A Bride of Honor Page 5

  He studied her steadily. “It sounds as if you have your own decision to make which requires bravery.”

  Her eyelids fluttered downward and she kicked at the dirt in her path. “I don’t know if I am able to be as brave as you.”

  “God doesn’t give us more than we are able to bear.”

  How she wanted to believe that!

  After a few minutes, the reverend said quietly, “It would seem to me that you have already decided which is the proper course to follow.”

  She drew in her breath. Those were not the words she wanted to hear. Before she could respond, he continued. “I shall pray for you, that the Lord make His perfect will clearly known to you and give you perfect peace in your decision.”

  A masculine voice hailed them from behind. “Good day, Damien.”

  They both looked in surprise at the gentleman walking toward them. Lindsay immediately recognized her own pastor.

  Reverend Hathaway halted and waited for the older gentleman to reach them. “Reverend Doyle.”

  Lindsay bit her lip, wondering what the rector would think of seeing her alone with the curate. Doyle eyed them both without smiling. He nodded to Reverend Hathaway and then to her. “Miss Phillips. How lovely to see you. What are you doing all the way in Marylebone alone?”

  “Good afternoon, Reverend Doyle. I was just leaving my music lesson.” She raised her chin, annoyed at how nervous she sounded, as if she had been doing something wrong.

  “I wasn’t aware that you were acquainted with my curate.” His glance strayed to the reverend.

  Her companion replied in an easy tone before Lindsay could think what to say. “Miss Phillips and her cousin came one Sunday to the chapel and I had the privilege of meeting them, thanks to your recommendation.”

  Instead of smiling, the rector merely nodded. “I had spoken highly of you at one time, that is true.” There was unmistakable censure in his tone.

  “I’ve been attending the reverend’s Bible studies at the parsonage with my cousin Beatrice,” she added, hoping to dispel the tension she felt in the air.

  The rector raised an eyebrow. “I see.”

  A silence fell between them. Then he asked, “I trust your father and cousin are in health?”

  “Yes, they are both quite well,” she answered, hoping news would not travel back to her father about this encounter.

  “I am relieved. You may tell them I shall be over soon for a visit.”

  “Yes.” Her worry grew. What would her father say? Would he forbid further Bible studies under Reverend Hathaway’s tutelage?

  The rector turned his attention back to the reverend. “I shall call upon you in the coming days. There is much we need to discuss.”

  “I am at your service,” Reverend Hathaway said quietly.

  “Very well.” With a final glance between the two of them, the rector bowed his head and bade them farewell.

  “I didn’t expect to see Reverend Doyle here,” she said when he had exited the square.

  “He lives nearby on Cavendish Square.”

  “I see. He seemed displeased about something,” she ventured.

  “Yes, I fear so.” He sighed. “For many years, he was almost like a father—a spiritual father—to me. He advised me on my studies and procured this living for me at St. George’s.” He turned to her. “I am not a gentleman’s son, you see, but the son of a clockmaker.”

  Her eyes widened. “But…but you are…” She laughed nervously. “You seem to be a gentleman.” Far more a gentleman than Jerome Stokes with all his privileges and assets, she added silently.

  “If so, it is thanks to the rector. He is the one who made it possible for me to receive a gentleman’s education. He recommended me to Lord Marlborough of Portman Square who paid for my studies at Oxford.”

  These new facts only served to increase her admiration for the man before her. “You must have been worthy of their belief in you.”

  His gaze traveled over her face, almost in wonder, she would hazard. “You are remarkable, Miss Phillips.”

  She smiled tentatively. “Why do you say that, Reverend Hathaway?”

  He shook his head slightly. “Most young ladies would not see it in that light.”

  “How would they see it?”

  “They would see me rather as a fraud. A man dressed up like a gentleman, pretending to be something he is not.”

  “Oh, no!” Such an accusation angered her. “You are a man of God, whose life reflects what he preaches from the pulpit.”

  His cheeks deepened in color, and she hoped her words had brought pleasure and not embarrassment to him. She meant them with all her heart. A thin line appeared between his eyebrows. “Have you asked advice from the rector? He is, after all, your spiritual advisor.”

