A Bride of Honor Read online

  She looked up at him a second, her hand cupping his cheek. Damien marveled afresh at the love that had blossomed in so unlikely a pair—a rough laborer and a godly woman who had long since accepted her spinsterhood. A rush of something like envy shot through him. He rapidly dismissed the unworthy feeling.

  Florence began untying the ribbons of her bonnet. “Enough of that. Let me help Elizabeth or we’ll never get dinner on the table—and we have company coming this afternoon.” She bit her lip, frowning up at her fiancé. “Whatever were you thinking to invite those two ladies to the parsonage?”

  Jonah raised his eyebrows, a puzzled look in his green eyes. “What do you mean? I was being hospitable. Now that I’m a free man, it seems you’re always inviting someone from the parish over on Sunday.”

  “Yes, I know, but these ladies are complete strangers. They don’t even belong to our parish.”

  “What’s that to the point? Are we supposed to only hold out the hand of friendship to those within our borders?” His grin took the sting from his words.

  Damien could see his sister was at a loss yet again.

  She removed her apron from the hook and began to tie it behind her. Jonah immediately took over the task. “Thank you,” she murmured. “What I mean is, these women are ladies, undoubtedly from Mayfair. They probably only came to our chapel to ogle the ‘pardoned felon’ this morning.”

  With a final tug on the bow, Jonah straightened. His heavy black eyebrows knit thoughtfully. “Did you think so? I confess I didn’t get any such impression. The older lady seemed quite amiable and the younger—” he looked across at Damien and winked “—why, she only had eyes for our good parson here.”

  They turned to look at Damien, and he felt himself flush. He glanced down, closely examining the narrow brim of his low-crowned clergyman’s hat which he held in his hands.

  “Nonsense,” Florence said, smoothing the front of her apron. “I admit, they were ladylike enough, but to have them here the first time you lay eyes on them?”

  Jonah scrubbed his hands clean at the pump, took up a linen towel and leaned against the soapstone sink, eyeing Florence. “Don’t you think you’re good enough for the likes o’ them?”

  Florence took his place at the pump. “That’s beside the point. They are obviously ladies of rank who accepted your unexpected invitation out of a sense of obligation. They would have found it impolite to do otherwise.”

  Jonah crossed his burly arms across his wide chest. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. The young one was eating up the parson’s words, eh, Damien?” Jonah’s green eyes danced with mirth.

  Damien hung up his hat. “I didn’t notice.”

  Jonah chuckled. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t, being the godly man you are.”

  Damien crossed the kitchen to the door opposite, hoping to escape everyone’s attention.

  Florence sniffed. “Most of the congregation is usually held captive by Damien’s sermons, so that is nothing unusual. Besides, why should you be so interested in distracting Damien with some foolishness about a young lady’s attention?”

  Once again, Jonah put his arm around his future wife. “I suppose, dear heart, since you’ve made me such a happy man, I only wish the same for the preacher.” He looked at Damien over Florence’s head. “The good book says it’s not good for man to be alone. Since I’ll be stealing his only kin from him, I feel an obligation of sorts to make up for his loss.”

  Damien was touched by the sincerity of Jonah’s words beneath the lighthearted tone, even if the man’s concern was misplaced. Before he could think how to change the subject, Florence turned around, disengaging herself from Jonah’s hold.

  “In any case, you really should think twice before inviting someone to tea.” She’d softened her tone, and Damien realized she was truly worried about the coming afternoon. “You tell him,” she said to Damien.

  Damien put his hand on the doorknob. “I would never presume to curtail Jonah’s hospitable inclinations. That is what we are here for, whether those invited belong to our parish or not.” He smiled to ease his sister’s concern. “Don’t distress yourself about this afternoon. I’m sure everything will be fine if you behave with your usual amiability. Our guests will most likely be bored by our limited conversation and make their visit short. They’ll feel under no obligation to return the invitation, and we’ll not see them again.” He nodded at Jonah’s frown. “You did right in issuing the invitation.”

