister Norton slid her long strong arm around Elizabeth’s middle and held her up as they stood under the parapet. Elizabeth strained to see through the crowd. Her father and Henry peered out the bakehouse window, its shutters open, the top one propped upward, providing an awning, and the bottom one forming a counter with only a few loaves and pastries left for sale.

  Elizabeth caught a flash of Lucy, enough to see that the Bedell had slashed open her bodice and yanked it to her waist, leaving not only her back exposed, but her front as well.

  Heat leapt to life in Elizabeth’s face and made a burning trail through her body. Her innocent Puritan mind couldn’t imagine anything more torturous than having to endure a public display of her bare body. She was sure a beating would pale in comparison.

  “Ah, ah, the poor, poor dear.” Sister Norton shook her head and clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

  “What will you do, Elizabeth?” Anne’s voice was edged with agitation. “You must do something quickly.”

  Elizabeth’s mind worked as slowly as her legs. She fixed her gaze on the muck on the ground. The slap of the whip against bare flesh and the agonized cry that followed tightened her body.

  “Hurry! Hurry!” Anne’s words ended in a sob.

  Elizabeth glanced at Lucy long enough to see the Bedell of Beggars raise his arm for another strike. He thrust his hat back, and she glimpsed of his face. His thin but distinct smile carried a clear message: he took pleasure in his job.

  “That man.” Sister Norton shook her head. “He’s not fit for such a position, even if he is a Grew and son of an alderman.”

  “Grew?” Elizabeth’s stomach churned. “The Bedell of Beggars is a Grew?”

  “Of course, my dear. He has been for some time now. It’s only natural since he’s the eldest son of a yeoman and in line to inherit his father’s holdings.”

  Her thoughts sped back to the times on Calts Lane when she had felt eyes watching her. Surely the Bedell of Beggars hadn’t stalked her.

  Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath. Surely not. But if he had, would he have acted under the influence of an informer?

  Elizabeth’s gaze darted to the crowd and dashed from one person to the next. Her insides curdled and a sour taste settled in her mouth with the realization that Lucy’s arrest by the Beddell of Beggars had likely been no accident.

  Her gaze halted on the face she’d hoped she wouldn’t find—Mrs. Grew’s. The woman wasn’t looking at the prisoners but was instead watching her, as if she were the spectacle to be observed, not Lucy.

  Elizabeth wanted to groan at the trace of a smile on Mrs. Grew’s face and the satisfaction it contained. The small curve communicated more than words ever could: the Beddell of Beggars was doing her bidding. She was in control. This was what she would do to her enemies.

  Weakness spread through Elizabeth. She clutched at Sister Norton to keep from falling.

  The slapping of the whip and Lucy’s screams, the jeers of the crowd, Anne’s sobs, Sister Norton’s clucking—the noise hammered through her head until finally it seemed to pound through the daze.

  She straightened with a burst of strength. “Anne, go fetch Brother Costin.”

  Anne turned to her. Tears streaked her cheek.

  “Lucy is in the employ of Brother Costin. Perchance he will be able to save her from the bridewell.”

  Sister Norton’s long neck bobbed awkwardly. “True, true. As the Costin wet nurse, she is gainfully employed, even if she is currently homeless.”

  “Begone with you, Anne.” Urgency sharpened her tone. “Begone and make haste.”

  Anne wiped her eyes and cheeks with her sleeve, gave her a nod, then dashed away.

  Elizabeth could only pray Providence would have John home that day instead of roaming about the countryside.

  Chapter

  13

  The slap of Lucy’s twentieth lash cut into Elizabeth’s shredded heart, and she swayed with weakness. She had forced herself to stay and watch, even though each of Lucy’s hoarse screams made her long to return to her bed, climb under the blankets, and pull them over her head.

  Instead, she clutched Sister Norton and swallowed the bile that kept rising. The last thing she wanted was to give Mrs. Grew the satisfaction of seeing her vomit in her agony.