  She shook her head, looking down. “I don’t feel I know him well enough. You see, I’ve been away at school some years, so I really have not seen him much.” She fell silent. There was no rational way to explain that in the short time she’d known him, Reverend Hathaway was the only person whose counsel she trusted in this matter.

  “Reverend Doyle is a man of great wisdom. I would advise you to talk to him.”

  “He must be very proud of you for helping Mr. Quinn when he was in so much trouble.”

  A shadow crossed his eyes, and he hesitated. “He did not approve of what my sister and I did.” He hastened to add, “He was right to object. We were aiding and abetting a fugitive. We broke the law in doing so.”

  She felt a tremor at the gravity of his tone. “Is that why he is displeased with you?”

  The reverend nodded. “I don’t regret having taken Mr. Quinn into our keeping. However, I would not counsel anyone lightly to do what we did. One must be very sure what one is doing is absolutely right in God’s eyes before taking such a step.”

  Did he think she was on the brink of making a wrong decision? Was he warning her?

  She lifted her chin. “In that case, I think it was all the more brave of you to help Mr. Quinn.”

  The reverend’s blue eyes seemed to lighten. “Thank you, Miss Phillips. Your good opinion means a lot to me.”

  Before she had a chance to feel the pleasure his words gave her, he continued. “Sometimes it is not easy to make the right decision. Sometimes what seems the right choice—that determined by the rules laid out—is, in fact, not the right way.”

  Did his words spell hope or doom for her? Was there a way to disobey her father without losing his love and esteem? “How does one know in such a case?” she asked in a whisper, her eyes intent on his.

  “By much prayer. In the end, the answer must come from here.” He tapped his chest. “A person must follow his—or her—conscience, whatever the risks involved.”

  She nodded slowly, her gaze lifting from his slim hand back up to his face.

  When the time came, would she have the courage to follow the dictates of her conscience?

  Damien held up the slate toward the group of boys sitting on the floor at his feet in the cell given them to use for the lesson. “Let us review what we learned yesterday. Who can tell me what this says?”

  Several arms shot up like arrows.

  Damien smiled at one eager face, pale skin shining through the smudges. “Yes, Sam?”

  “The Lord is my sh-shepherd!” He finished with a triumphant smile.

  “Very good. Let us try another sentence.” He wiped off the slate with his rag and wrote again.

  As he held it up, his glance went to a dim corner of the prison cell. A group of older boys was whispering and sniggering among themselves. In a second, Jonah squatted beside them. “You’d rather end up on the gallows or the transport ship than learn yer letters, is that it?”

  “Tell us about the gallows,” a black-haired youth with a chipped tooth replied.

  With a quick wink Damien’s way, Jonah sat down cross-legged among them. Damien continued with his lesson. He knew it was impossible to reach them all, so he appreciated Jonah’s help
in keeping the unruly ones occupied while he taught those who wanted to learn.

  He turned back to the young pupil. “Sam?”

  The underfed lad screwed up his face in preparation to read. “Th-the t-t-time of—”

  Damien prompted him gently until he managed the whole sentence. When they finished the lesson, he and Jonah parceled out the food and provisions they had brought with them. Before they left, he told them a Bible story.

  On their way out of Newgate, Jonah shuddered as they passed through the arched entrance. “Always glad to leave that hole.”

  Damien glanced at him. “I do appreciate your accompanying me. I know it’s not easy to go back each time.”

  “It’s truly a dark pit in there.”

  “All the more reason we must bring the light.”

  Jonah nodded as they made their way past the Old Bailey. “I’ll never forget the day I was sentenced to be hanged.” He shook his head. “To think Florence was sitting there, praying for me even then.” At the corner, he asked, “You want me to hail a cab?”

  “No. Let’s walk.”

  “You certain? Florence wanted me to get her some things at Covent Garden Market.”

  “That’s fine.” Damien shook off the slight irritation he felt whenever Jonah seemed overly protective of him. He knew it was only thoughtfulness on the man’s part. But by now, he’d hoped Jonah would realize Damien was capable of walking the distance of any normal man.