  Before anyone could comment further on their impending guests, Damien exited the kitchen and headed to his study.

  Once he’d entered the quiet of his private sanctuary, he could put aside his mask of serenity and contemplate the coming afternoon.

  He hadn’t felt so nervous since the first time he’d had to stand in the pulpit and preach. He glanced down at his black cassock. That presented another problem. Would he wear it during the ladies’ visit, or remove it and appear in his dark jacket and knee breeches, the way he usually did for such social calls, the only sign of his office the two white, rectangular preaching bands hanging from his collar?

  He removed the cassock now, unbuttoning the long row of buttons down the front, as his mind struggled with this new dilemma. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice about the matter. But now, dread of removing the ankle-length gown rose up in him.

  In the church this morning, under the cassock and surplice, his wooden leg had not been so apparent. In his knee breeches, however, the dark peg strapped to his left leg called attention to itself like a lightning-scarred tree in a healthy forest.

  He hung up the cassock, trying to ignore the thump of the wooden leg as he walked back to his desk. He sat down heavily, his fingers rubbing his left knee absently as he stared out the window to the garden beyond. Why did it matter now? He’d accepted the loss of his leg so many years ago that he hardly gave it any thought anymore. But on the brink of the impending visit by a lovely young lady who’d eyed him—if not the way Jonah described, at least with some measure of admiration—his peg leg loomed like a great, hulking deformity.

  Today was no different than any other, he reasoned with himself. His congregation—the entire parish, even the prisoners at Newgate, where he frequently ministered, and the inmates of the Marylebone workhouse and orphanage—had grown accustomed to his disability.

  It was only when his leg hindered him in his activities, or when he was meeting people for the first time, that he was at all aware of it. But that awareness usually passed quickly.

  “Stop it, Damien,” he chided himself in a harsh whisper. “You’re overreacting! It’s nothing but a simple tea with some parishioners. Nothing you haven’t done a hundred times before.”

  Taking up his feather quill and twirling it between his fingers, he reminded himself that he was the curate of a small parish. He was the Lord’s servant, not a gentleman to worry about his appearance. He was here to meet the needs of his flock.

  But the young lady’s heart-shaped face and large brown eyes flashed across his memory, and he recoiled from the moment she’d meet him without the long cassock. He steeled himself for the disgust that would cloud her pretty features as soon as her gaze dropped downward.

  Damien swiped a hand across his eyes to dispel the image and pulled toward him the large, worn Bible that lay open on the desk. The best antidote to such foolishness was God’s word. It was balm to his spirit, solace to his tortured thoughts.

  The young lady had clearly been hungry for God’s word. Damien bowed his head and closed his eyes, praying for something to give her when she came this afternoon. She was a precious lamb, and perhaps the Lord had sent her to St. George’s that morning to receive something from Him. He prayed for guidance in ascertaining what that something might be.

  Chapter Two

  Lindsay’s heartbeat quickened as soon as the curate appeared in the doorway. She’d had to hide her dismay when she’d first entered and not seen him in the drawing room. For a moment, she’d feared he would be absent for tea.
Now, an enormous relief overtook her at the sight of his tall frame.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. The curate had such a warm smile, she couldn’t help smiling back. “Good afternoon,” she replied with a curtsy.

  He began walking toward them. She sucked in her breath. He was lame! Just below his left knee was a wooden peg where his leg should have been. Her gaze flew back up to his face and their glances met. A glimmer of pain flashed in his eyes.

  Oh, dear! Why had she looked down like that?

  But in the next instant he extended his hand to Beatrice. “Good afternoon, Miss Yates, how nice of you to visit us here at the parsonage.” He had a low, well-modulated voice that immediately put a person at ease.

  Her cousin smiled. “The gratitude is all ours for your gracious invitation.”

  Lindsay bit her lip, waiting quietly as he exchanged pleasantries with her cousin. She hadn’t even noticed the wooden leg during the service, but he’d been gowned and standing behind the pulpit. Many young men had lost limbs in the war, but this man was a clergyman. How had the injury come about? At least it was only below the knee. The loss was all the more poignant because he had such an athletic build, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow, his good leg well shaped and muscular beneath the stocking.