  “Poor, poor Lucy,” Sister Norton said. “Robert Grew is powerfully built. And with the strength he’s using, you would never guess he was whipping that bony little woman. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was beating a man twice his size.”

  The Bedell of Beggars walked away from Lucy and left her standing in the pillory with her head hanging against the wood of the hole. He limped over to Martha. She cowered away from him and buried her head in her arms. With a jerk of his knife he ripped through her bodice and yanked it to her waist.

  “Please, Lord.” Elizabeth closed her eyes to shield herself from the shame but couldn’t keep it from burning through her again. Why was such humiliation necessary?

  “There’s Anne,” Sister Norton said.

  Elizabeth raised her eyes to the breathless girl shouldering her way toward them. She searched behind the girl, willing John to appear. But she didn’t see his broad shoulders or ruddy hair.

  Anne’s tears were answer enough that her mission had failed.

  “Catherine said Brother Costin had been home all morning.” Anne spoke in a rush and coughed as she fought to fill her lungs with air. “But now he’s left for Newport Pagnell.”

  “How long ago?” Elizabeth straightened her feeble knees. She would run after him herself if she had to.

  “Not long. She doesn’t think they could be too far on the road out of Bedford.”

  “I must go after them.” Elizabeth pulled away from Sister Norton.

  Sister Norton reached for her. “My dear, you cannot possibly—”

  Elizabeth stumbled to her knees and groaned with frustration. She banged her palms against the ground. Why did she have to be so helpless?

  “Young lad.” Sister Norton called quickly to a boy nearby, bidding him to chase after Brother Costin with the promise of reward should he deliver the man.

  “Tell him it’s urgent,” Sister Norton instructed. “If he hesitates, tell him Sister Whitbread has need of him.”

  The boy scurried away.

  Sister Norton lifted Elizabeth and helped her sit on an overturned barrel.

  Elizabeth leaned her head against the bakehouse and closed her eyes, grateful to rest her weak body, even relieved she could no longer see the public green or the haughty tilt of Mrs. Grew’s chin.

  ’Twas now during the next hour of disgrace,
while the Bedell left Lucy and Martha in their awkward, defenseless positions, that the crowd would heap further humiliation upon the women. She had seen it plenty enough—the throwing of rotten food, muck from the street, feces, even dead animals. No matter the crime, she’d never understood how anyone could want to participate in the jeering and shaming.

  As the hour dragged, hopelessness seeped into Elizabeth. She shuddered to think Lucy could very well die that day. ’Twas not an uncommon fate for someone subjected to the pillory.

  What would Thomas do if Lucy died? He was nigh to three months, still too young to survive without the milk of a wet nurse. Would they have to return him to the Birds?

  Sadness settled deeper within her. They would very likely lose him once more.

  She was sure Thomas would be crying by now, hungry and ready for Lucy, who would certainly not be coming to feed him this day—nor perhaps ever again.

  The thought of sending Anne back to the Costins with pap-making instructions for Catherine filtered through her weary mind, but before she could rouse enough energy to call Anne, the girl rushed to her.

  “He’s coming!”

  Elizabeth sat up with a burst of renewed energy. “Brother Costin?”

  Anne nodded and stood on the tips of her toes to see above the crowd. “He’s coming this way.”

  Elizabeth smoothed her petticoat and pulled it over her ankles.

  Before she could make sense of the quivering of her insides, the crowd had parted and he stood in front of her, towering above her.

  “Sister Whitbread.” His chest lifted and fell in huge breaths and gave testimony to his exertion in returning to Bedford with all haste.

  “Brother Costin.” She tipped her head back to peer up at him.

  His shirt strained against his broad chest. “The lad said it was urgent. That you were in urgent need of help.”

  “ ’Tis very urgent.” She took in the rough angles of his face and fought against a sudden rush of light-headedness.

  John swiped off his large brimmed hat. His damp hair stuck to his forehead in a ring. His eyes were so blue and keen with concern that Elizabeth squirmed, especially when his gaze moved to the side of her face, to her bruise.