The Heretic’s Wife Read Free Page A

Gough, she scolded herself. You have a roof and hearth—and books. If you have an itch to hold a child, there’s always little Pipkin—and you can give him back. When would you have time for books if you had a brood of squalling children and a husband? But she didn’t feel thankful.
    The girl—she said her name was Winifred. She would be home by now. She and her husband would eat their evening meal together and laugh about her catching the would-be thief. She might even tell her Frenchman about the bookseller who had watched her child.
    Was she nice?
he might ask.
Nice enough. But there was something sad about her. It was almost as if she wanted to keep little Madeline for herself. I felt kind of sorry for her.
    Little Madeline. Kate remembered the baby smell of her, the perfect little hand that clutched Kate’s finger as though it were a lifeline.
    Stop it, Kate!
    She whisked the broom more roughly than she meant to. A piece of glass scuttled across the floor and startled her, causing her to wonder if the red-eyed vermin would peer at her tonight when she blew out her candle.
    Blinking back tears of frustration, she couldn’t help but wonder for the second time that day,
Where was a man when you needed one?

    The next morning Kate woke to the sound of pounding on the door. Maybe whoever it is will go away, she thought and rolled over to go back to sleep. The day was gray and overcast and spitting snow; she could tell from the small window on the wall set high in the eaves above her bed. Her bed was warm, and cold floors and a dead hearth waited for her downstairs in the empty bookshop. She pulled the covers up over her head.
    The pounding persisted.
    “Go away,” she shouted, but she put her feet on the cold floor and pulledher skirt over her chemise. Another customer
urgently
in need of a book. But it might be the only customer she had all day. She twisted her braid into a bun and pinned it and started down the stairs. Then the thought occurred to her that it might be the woman with the baby again. She had invited her to bring her back anytime. “I’m coming,” she shouted.
    But when she lifted the latch, her brother John pushed into the room and shut the door quickly behind him. Kate threw her arms around him, forgetting all about the woman and the child, then stepped back to look at him. His nose was pinched with cold and snowflakes dusted his cap and mantle. He looked so wan and tired, he must have traveled all night. No wonder he pounded so impatiently on the door.
    “Did you leave the books outside?” she asked, looking around for a satchel or a small crate. “They’ll get wet. We should bring them in. Right away,” she said, opening the door again.
    He reached over her shoulder and gave the door a push. It slammed shut. “There are no books,” he said, swatting his hat against his cloak to remove the snow, then hanging both on a peg by the door. “I didn’t buy any.”
    “Didn’t buy! Why on earth—” Then her thoughts caught up with her mouth. “You lost the money! Oh merciful saints, you were robbed! Are you all right?”
    He sighed wearily. “I did not lose the money, dear sister. I bought books, but on the way home I learned this is not the time to be bringing more Lutheran sermons or English Bibles into England. Fortunately, I was able to recoup some of the money I’d spent. I sold what I’d bought at a discount to an Englishman who was going abroad to live.”
    “That sounds like a very good business decision,” she mumbled. “Maybe we should get a bigger shop so we can sell more books below cost.”
    He did not answer her sarcasm with a witty barb of his own, as he usually did, but picked up the poker and stirred in the ashes, coaxing the coals to life, flinging on a piece of kindling from a basket beside the hearth. His movements, usually so deliberate, were hasty, almost frenzied. The flames leaped up, melting the snowflakes from his hat and cloak. A small puddle formed on