  And then he turned to her. “I’m so glad you could join us.”

  “Thank you.” To her chagrin her voice came out as little more than a whisper. She couldn’t help responding to the kindly look in his blue eyes. They were such a beautiful shade, like a cloudless sky on a summer’s day. His light brown hair, though cut short, had a slight curl to it.

  Before she could think of anything more to say, his sister spoke. “Why don’t we sit down and I’ll ring for some tea?”

  Lindsay followed her cousin to the settee Miss Hathaway indicated. Trying not to look too anxious, she watched the curate to see where he would sit. Alas, he waited until all the others were seated. Mr. Quinn took one of the armchairs opposite and Miss Hathaway the other. There were no other chairs within range of the settee. The curate went to an alcove facing the street and took a seat.

  Miss Hathaway cleared her throat. “We were very gratified to have you in the chapel today.”

  Thankfully, Beatrice was not at all nervous. “Oh, we were delighted to be there.” Unmindful of the distance between them, she turned to Reverend Hathaway with her customary warm smile. “We so enjoyed your sermon. Did we not, my dear?”

  “Oh, yes.” She tried to inject all the feeling possible into her words, wishing she could ask the curate more about the scriptures. She’d even brought her small New Testament, given to her by her mother, along with a notebook and pencil in her reticule.

  Miss Hathaway smoothed down her skirt. “Where do you usually attend services?”

  Once again, Beatrice took the initiative to reply. “At your mother church, St. George’s Hanover. We live close by on Grosvenor Square.”

  “Oh, yes, the rector’s church.” Miss Hathaway fiddled with the white fichu at her throat. “How is Reverend Doyle?”

  “He’s very well, thank you. He is the one who first told us of your services here at the chapel.”

  A brief look clouded Miss Hathaway’s features, and Lindsay wondered at it. She glanced at the curate and caught him looking at her. Before she could smile, his gaze flickered away.

  “I see,” was all Miss Hathaway said.

  Beatrice folded her hands on her lap. “We decided at last to come hear for ourselves. And we were not disappointed.”

  As the stilted conversation progressed between Miss Hathaway and Beatrice, Lindsay fretted, wishing she knew how to draw the curate in. Would this be the last time she ever spoke to him? Would he think them awfully tiresome visitors?

  He remained silent, and she wondered what he was thinking. She stole another look at him, but he appeared as serene as he had in church, giving nothing away.

  Mr. Quinn was also quiet, and Lindsay glanced at him, amazed afresh at his story. She caught his gaze as well, but instead of looking away as the curate had, Mr. Quinn grinned at her, and she found herself smiling back. There was something engaging in his countenance.

  The tea tray arrived at that moment and Miss Hathaway busied herself with pouring. Mr. Quinn didn’t wait for his cup to be brought to him but rose and wandered over to Miss Hathaway. He took the cup offered him, then approached Lindsay. “See here, since you’ve probably visited the good parson to discuss this morning’s sermon, why don’t you sit here in his corner and ask him whatever you like. The reverend knows more about scripture than I’ll ever know in two lifetimes.”

  It was as if he’d read her mind. Before she could think what to say, Mr. Quinn turned to Beatrice. “In the meanwhile, I’d be glad to regale Miss Yates with tales from Newgate if you’d care to hear them.” He smiled and winked at her cousin.

  To her credit, Beatrice took it in stride. She replied with enthusiasm, “I would love to hear about Newgate.” She looked across at Miss Hathaway. “Reverend Doyle has told me something of your work among the inmates. I would dearly like to know more of it.”

  Mr. Quinn quirked an eyebrow at Lindsay and held out his arm as if he were escorting her to an assembly at the exclusive Almack’s. “Shall I take you to Hathaway?”

