The Preacher's Bride by Jody Hedlund

he doesn’t want to be here.”
    Elizabeth glanced at the empty forge. The darkness of the small shack surely reflected the emptiness of Brother Costin’s heart. “ ’Tis only natural that your father is still grieving over losing your mother.” Two weeks had passed since Brother Costin had asked her to stay as their housekeeper, but just because he had agreed to her presence in his home didn’t mean he was nearly finished grieving his wife.
    “I miss her too.” Mary’s voice wobbled.
    Elizabeth lifted her needle and looked at the girl. Mary hadn’t cried once over the loss her mother—at least not that she’d seen. Johnny and Betsy still had bouts of crying and missing their mother. But Mary had been the strong one, the one who comforted the others, the one who tried to make everyone else happy.
    A tear slipped out of the corner of Mary’s eye.
    Elizabeth’s heart swelled with a sudden ache. She dumped her sewing onto the grass and reached for the girl.
    Another tear trickled down Mary’s cheek.
    “Oh, love.” Elizabeth drew the girl up and wrapped her arms around her.
    Mary wound her thin arms around Elizabeth and pressed her face into Elizabeth’s chest. Silent sobs shook the girl.
    Elizabeth hugged her tighter and kissed the top of her head. “Oh, love. Oh, love.” She held her and rocked back and forth, watching Johnny and Betsy wave sword sticks in the air as they fought an imaginary creature. They shrieked, and then Betsy led a retreat, with Johnny eagerly mimicking her every move.
    Mary’s sobs diminished until she lay still in Elizabeth’s arms.
    Finally she gave a loud sigh. “Sometimes I think Mother’s death is my fault.”
    “You do?”
    Mary nodded.
    Elizabeth pressed another kiss into her curls. “Oh, love, ’tis not your fault. ’Tis not anyone’s fault. Only our sovereign God determines the number of days we have.”
    “But if I wasn’t blind, I could have helped her more—”
    “Here they are, Sister Spencer,” a voice clucked behind them.
    “I told you,” came another voice, louder and brasher. “Didn’t I tell you they would be in the back keeping cool?”
    Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. Sister Norton and Sister Spencer were making their way past the garden toward them, the one tall and thin like a Maypole and the other short and round like a large kettle.
    “Seems we have guests,” Elizabeth murmured to Mary. She kissed the girl’s head one more time, and then pushed herself off the ground.
    “Good day, Elizabeth.” Sister Norton took one long stride to three of Sister Spencer’s choppy ones. “We’ve just come from market and have good news for you.”
    An empty basket swung at Sister Norton’s side. The two widows supported themselves by selling eggs, butter, and garden produce at the market square, as well as the bone lace they spent long hours sewing. The earnings were meager, and the women could hardly afford the rent of the small cottage they shared. But it kept them from having to live at the bridewell.
    Sister Norton ducked into the shade of the tree. She hunched her shoulders to keep from bumping her head against the tiny apples beginning to swell in place of the blossoms that had fluttered away.
    “It’s actually good news for the poor baby Thomas.” The taller woman tugged the collar at her neck and peered down at the sleeping infant. “Ah, ah. Poor, poor baby.”
    His face was pale and lean. Lucy’s wet-nursing was irregular, and the babe survived on less mother’s milk than he needed. But he was still alive, and for that Elizabeth was grateful.
    Sister Norton bent closer to Elizabeth. “Sister Bird’s baby died yesterday morn. She agreed to wet-nurse Thomas to ease the discomfort of having an abundance of milk but no baby.”
    “Truly?” Elizabeth looked from Sister Norton to Sister Spencer. A bud of hope pushed to the surface of her heart.
    Sister Spencer gave several nods; her cheeks jostled from the motion. “She came to