  They sauntered down Ludgate Hill and headed west on Fleet Street, jostled by the thick throng of pedestrians. It only worsened as they approached the Strand, where they veered off at Drury Lane toward the market.

  “How’s the pretty Miss Phillips?”

  Damien glanced sharply at Jonah. He’d told no one of his meeting with Miss Phillips the day before. “You should know as well as I, since you see her at the house as often as I do.”

  Jonah shrugged. “She’s a fair young lady, who seems to admire you quite a bit.”

  Damien made his way around a large woman who stood shouting to a hansom cab driver from the curb. “If she seems to admire me, it is only because I am a clergyman.”

  “Is that all you think it is?”

  Damien gave him a sharp look at the sly tone. The street noises grew louder as they approached the stalls and sheds occupying Covent Garden. Damien followed Jonah to a vendor’s table filled with a colorful display of fruits and vegetables. Jonah poked at a pile of green cabbages. “What do you want for these sorry-looking things?”

  The woman behind the table glared at him, her hefty arms akimbo. “Those be as crispy as anything you could grow yourself. A shillin’ for the pound.”

  He grabbed up one from the top of the pyramid. “Here, weigh that one for me, be a good lass.”

  When he’d paid for the cabbage, they walked on.

  “Oranges from Valencia!” the rough voice of a hawker called out.

  “I’ll take a half-dozen o’ those.”

  “Here, let me carry them,” Damien offered as they started on again.

  “That’s all right, I’ve got ’em.”

  Damien clamped his lips down and said no more.

  “So, you’re not interested in Miss Phillips as a young lady of marriageable age?”

  Damien refused to be drawn. “I repeat, Miss Phillips only sees me as a clergyman.”

  Jonah stopped before a fish vendor’s cart, and Damien stood silent while Jonah haggled over a piece of cod. As they waited for it to be cleaned and cut, he turned back to Damien, a twinkle in his dark green eyes. “Is that so?”

  “She has seemed…troubled to me of late. If she can receive any counsel from the scriptures, then it is my duty to aid her in that way and no more. I am not even her proper pastor—that is Reverend Doyle’s purview. I must respect his office.”

  Jonah mulled on that a moment, then dug in his pocket for some coins. “I beg your pardon, then. I didn’t quite see it in that light. I just see you as a good-looking young gent. Don’t you ever fancy yourself in need of a wife o’ your own?”

  Damien was momentarily saved from replying when the vendor handed Jonah his change and packet of fish. But as they resumed walking, Jonah quirked an eyebrow at him. “Well?”

  Damien jabbed his walking stick into the cobbled stones. “I realized long ago my calling was to serve God, and it is a full-time occupation as you have come to observe in the time you’ve been residing with us.” He tried not to sound as testy as he was now feeling.

  Jonah remained silent, seeming to examine the other stalls they passed. Damien felt compelled to add, “The Apostle Paul put it very well. When a person is married, he becomes concerned with the needs of his spouse to the detriment of the business of the Lord.”

  Jonah grunted. “How is it then that most vicars and curates I see are married? Their wives seem to be their helpmates in the parish. Didn’t the good book also say something about it not being good for a man to be alone?”

  Damien pretended to study the display of flowers at one stall. For the first time, he regretted having taught Jonah any scripture.

  Jonah fished out a coin and indicated a posy of primroses. “These blooms have nothing over the bloom in your cheeks,” he told the vendor.

  The pretty girl’s cheeks dimpled. “Thankee, sir.”

  “Can you wrap them in a bit o’ paper for me?” As the girl complied, Jonah murmured, “That’s a good lass.” He took them from her and handed her the money.

  “And who’s the lucky lady these are for?”

  He inspected the colorful bouquet, turning it around in his large hand. “They’re for a very special lady, the one who’s promised to marry me.”

  “Ooh!”

  When the girl tried to hand him the change, he said, “Keep it and buy yourself your own posy.”

  The girl flashed him a wide smile. “Thankee kindly, sir!”