  She stood at once, her heartbeat quickening. Two armchairs and a small round table formed a cozy nook before the bow window. Reverend Hathaway stood as she approached and waited until she was seated before he resumed his seat opposite.

  “Well, Reverend, are you ready for a catechism lesson?” Mr. Quinn asked in a jocular tone.

  Instead of replying, he glanced toward his sister, but she was already engaged in an animated conversation with Beatrice. Lindsay heard her saying, “The inmates are kept in atrocious conditions….” Then, almost as if reluctant, the curate turned back to Lindsay. “Of course. What is it you wish to know?”

  After Mr. Quinn went to rejoin the women, Lindsay cast about for how to begin. Reverend Hathaway was so much younger than Reverend Doyle, yet so unlike the young gentlemen of the ton she’d met during her coming out.

  “I—you—” he began, then brought a clenched hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “You had some questions?”

  “Yes.” Lindsay pulled open the drawstring of her reticule, relieved to have something else to focus on besides the awful moment he’d caught her looking at his peg leg. She removed the small Bible and laid it atop the tapestry covering the table. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not. Were you reading a particular passage?” he asked.

  “I was trying to find the scriptures you spoke of this morning, but I must confess, I did not write them down.” To her chagrin, she felt herself stammering. “I—I shall be more diligent next Sunday.”

  “I can help you there,” he said, taking the Bible from her and opening it, easing her nerves somewhat. “I began with a verse in the Book of Acts, in chapter thirteen.” He ruffled the thin pages. He had beautiful hands, his fingers long and slim, the nails cut short and straight across. When he came to the passage, he handed the book to her. “Here.” He pointed with his forefinger. “Verse twenty-two.”

  She tore her attention from his hand and bent her head over the scripture, trying to concentrate on the words.

  When she’d finished, she lifted her face and caught her breath when she found him looking at her. This close, he looked even more handsome. His face was slim, the lines firm and well proportioned. She was reminded of the sculpted busts and statues of the Renaissance she’d had to study at Miss Pinkard’s Academy. So different from the Mayfair dandies who surrounded her at each dance.

  She turned her mind back to the Bible verse. “How beautiful it sounds, ‘a man after mine own heart.’” She drew her eyebrows together in a frown. “Do you think God would regard a woman’s heart the same way? Could a woman also have a heart like David’s?”

  “I believe God doesn’t look at the externals—the gender of a person,
or her status in society, or level of education—but at the heart.”

  The gentle look in his eyes, and the confidence of his words reassured her. She found herself smiling, and the two remained looking at each other a moment.

  Then he blinked and looked back down at the Bible between them.

  Her thoughts returned to his sermon. “You also read something this morning about ‘being born again.’” She repeated the last words slowly, puzzling over them.

  He nodded. “Yes. Jesus first uses the term in the Book of John, but I was quoting from the Epistle of Peter this morning. If you’ll permit me…” He reached for her Bible again, and she quickly turned it around for him. Their fingers grazed. “Pardon me—”

  “It’s quite all right—” Their words collided just like their hands, and she fell silent, still feeling the tingle of the contact. Would he think her an utter schoolgirl, ignorant of every social grace?

  He flipped through the pages once more until finding the verse he’d used. “‘Being born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of God, which liveth and abideth forever.’” He turned the book back toward her, his forefinger once again marking the place.

  She bent over the fine print of the Bible. When she looked up this time, he asked her, “Have you never heard that scripture before?”

  “I confess, I don’t recall it.” Her glance left his and she looked out the window at the view of Hyde Park, across the road. “I haven’t been very diligent with the reading of scripture in the past few years, not since going away to school.”

  “That is understandable in one so young.”

  She bit her lip, her fears confirmed. He did think her a mere schoolgirl. “I wasn’t trying to excuse myself. Your preaching this morning made me want to begin reading again. I have read the prayer book every Sunday,” she added hopefully.

  His fine lips curved up and she felt even more childish. “That’s admirable. However,” his tone sobered, “if you truly would wish to hear the Lord speak to you, I would encourage a daily habit of reading the scriptures.”