A Bride of Honor Page 3

  “Does God really speak to a person—I mean, besides a clergyman?”

  “Of course.” He said it as if it were the most natural thing.

  She shook her head slowly. “Papa would disagree with such a notion.”

  “What does your father say?”

  She tried to formulate the principles her father had taught her over the years. “He does not believe that God interferes with man.”

  “Ah, a deist.”

  She tilted her head. “I’m not sure what the term means. He has brought me up to understand that God created all things but that He has left it up to humans to behave according to the reason He has given us.”

  “Yes.” Reverend Hathaway tapped his long fingers lightly on the tabletop, as if considering. She wondered if she had said something displeasing to him, but he quickly dismissed the impression. “There is much to be commended in rationality. Unfortunately, it ignores much of who Christ is and why He came to live among men.”

  Her eyes widened at the direct yet gentle way he was saying her father was wrong. Up to now, the concept had never entered her head. Her father had always been the wisest person she knew. She looked down at her hands, her thoughts in a quandary. “When my mother was alive, she would read me the scriptures each evening before bed, but somehow I never continued after she passed away.”

  “Has she been gone long?” he asked softly.

  She shifted her glance back to the view beyond the window, the sympathy in his tone bringing a prick of tears to her eyes. “Three years.”

  “Yours is still a fresh loss.”

  Slowly, she brought her gaze back to his. “Most people expect me to be over it by now.”

  “I would imagine you must miss her very much. She left you at a time when a girl is becoming a woman and needs her mother.”

  How intuitive he was. “How…do you know?” she whispered.

  “You forget, I’m a clergyman. I see and listen to many people’s situations and have come to experience much loss through what I hear from my parishioners.”

  He’d had his own loss to deal with, she thought, remembering his leg. How could she let him know without embarrassing him? She dug into her reticule for her handkerchief and touched the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve never…spoken to a man of the church the way I have with you. They seem so dignified and far removed.” She folded her hands. “I mean no disrespect to any clergyman,” she added suddenly, afraid she might have insulted him.

  “I’m sure you didn’t.”

  They were interrupted by Mr. Quinn, who approached the small table. “I see you’ve managed to answer some of the young lady’s questions.” He glanced at her with a smile. “I mean, I hope he has, and not raised new ones.”

  She laughed with a sense of relief, as if she’d kept things bottled up inside too long and now felt carefree. “Oh, a little of both, I believe.”

  “That’s what he always does to me, lass, so you needn’t fear you’re alone.”

  Beatrice rose. “We really should be going, although I’ve had a delightful time. I am most interested in hearing more about your work at Newgate,” she said to Miss Hathaway. “I would so like to organize a group of women at the church to help you.” She walked toward the alcove. “I hear you, too, are a frequent visitor to Newgate,” she said to Reverend Hathaway.

  The curate stood as she approached.

  Mr. Quinn beamed at him. “He’s even begun helping teach a group of criminal boys there to read. The new chaplain isn’t a bad chap and he thinks many of these boys are redeemable.”

  Beatrice looked at the curate with heightened interest. “I find that admirable.”

  A flush crept over his smooth cheeks. “I fear our efforts are minuscule compared to what needs to be done,” he said.

  Beatrice nodded. “But everything must start somewhere.” She turned to Lindsay. “Well, my dear, have you had any of your questions answered?”

  Lindsay closed her New Testament. “A few.” She gave Reverend Hathaway a shy smile. “Thank you, Reverend, for your time.”

  Mr. Quinn rocked back on his heels. “If you’ve only had a few questions answered, and more raised, I suggest you begin coming ’round for the reverend’s study group.”

  Before the reverend had a chance to reply, Mr. Quinn continued. “The curate has a group of us each Thursday evening right here, reading the good book and asking any questions we’d like. Miss Hathaway is present as well, so everything would be proper if Miss Phillips, and yourself o’ course, would be interested in attending.”

  Lindsay felt hope rise within her. Perhaps she would not only have the opportunity of seeing the reverend again, but to study the scriptures under his tutelage! She looked at Beatrice.

