caught a glimpse of the dark circles under the woman’s eyes. Was Thomas the source of the fatigue, or was the woman still grieving the loss of her babe?
Mrs. Grew nodded her head impatiently, and the woman hurried past, keeping her eyes focused on the ground.
Sister Bird crossed the churchyard with choppy steps and snapped at the girl swinging from the mulberry tree. The girl dropped to the ground and disappeared with Sister Bird into the garden. It was only a moment later the crying ceased.
Elizabeth released the pent-up breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from him.” Mrs. Grew’s hard tone had an unspoken threat to it.
“God shall guide my conscience, Mrs. Grew. Rest assured, I shall do no less than He asks of me.”
* * *
John halted in front of the small cottage his brother rented. Surrounded by long grass and weeds, it stood at the entrance to Elstow on the main road south of Bedford. John had lived in the cottage with Mary before they moved to Bedford. The sight of the timber and pebble building with its gabled roof and tiny dormer windows surrounded by thatch stirred painful longings in his heart.
Why did reminders of Mary chase him everywhere he went?
The mist had slowly but thoroughly soaked John during the long hike back from Stevington, where he had preached that afternoon. Thankfully the drizzle hadn’t dampened the number of people who’d come out to hear him. God was moving powerfully through his words, bringing men and women to repentance, and nothing—not the weather nor his critics—could stop the hand of God.
Without knocking, John pushed his way into his brother’s cottage. He stepped down into a low dark room, its large fire the only source of light in the dismal late afternoon. He took off his hat and wiped his eyes. The tangy scent of bean soup set his stomach to rumbling, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since dawn.
“Father!” Betsy and Johnny scurried across the dirt floor toward him. For an instant he thought they would fling themselves upon him with hugs. Instead, when they reached him, they stopped short and peered beyond him out the door.
“Children.” He patted each of their heads, dripping on them and onto the straw that covered the dirt floor.
“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
Mrs. Grew nodded her head impatiently, and the woman hurried past, keeping her eyes focused on the ground.
Sister Bird crossed the churchyard with choppy steps and snapped at the girl swinging from the mulberry tree. The girl dropped to the ground and disappeared with Sister Bird into the garden. It was only a moment later the crying ceased.
Elizabeth released the pent-up breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from him.” Mrs. Grew’s hard tone had an unspoken threat to it.
“God shall guide my conscience, Mrs. Grew. Rest assured, I shall do no less than He asks of me.”
* * *
John halted in front of the small cottage his brother rented. Surrounded by long grass and weeds, it stood at the entrance to Elstow on the main road south of Bedford. John had lived in the cottage with Mary before they moved to Bedford. The sight of the timber and pebble building with its gabled roof and tiny dormer windows surrounded by thatch stirred painful longings in his heart.
Why did reminders of Mary chase him everywhere he went?
The mist had slowly but thoroughly soaked John during the long hike back from Stevington, where he had preached that afternoon. Thankfully the drizzle hadn’t dampened the number of people who’d come out to hear him. God was moving powerfully through his words, bringing men and women to repentance, and nothing—not the weather nor his critics—could stop the hand of God.
Without knocking, John pushed his way into his brother’s cottage. He stepped down into a low dark room, its large fire the only source of light in the dismal late afternoon. He took off his hat and wiped his eyes. The tangy scent of bean soup set his stomach to rumbling, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since dawn.
“Father!” Betsy and Johnny scurried across the dirt floor toward him. For an instant he thought they would fling themselves upon him with hugs. Instead, when they reached him, they stopped short and peered beyond him out the door.
“Children.” He patted each of their heads, dripping on them and onto the straw that covered the dirt floor.
“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
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