The Preacher's Bride

by Jody Hedlund

  “This bread won’t last long,” Elizabeth said, knowing that no matter the generosity of her father, they would never have enough to feed all those who had need. “We shall take Lucy and Sister Norton fresh bread on the morrow.”

  “May I take it to them?”

  “Surely.” Elizabeth smiled at her sister’s eagerness.

  Elizabeth lifted her eyes to the clear morning sky and gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving. Lucy’s recovery was God’s blessing. Although Lucy gave credit to her strong back, which had already survived many of Fulke’s beatings, Elizabeth didn’t doubt God was rewarding her for serving Him well.

  They knew naught of what had happened to Martha, and Lucy didn’t pretend she would ever see her sister again, especially if the Bedell of Beggars had taken her to the bridewell.

  “I only wish we’d been able to rescue Martha too,” Elizabeth said as they turned the corner away from the marketplace and headed south to the wharves along the river.

  “Sister Norton could have taught them both bone lace-making,” Anne said.

  The Sisters were teaching Lucy many things, among them bone lace-making, a craft many unskilled women used to earn money. ’Twas laborious toil, involving hours of weaving intricate patterns with threads attached to bobbins made of bones. Even though the demand for lace had diminished over the years of Oliver Cromwell’s protectorate and his conservative ways, the craft still provided a small income for poor widows like Sister Norton and Sister Spencer.

  The clopping of horse hooves echoed behind them. Elizabeth edged Anne to the side of the street and glanced over her shoulder to see the lone figure of a man coming toward them.

  The plume of his hat was long and bobbed up and down in rhythm to the horse’s cantor.

  Fear jabbed Elizabeth.

  The dashing hat, the tailored clothes with their rich colors and fine laces—they could belong to any Royalist gentleman. But the plume, with its jaunty, almost arrogant tilt, reminded her of one man.

  She halted Anne with a touch of her hand and scanned the cottages. Only a few shutters were open. Would anyone hear her if she screamed?

  She peered down the street to the wharves, to the hovels and dilapidated cottages crowded close together. Several men loitered—the drunkards who hadn’t yet made it home after a night of carousing. They would be of no help to her.

  The clomp of hooves drew nearer.

  “Run home.” Elizabeth turned to Anne. “Run as fast as you can.”

  Anne gave a start but didn’t move to leave.

  “Go. Now.” Urgency made her tone sharp. She grabbed Anne’s basket of bread and tugged it from the girl’s grasp. “You must go tell Father to send help.”

  “What’s wrong?” Anne’s voice rang with concern.

  “ ’Tis him, the man who hit me.”

  Anne gave a cry of alarm.

  “Go!” Elizabeth shoved the girl. Anne would be in danger too if she stayed.

  “I can’t leave you,” she whimpered.

  “You must get help.”

  Elizabeth pushed her sister again, and this time the girl stumbled away as the man drew his horse alongside them. From his perch atop his saddle, he tilted up his hat.

  “Well, if it isn’t Costin’s whore.” Even from his position above her, the glint in his eyes was sharp.

  The slap of Anne’s footsteps echoed in the quiet of the street as she ran.

  The man cast a glance at the girl, and Elizabeth held her breath and prayed he wouldn’t try to stop her.

  His fingers twitched on the reins.

  “ ’Tis the Lord’s day.” Elizabeth squared her shoulders and faced him, determined to distract him from chasing Anne. “ ’Tis a day to put aside all quarrels and disputes and live at peace with one another.”

  His gaze fell back on her and contempt curled his lip. “We will have peace only when commoners learn to stay in their place instead of aspiring to be more than they are.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw Anne turn the corner.

  “What do you have for me?” His gaze slid down her body and then up.

  She forced herself not to shudder.

  “I have given you more than enough time,” he said. “I want information now.”

  Muffled voices came from within the cottage behind her. Elizabeth took a step backward. Could she make her way to the door and find refuge within?