  Her cousin smiled at the curate. “Why, we shall certainly consider it. Of course, I must talk to Miss Phillips’s father. As you know, Miss Phillips is in the middle of her coming out. Her engagement calendar is quite full.”

  “Of course,” he said immediately. “Mr. Quinn only meant to suggest a possible—er—”

  Mr. Quinn interrupted, addressing Lindsay directly. “Well, whenever you get bored with all the dances and parties, you’re welcome in our midst.”

  She brought her hands together. “I should love to come. I have ever so many more questions.” She turned once again to Reverend Hathaway. “That is…if you don’t mind having someone so ignorant of scripture in your group.”

  “Remember, God looks at the heart,” Reverend Hathaway replied. “You—both of you—” he turned to include her cousin “—are most welcome any evening you are not otherwise engaged.”

  Beatrice smiled and held out her hand. “We thank you most graciously. Now, we really must be going.” She made her farewells to Miss Hathaway and Mr. Quinn.

  Reverend Hathaway smiled at Lindsay and she couldn’t help but notice his deep blue eyes again. “Thank you for coming to visit us,” he said.

  “Thank you for having us. I…I hope we can join you at your Bible study.” How she wished she could say more—how full her heart felt after having conversed with him.

  He gave a small nod, his eyes never leaving hers. “I look forward to seeing you some evening.”

  After they’d left, Damien sat back in a daze, only half listening to his sister commenting on the visit. His attention was caught by Jonah’s reply. “Beautiful child, she is. She certainly seemed riveted by our Damien’s conversation, but I always say he’s the wisest man I know.”

  Florence looked up from her needlework. “She is a pretty child, indeed, but I’m sure this is the last we shall see of her. She belongs to an entirely different world from ours. You heard her cousin—her life at present is full of balls and concerts. A girl’s coming out has a sole purpose to it, and that is to make a good match.”

  Damien said nothing though his sister’s words brought about a sense of desolation in him. Jonah’s regard came to rest on Damien as he replied to Florence. “And what better husband for a young girl such as she than our good curate?”

  “Jonah! What foolishness will you say next?” Florence exclaimed. “Goodness, don’t even think such nonsense.”

  Jonah’s eyes twinkled in response. “No more foolish than the notion of a lady falling in love with a Newgate prisoner.”

  Florence turned a bright red and she busied herself with her square of linen. “Hush. You’ll only distress Damien.”

  Jonah quirked an eyebrow at him, and he did his best to appear unruffled. “Why should Damien be distressed by the thought of a pretty young thing like Miss Phillips giving him a second look?”

  “Jonah!” Florence’s countenance bespoke genuine distress.

  Damien stood and straightened his waistcoat. “That’s all right, Florence. Jonah was just having sport. No harm done. If you’ll excuse me, I shall be in my workshop.”

  As he shut the door behind him, he heard Florence’s sharp whisper. “Now see what you’ve done? Your teasing was cruel.”

  “I didn
’t mean to be cruel. I told you, I just want to see my future brother-in-law all set up with a good woman of his own.”

  Damien didn’t hear any more. He walked rapidly away from the door and headed downstairs for the small room off the kitchen, which served as his workshop. His father had been a clockmaker and brought his son up to follow in his profession. Instead, Damien had felt the call of the church. But since returning to London from Oxford to take up the curacy at St. George’s, he’d continued repairing clocks as a hobby. Working on the precise inner workings of a timepiece helped settle his mind. Often an answer to a perplexing question in scripture or a difficult problem with a parishioner would come to him as he sat pondering the clockworks.

  He entered the small room and was immediately soothed by the steady ticking of the various clocks sitting on shelves and mantels in the room. He bent over the fire and stirred up the smoldering embers in the grate, adding some fresh lumps of coal. His hand stilled on the tongs as he stared at the sizzling coals, unseeing or—more precisely—seeing a radiant young face. When the fire burned brightly once again, he went to the battered old table that served as his work surface. It overlooked the kitchen garden and orchards beyond, providing ample light in the afternoon.

