by Jody Hedlund
She peered at Elizabeth with narrowed eyes. ’Twas the customary response she elicited from Mrs. Grew, and she had decided it would never change. The woman would always bear her a grudge.
“Alderman Grew, surely you won’t let the past stand in the way of helping Brother Costin?” Elizabeth asked. “He doesn’t deserve your censure on my account.”
The alderman hesitated and cast his wife a sideways glance.
Mrs. Grew slipped her arm through his and pulled him down the path to the street.
“Whether or not you like me, can’t you help John? He is a godly man who has done this congregation much good.”
“I don’t see how I could be much influence.” The alderman’s voice was filled with regret, and he tripped along next to his wife. “I’m sure others are much better qualified than I to offer him assistance.”
Mrs. Grew tossed Elizabeth a half smile, one void of all but the coldest spite. The hardness of her eyes declared that she was in control and had the power to withhold favor and make life miserable for those she disliked.
Elizabeth gave the woman what she hoped was a pleasant smile. She didn’t want her to know she had succeeded. Elizabeth was miserable knowing it was her fault Alderman Grew wouldn’t help John.
Sister Norton and others tried to comfort her. Jane invited her to the bakehouse so she wouldn’t have to be alone. But Elizabeth wanted to be home.
It was late in the afternoon by the time they trudged to the cottage. Elizabeth heated water and scrubbed most everything she could find. She swept and dusted the dormer loft. She fed the children and tucked them under blankets on their pallets in the loft. Then she scraped and polished the blackened kettle.
Long after the children had fallen asleep, she worked at washing crusted stains off the plank of the table. Her back ached, her hands were red and raw from the heat and water, and her eyes smarted from working by the dim light of the fire.
All the while she labored, questions roared through her mind. What would happen to John? Would she ever see him again? If authorities forced him to leave England, to where would they deport him? If they imprisoned him, how would she provide for the children? How could she earn enough money to pay the rent and buy food?
She desperately wanted to deny what was happening. But she’d been in denial long enough. She’d heard the rumors—Catherine had made sure of it. John and other Independents like him would face persecution. Up to this point she hadn’t wanted to hear the truth, but now she had to face the reality that maybe she’d end up being a widow, just as Catherine had predicted.
A sob pushed against her chest. She’d had so little time with him.
With a heavy heart she sank to the bench. She laid her head on the table and rested her cheek against the coolness of the plank. Weariness overwhelmed her, and unbidden tears slipped down her cheeks.
The ache swelled into her throat. She wanted to be with him. She understood how important his calling was. But surely God did not need so much of her husband that he didn’t have anything left for her or the children.
When she’d had so little of his time and attention, was she now to be denied all of it?
“I love you, Lord. And you’ve promised to work things out for the good of those who love you. If I’ve pleased you, Lord, with my sacrifice and service, won’t you help us now?”
She closed her eyes. Did she need to do more? Perhaps of late she hadn’t done enough to serve unceasingly and diligently. She still took bread to the poor every Sabbath. She helped Sister Norton with Lucy’s children whenever she could. But did God want her to do more?
Confusion rolled through her. The stress of the day clouded her mind. She could only conclude she needed to be holier, needed to try harder to keep sin at bay. And if she loved and served Him more, then surely He would be willing to deliver John back to her.
She wasn’t sure how long she slept, only that she awoke to a gentle touch on her cheek.
“Elizabeth.” A whisper came from above her. Work-worn fingers caressed down her cheek to her chin and then up the other side.
It took a moment for her sleep-lulled mind to awaken. Then she gasped. “John?”
“I’m home.”
Joy shot through her and pushed her to her feet.
“Praise be to God,” she whispered, drinking in the sight of him. His hair was disheveled, and tired lines creased his forehead and the corners of his eyes.
But his expression was one of relief. “I’m glad to see you, Elizabeth.” He lifted his hand to her face and touched her cheek again. “I didn’t think I would be back.”
The tenderness of his stroke sent a warm current through her. “I didn’t know either. I could only pray.” She lifted her hand to his cheek. “I’m truly glad to see you too.” She grazed her fingers against the dark stubble that shadowed his cheeks and chin.
The scratchy roughness of his skin sent a shiver through her.
His hand stilled against her cheek. The warmth of his breath fanned against the thumping pulse in her wrist.
She leaned her face into his hand, longing for more of his touch.
In that moment he wound his other arm around her and pulled her toward him into a crushing embrace, one that took her by surprise with its force. In the same movement, his lips descended upon hers.
She wound her arms around him and returned the hungry feast upon his lips.
With a half moan she pushed against him, wanting, needing more. His arms tightened and his kiss deepened.
She didn’t want the moment to end. His heart pounded against her chest the way it was supposed to be between a husband and wife, and she wanted him to stay that way all night and every night for the rest of their lives.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, he suddenly broke away from her. His heavy breathing mingled with hers, and he pried her arms loose. Then he rammed his fingers into his hair and stalked to the fireplace.
She hugged her arms to her chest and fought off a strange coldness.
“An arrest could happen again at any time,” he said in a jagged, almost harsh voice as he picked up a poker and stirred the dying embers of the fire. “It was almost the end of me today and would have been if William Dell of Yelden hadn’t arrived and spoken on my behalf.”
What had she done wrong that he had walked away from her? “Mr. Foster was there,” she said with choppy breath. “ ’Tis clear he had his hand in the proceedings.”
“Indeed. Methinks he was the master behind the charges.”
“Will he try again?”
He jabbed the ashes. “I have no doubt he will. But next time he won’t have me arrested so publicly. The pressure was too great against him. He’ll have to find a more guileful way to strike.”
She shuddered. “Next time? Must there be another?”
“Whether we like it or not, I have no doubt there will be another.”
Her heart gave a cry of protest. “Oh, John, surely not. Surely we can find a way to protect you. What if you stayed home more—”
“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 th
e 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.