  “Well, what do you have for me?” He pulled his riding switch out of his saddle and with slow, deliberate motions laid it across one knee and lightly slapped it against the soft skin of his leather jerkin.

  The strips of leather and willow braided together sent a shiver to the core of her body. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was suddenly parched. What could she tell him or give him? She’d left the paper tucked in the pocket she wore with her everyday apron. As she had donned her Sabbath garments that morning, she had never imagined she would have need of it.

  Perchance she ought to stand up to him, tell him as she had last time that she had nothing, that she never would have anything for him, that he could hurt her if he wished, but she would not betray John Costin.

  He tapped the riding switch against his knee again.

  “I do have a paper for you.” She forced the words out but despised herself for her weakness. “But I don’t have it with me at this time.”

  “Then tell me something.” His voice was as tight as the lines of his lips.

  She slid back and noticed the coat of arms painted on an ornamental shield attached to the horse’s leather strippings. The charge was a crane clutching a fish, its sharp bill poised to devour, set against a field of red and gold. Was she the fish, her flesh about to be pecked apart by this man?

  “Well?” He lifted the whip.

  Her mind scurried for something to say, some news of John she could share without having to disclose too much. But the plain truth was that she didn’t know anything. His preaching took him away from home most days, and tinkering demanded the rest of his time.

  “You are a stubborn one, just like him,” he growled. “Give me the information I want, or you’ll wish you had.”

  “I’m not trying to be stubborn.” Desperation cramped her stomach. “I don’t know anything of value to tell you. He’s rarely home. And he hardly speaks to me when he is.”

  With startling quickness he lifted his riding whip and brought it whistling through the air. Even before it struck her, she screamed and dropped the baskets of bread. She held up her arms to protect her head, and the thin strips sliced through her sleeve.

  The sting of leather bit into her flesh, and she cried out again.

  He raised his arm and put the force of his body into the next swing.

  The whip slashed through the air, and Elizabeth jumped against the cottage. The leather strips swooshed through empty air and narrowly missed her.

  Frantic to escape him, she turned and pounded on the cottage door. “Help! Help me! Please!”

  The whip fell across her back like the blade of a knife and took her breath away. The piercing pain ripped another scream from her. Before she could move, slap after slap caught her, slicing away her bodice and searing her back with a quickness and intensity borne of skill.

  The horse whinnied and reared away. Her attacker cursed and turned his whip onto the beast.

  Her body sagged against the door. Was this how she would die?

  Just as her knees gave way, the door of the cottage opened. She fell forward and sank to the dirt floor within.

  “What’s the racket?” a man’s rough voice demanded.

  Elizabeth couldn’t speak past the tightness of her throat.

  A woman kneeled next to her.

  “What’s this all about?” the man asked again, louder. He scratched his stomach with both hands and squinted into the bright sunshine.

  “It’s narry your concern,” her assailant replied. Horse hooves tapped against the street. “If you know what’s best for you, you’ll speak not a w
ord about this to anyone. Now, hand the wench over to me.”

  Fear pulsed through Elizabeth. She struggled to push herself off the ground, desperate to escape this madman.

  The woman at her side took hold of her arm and helped her rise to her knees.

  “This here is my cottage,” the man bellowed. “Think you, just because you’re a rich gentleman, you can come to my home and order me about?”

  “I think I can do whatever I may please, you foolish old man. Now, give me the girl.”

  Elizabeth peered around the dark shadows of the sparse room. Where could she hide?

  “I may be only a thatcher, but I don’t take orders from arrogant young men such as you.”

  “You better do what I say. I have the power to make sure you never thatch another roof.”

  The old thatcher scratched his stomach again.

  What if he handed her over? What would happen then? Fresh fear charged through her blood. “Please help,” Elizabeth whispered to the woman.

  “Do not fret, dearie.” The woman patted her arm. “You’re safe now.”

  Elizabeth gripped her hand.

  “If this here’s your wife, I’ll give her to you,” the thatcher said. “A man has a right to do whatever he wants with his wife.”