  He moved the lantern clock in the brass case closer. He had to convert it into a fusee clock, which would only have to be wound once a week instead of daily. He turned it around so its back was facing him and picked up a screwdriver. The shiny brass back was etched with fancy scrollwork.

  He stared at the inner workings of the clock. What should have been a simple procedure turned into a chore. Snatches from the conversation he’d just had with Miss Phillips kept shifting his focus.

  Had the Lord brought this young lady for him to disciple in some fashion? Her questions about the scriptures seemed genuine.

  How would he be able to disregard the yearnings this young lady stirred in his heart and focus solely on her spiritual well-being? He pondered the brass cone-shaped gear in his hand.

  Likely his sister was right. Miss Phillips would have no time for an evening Bible study. A girl’s coming out was a major event in her life. How could an evening studying scriptures at a modest parsonage compete with a ball at one of the great houses of Mayfair?

  Yet the shimmer of tears that had glistened in her eyes had been genuine. How he’d longed in that moment to offer comfort.

  His fingers tightened on the gear. He was a simple clergyman. This young lady was as far removed from his sphere as a French gilded clock was from the parsonage. He must banish such foolish thoughts of her immediately, before they caused him any trouble.

  Crowded between the other young ladies, Lindsay could hardly breathe. Her fan did little but move the stifling air in front of her.

  Had she only been at the Middletons’ ball three-quarters of an hour? The wall she stood against was jammed with similarly dressed young ladies, all in white or pale-colored high-waisted gowns, tiny reticules and silk fans clutched in their gloved hands. Hair was curled around faces shiny from the heat of the room. Wall sconces only added to the pressing warmth.

  The music from the orchestra on the balcony above them reverberated through the long ballroom. Squares of four couples each along the center length of the ballroom carried out the steps of the quadrille. Lindsay had begged to be excused from this set. Her father had gone to get her some refreshment in the meantime.

  “My, what a turnout.” Beatrice waved her own fan in front of her, her eyes on the guests promenading about the crowded room.

  With a sigh of relief, Lindsay spotted her father making his way toward them with cups of punch in his hands. She watched him proudly, noting how handsome he was. In his mid-forties, his dark blond hair had hardly any gray in it and was only just beginning to recede a little at the edges of his forehead. His carriage was erect and he was slim compared to most gentlemen of his age.

  She marveled that he had accompanied them this evening. Normally, he was content to let her attend every social engagement with only Beatrice.

  This evening, however, her father had not only made the effort to don his black evening tailcoat and white satin waistcoat, but he’d inspected her gown as well, making her change from pink tulle to white organdy lace over a blue satin underskirt.

  As he came closer now, Lindsay noticed a tall, young gentleman following closely behind him. She waited, intrigued. Her father had acted mysteriously all through dinner, alluding to the wonderful time that awaited her at the Middletons’ ball.

  “Here you go, my dear.” Her father handed her a glass of ratafia. He passed the other one to Beatrice.

  He turned to the gentleman at his side. “Lindsay, I’d like you to meet Jerome Stokes. Jerry, this is my daughter, Lindsay Phillips, and her mother’s cousin, Miss Yates.”

  Lindsay studied the man before her. His hair was dark brown, almost ebony, and arranged in a thick wave away from his brow. His eyes, heavy lidded, were a pale green. They met hers head-on, causing her to feel appraised. To her further dismay, his gaze roamed slowly over her face before descending. He paused at her bosom, causing a flush to cover her exposed skin. She felt like a specimen at the Royal Society.

  Before she could think of a proper setdown, he took her hand in his, bringing it up to his lips. His hair let off a scent of cologne as he bowed. “Enchanté,” he murmured.

  The French word sounded affected on his fleshy lips.