  Damien swallowed, watching the careful way Jonah placed the small bouquet atop his other purchases in his satchel. The incongruous sight of his blunt fingers handling the fragile blooms sent a curious pang through Damien. How would it feel to buy a woman flowers? He’d never know the pleasure.

  Jonah’s keen eyes met his at that moment. “Don’t you ever fancy having a lady of your own to come home to?”

  “I am content with my single state.” At Jonah’s raised eyebrow, he added, “You’ve seen my life. I’m at the beck and call of those in need anytime of the day or night.”

  Jonah shrugged. “That’s why the Lord gives a man a helpmate.”

  They inched their way forward through the crowded aisle between the stalls.

  “I must say I’m always amazed at the ease you have in talking to women,” Damien couldn’t help commenting when Jonah paused in front of a stall selling herbs and spices. The pungent aromas of cumin and cinnamon filled the air. Dried pods and seeds were heaped in large burlap sacks on the ground at their feet.

  Jonah straightened from where he’d bent to examine a sack of nutmegs. “What’s that you say?”

  Damien wished he had kept his mouth shut.

  Too late, the words seemed to register with Jonah and his lips cracked open in a grin. “Talking to lasses is the easiest thing in the world.”

  Damien shook his head, unable to keep from smiling back. “I doubt you’d find many men to agree with you.”

  Jonah draped a brawny arm across his shoulders. “All you do is look at ’em a certain way and tell ’em they’re the loveliest thing you’ve ever laid eyes on. Works about three-quarters o’ the time.”

  Damien chuckled. “And the other quarter of the time?”

  “Why, you just spend some blunt on ’em, and they’re yours.” He waved his arm. “Look around you at all the young women. I’d lay odds that any number o’ them would give their spinster eyeteeth to catch a fine parson like you.”

  The crowded market was filled with far more women than men. Women of all ages, plump and slim, well-dressed and shabby. Damien shook his head, wonderin
g how he’d gotten into this ridiculous conversation with his future brother-in-law.

  Jonah frowned a moment, removing his arm from Damien’s shoulders and adjusting the satchel he carried. “Of course, you realize, with your sister, it was different. There was nothing I could ’a done or said to win her, if the Lord hadn’t o’ had mercy on me.”

  Damien chuckled. “I think she saw what lay beneath the surface.”

  Jonah shook his head. “That was pretty rotten, too. No, it took God’s grace to bless me the way He has with your sister’s love.”

  Before Damien could say anything more, Jonah gestured quickly with his hand. “See the ladies standing by the fruit vendor?”

  Damien’s gaze traveled to two women inspecting the fruit. One of them looked older, perhaps thirty, the other probably not more than nineteen or twenty. In their plain dark pelisses, they could have been servants out to make purchases, or young matrons doing their household shopping. “What of them?”

  “What of ’em?” Jonah mimicked in mock scorn. “They’re a pair of pretty lasses who’d probably lap you up like a plum pudding if you so much as looked their way.”

  When Damien became aware of what Jonah intended, his steps slowed, but Jonah hauled him forward by the elbow. The next thing he knew, Jonah was smiling and tipping his hat to the ladies in question. “Good day to ye, madam, miss. Have you ever seen such plump-looking grapes in all your life?”

  He snatched up one of the fat black grapes and popped it into his mouth. “Sweet as honey.” He addressed the older woman, but included both in his smile. “Of course, hothouse grapes don’t come near to the taste of those grown outside in the warm sun and refreshing rain. When I lived in the country, I used to grow my own. Muscats, Rieslings, Gamays. You’ve never tasted a sweeter grape than those I harvested.”

  “Oh, where did you cultivate grapes?” the older one asked with a simpering smile.

  “I tilled the soil on a place in Surrey.”

  Damien couldn’t help admiring how quickly Jonah had them entranced. He looked a well-set-up gentleman in his bottle-green cutaway coat and black pantaloons, nothing like the farm laborer he used to be. Although he didn’t lie, his words made the women assume he had been a landowner on some prosperous farm.