  “No,” Elizabeth cried, answering before her attacker could lie. “I’m not this man’s wife. I don’t even know his name. Please, I’m only a poor woman he’s trying to hurt because I haven’t done his evil bidding the way he has wished. Please help me.”

  The thatcher squinted down at Elizabeth and studied her through the slits of his eyes framed by arches of untidy gray eyebrows.

  The young man cursed under his breath and raised his riding stick. “You are a foolish old man.” He brought the whip down hard and aimed it at the thatcher’s face.

  Before the strip made contact, the thatcher snatched it with bare fingers and yanked it out of the attacker’s hand with a strength that nearly pulled the man from his horse. Then he brought the switch around and snapped it at the man, slashing him across his leg.

  The attacker’s horse whinnied and sidestepped, moving the young man out of reach just as the thatcher snapped the whip forward again.

  This time the switch slapped only air, and the old man chortled. “Think you it isn’t so pleasant to be on the other end for once?”

  Her assailant steadied himself on his horse and clenched his jaw. “You will pay for this.” His words were low and ominous.

  “You might be able to ride around on that horse of yours and amuse yourself beating helpless girls. But you can’t never bully me. I’m not afraid of the likes of you.”

  The young man spat at the thatcher’s feet. “Someday you’ll be afraid. I’ll make sure of it.” Then he turned to Elizabeth.

  She clutched the thatcher’s wife.

  “And you—” He spat on her skirt. “I’m not done with you yet. Just you wait.”

  He jerked his hat low over his eyes. Then he dug his heels into the flank of his horse and galloped away.

  Chapter

  15

  John paced in front of the meetinghouse, each step heavy with the weight of his frustration. “None of it is true. Not one word of it.”

  “Calm down now, Brother,” Vicar Burton said. “We shall learn the truth when she gets here.” The vicar stood before the entryway with several elders. Their anxious eyes followed John back and forth.

  John couldn’t blame them. He was full of questions too. Heat burned through his blood and radiated through his whole body. He tugged at his doublet and wished he could shed a layer or two of his meeting clothes. The sun hadn’t reached its high point, and yet his body was already sticky with sweat.

  When he’d arrived a short while ago and made his way into St. John’s, he’d tried not to notice the stares, the whispers behind hands, and the accusation on faces. But when the elders and Vicar Burton had approached him and asked to meet with him in private outside, he’d realized something was seriously wrong.

  “We have heard that Elizabeth herself has claimed you are using her as your mistress,” one of the elders said.

  “Why would she say such a thing?” John shook his head. “It’s not true—not in the least.”

  Disappointment roiled through his gut. After all the weeks working for him, surely Elizabeth wouldn’t stoop to spreading rumors, would she? He didn’t want to believe she’d merely been biding her time, waiting until an unsuspecting moment in which to tell vicious lies—lies to trap him into marriage. Maybe another maiden would attempt such deceit, but not Elizabeth.

  He dragged in a deep breath of warm summer air and tried to calm the churning in his stomach. He’d believed Sister Whitbread was different, that she truly was serving his family out of her devotion to God and out of her growing fondness for his children. She had seemed genuine—a girl who spoke her mind and lived without pretense.

  How could he have misjudged her? Certainly he hadn’t.

  “Come now, John,” Vicar Burton said with a cough. “We’re not saying the rumors are true. And we’re not saying we don’t believe you. We only want to hear what she has to say for herself.”

  “When she arrives, she will put these rumors to rest.” At least he hoped she would. He dreaded to think how the rumors would damage his reputation if they spread—even now would put a blemish on him. Elizabeth needed to arrive quickly and tell everyone the truth.

  The large wooden door of the church squeaked on its rusty hinges. Samuel Muddle lumbered out, followed by his uncle.

  “We’ve heard the most disturbing of rumors.” The uncle approached the elders. His forehead wrinkled underneath the brim of his hat.