  He was quite tall and she had to crane her neck to look into his face once he straightened. He stood a few inches too close, and she felt hemmed in, with no escape. His evening clothes fit impeccably, a navy coat with matching knee breeches and white silk stockings. A white satin waistcoat hugged a powerful torso, and a high white cravat enfolded his neck completely, falling in beautiful folds. He reminded her of pictures she had seen of the famous dandy, Beau Brummell. Yet, his appearance left her cold.

  She half curtsied, wishing he’d let her hand go. At last he did so to greet her cousin. Then he addressed her once again. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  Her father smiled with unaccustomed warmth. “By all means. Show Mr. Stokes what an accomplished dancer you are.”

  Hiding her disinclination to step onto the dance floor with this stranger, she gave Mr. Stokes her hand again. “Yes, Papa.”

  “Go on and enjoy yourselves. Get acquainted.”

  It would soon be over, she told herself. She was used to dancing with all sorts of gentlemen and didn’t know why this particular one caused such an immediate antipathy in her.

  They followed the intricate steps of the country dance at first, briefly touching hands and circling around other pairs of dancers for the first few moments. Then, as they stood and watched the lead couple execute a turn, he said, “Your father did not exaggerate your beauty. I thought surely he had overstated it, as parents are wont to do when conversing of their offspring.”

  She frowned at his dispassionate, almost scientific tone. Was this why her father admired him so? Was he a fellow amateur scientist?

  Suddenly she thought of Reverend Hathaway’s warm yet almost shy speech. How different he was from this man. “If you know my father at all, you know he is a man of precise words.”

  He chuckled. “I flatter myself that I know your father better than most people, and what you say is true. He is a man given to accurate observation.”

  Her dislike grew at the familiar way he spoke of her father. Her father had never mentioned Mr. Stokes to her.

  She was relieved when they began to dance again and had a brief respite from talking. But when they came together to execute a turn, he said, “When your father spoke of your beauty, I thought, he has lost his objectivity when it comes to his only offspring. His judgment cannot be trusted.”

  She pressed her lips together, unwilling to offend her father’s acquaintance, although her annoyance was deepening.

  “He has spoken much about you.” His warm breath grazed her ear, and she stiffened. “You are like an
exquisite Dresden vase, Miss Phillips.” He was standing inches from her, his hand holding hers and guiding it over her head, to turn her about. She couldn’t help looking up at him as he said these words.

  A shiver went through her. Not of pleasure, but almost of fear at the predatory look in his eyes. She felt like one of the reptiles her father kept in jars along the shelves of his library, their spotted and scaled bodies curled inside the apothecary jars, helpless to escape, preserved for all time.

  She pushed aside the image as she moved away from Mr. Stokes in time to the music. Her father could not possibly be considering this man as a suitor for her!

  When the dance ended, Mr. Stokes took her by the elbow and led her back to her father.

  As they approached him, her father rubbed his hands together and smiled. “There now, how did you two get on?” Without giving her a chance to reply, he turned to Stokes. “Didn’t I tell you the two of you would suit?”

  “You did indeed.”

  “And did I not tell you she was beautiful?”

  “A diamond of the first water,” he murmured, and she could feel his gaze on her.

  “She has had every advantage. She will make an admirable wife. Any gentleman here tonight would consider himself fortunate if she accepted his suit.”

  “Papa!” Her cheeks grew hot in embarrassment.

  “May I call on you tomorrow?”

  She stared at Mr. Stokes, thinking how to refuse. Before she could open her mouth, her father smiled. “Of course you may.”

  “I shall take her for a ride in the Park in my phaeton. It’s the envy of my set.”

  He spoke to her father as if she weren’t even present. Her heart sank. A phaeton. That would only seat the two of them. She swallowed, dreading having to sit so close to this man.

  As the evening wore on and Mr. Stokes stuck by her side, Lindsay’s thoughts veered to Reverend Hathaway as to a beacon. Was he sitting in his cozy drawing room with his sister and Mr. Quinn, sharing the scriptures? Or out visiting the poor of the parish? Her cousin had told her of all the good works he did. She could well understand now how he had offered an escaped convict refuge.