  “We’re aware of what’s being said,” Vicar Burton replied. “And we hope to clear any misunderstandings as soon as the Whitbreads arrive.”

  Samuel puffed out his chest and glared at John.

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard.” Indignation sprang to life in John. “But none of it is true.”

  “Elizabeth Whitbread is a chaste woman.” Samuel’s voice filled with accusation. “If anyone is to blame, it must be you.”

  “There is no wrongdoing!” John balled his fists and fought the urge to pummel them into Samuel’s bulging belly. “Why must everyone assume the worst?”

  “Because you’re a rogue.” Samuel took another step forward.

  John stiffened. If Samuel Muddle wanted a fistfight, then he’d get one. Even though he’d put off the fighting ways of his past, he hadn’t forgotten how to give out a few good punches.

  “You have a past reputation, Brother Costin,” Samuel’s uncle said. “I’m sorry. But it still follows thee.”

  John straightened his fingers and tried to rein his frustration. He wouldn’t help matters by resorting to a fistfight with Samuel. He’d only prove Samuel’s uncle right. Besides, he’d brawled enough in his past to know it would only add fuel to his anger.

  “I forbid Elizabeth from working for you any longer,” Samuel said.

  “Now, let’s not be hasty.” Vicar Burton waved his hand at the street. “Brother Whitbread is coming even now.”

  John swung his gaze to the bowlegged man walking toward them. His cane tapped a slow rhythm on the dirt street. Only Henry and Jane with their children attended him. Elizabeth was nowhere in sight.

  Where was she when he so desperately needed her skillful tongue to smooth out the situation? John wanted to groan in frustration but instead blew an exasperated breath.

  When they turned off the street onto the stone path, Brother Whitbread came to an abrupt halt, his face creased with worry.

  “Have ye heard the news of mine daughter?” His gaze skimmed the crowd.

  Vicar Burton nodded. “Indeed, Brother. That’s why we’ve gathered.”

  “Something has got to be done, Mr. Burton.” Brother Whitbread thumped his cane on the stones. “This cannot happen again.”

  “I think we can all agree with that,” the vicar replied.


  “We must put a stop to the attacks—” Brother Whitbread started.

  “We must bring an end to the rumors—” John said at the same time the old man spoke.

  “What rumors?” Brother Whitbread’s eyes narrowed.

  “What attacks?” John stared at the baker.

  Except for the twitter of a sparrow in the scraggy elm near the street, silence descended over the churchyard.

  “Perhaps you had better go first, Brother Whitbread,” Vicar Burton finally said. “I daresay we’re all perplexed.”

  Brother Whitbread’s gaze traveled over the men, confusion in his kind eyes. “Have ye not heard, then? My Elizabeth, my daughter—she was attacked this morning whilst she delivered bread to the poor.”

  John’s breath stuck sharply in his chest. “No.” Not again.

  “We had not heard.” Vicar Burton’s voice lowered with concern.

  “How is she?” The words squeezed past the tight dread closing off John’s throat.

  “She’s in pain. But she’s of hardy stock, my Elizabeth.”

  “What happened?” Samuel Muddle stumbled over his words. “Who attacked her?”

  Brother Whitbread wobbled. Henry stepped to his side and braced him. “It was the same man as the last. Only he took his riding whip to my daughter this time.”

  John’s mind flipped back to the picture of Elizabeth on her bed after the last attack, the purple and black welt against her pale cheek. His heart kicked against his ribs. What kind of brute would prey on his housekeeper? With a riding whip, no less?

  Samuel pointed a trembling finger at John. “This too is your fault, John Costin. You’ve been nothing but trouble for Elizabeth.”

  John’s skin bristled at the allegation and something more uncomfortable—something akin to guilt. He would take full responsibility for putting Elizabeth in danger because of her association with him, but Samuel Muddle didn’t need to add to his public disgrace.

  “Methinks you have never liked her working for me and are just looking for an excuse to have her stop.”