- -
- 100%
- +
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.
She’d read compassion in the curate’s blue eyes. For a second, she wished she had a suitor like him. Warmth suffused her cheeks at the audacious thought. Immediately, her heart sank as her gaze rested on her father. He would never countenance such a match.
Chapter Three
D amien eyed the young men seated around the parsonage drawing room. The room was filled to capacity, every chair brought from the dining room and study—even from the bedrooms upstairs—to accommodate the visitors. And still, they kept coming. A few were forced to stand along the wall or perch on a chair arm. Another instance where something besides the thirst for scripture brought the crowd.
Damien’s gaze went to Miss Phillips. Although he’d tried to avoid looking at her during his scripture lessons, he couldn’t help being aware of her each time she came to the parsonage. In the fortnight since she’d begun attending the weekly studies with Miss Yates, turnout had gone from half a dozen earnest young men to over two dozen.
He closed his Bible as Jacob and his daughter brought in the tea things and the assembly started to break up.
“Reverend Hathaway, there is a passage in Hebrews I was pondering this week which I wanted to ask you about.”
He dragged his attention to the young man who’d approached his chair. “Of course.”
As soon as he could, Damien made his way toward the tea table, although he was waylaid once or twice more by young men eager to discuss a point he’d made earlier in the evening. He tried to answer as briefly as he could, promising to take up the questions once their lesson resumed after the tea break.
Even though he endeavored to maintain a professional distance from Miss Phillips, he always felt drawn to her. Berating himself for his weakness, he told himself he was no better than all the young pups who flocked around her chair.
She never seemed to encourage any familiarity, however. If anything, she all but ignored the young men who were clearly there because of her and stuck to her cousin’s side. Of course, he was relieved to discover she was not a flirt, nor a flighty young rattlebrain. Her questions to him during their studies indicated she grasped the scriptures and was sincere in learning.
He knew the gentlemen present were all vying for her attention, and yet he didn’t think any would ever cross the bounds of propriety. Had any of them said anything to offend Miss Phillips? Is that why she acted so timidly?
She looked too pale and serious for a young woman enjoying her introduction to society. He knew little of such things. Perhaps she was exhausted from all the dances and social engagements.
By the time he reached the tea table, he was relieved that everyone had been served. Miss Phillips had found a place on the settee between Florence and Miss Yates, as if she needed guarding from the young men.
He took the cup and saucer Florence handed him. “Thank you,” he said to his sister before turning to Miss Phillips. Her face broke into a smile as soon as his eyes met hers.
His heart never failed to be jolted by the radiance of her smile and he couldn’t help but respond. “Good evening, Miss Phillips. How have you enjoyed the discussion thus far?”
“Oh, very much. You always manage to bring out things in the scriptures which I have failed to see.”
“Don’t give me the credit. I’ve spent years studying them under very learned teachers.”
She tilted her head a fraction as she continued looking at him. “I believe God has also given you insight into them besides what you have gleaned from others.”
He bowed his head, saying nothing. “God’s grace is beyond measure.”
He read agreement in her eyes. As he scanned her face, he discerned the faint shadows under her eyes. “Are you feeling quite well?”
Her smile faded and the light in her eyes dimmed.
When she said nothing, he added, “I know you must be very busy. I appreciate all the more your attendance at the Bible study.”
“I wish I could come to services at the chapel, too, but, alas.” Her voice dropped. “My Papa…doesn’t approve. I—” She stopped as if hesitating to say more.
“I don’t wish you to incur his disapproval.”
“My cousin has asked him to allow me to accompany her, and he has reluctantly agreed…but I don’t know for how much longer.” Her voice dwindled away, and he felt alarmed at the thought of never seeing her again.
“I do hope I can attend for a while more. Miss Yates and I so enjoy your evenings.” Her voice regained some animation.
Miss Yates turned to them with a chuckle and glance about the room. “I notice your attendance has increased dramatically. I hope you’ll still have room for us.”
“Of course.” He couldn’t help the concern that they might stay away on account of overcrowding. “I’m afraid if you ceased coming, attendance here would also fall as dramatically.”
The two smiled in understanding at each other, before Miss Yates glanced sidelong at her young cousin. “Lindsay has been garnering attention wherever she goes this season. Her papa is most proud of her.”
Damien strove to keep his expression neutral. “I’m sure he must be.” His glance strayed to Miss Phillips, expecting some coy expression. Instead she looked almost distressed. He sought about for another topic. “How is Reverend Doyle?”
Miss Yates blinked. “Quite well. He was by for a visit just yesterday. Haven’t you seen him yourself?”
Damien hesitated. “Not recently. He is a very busy man.” He didn’t add that he’d never gone so long without a visit from his superior. Florence was already fretting that it did not bode well. Ever since the rector had discovered Damien’s role in Jonah’s escape, he had been notably cold toward Damien. With a nod to each lady, Damien excised himself.
He had no more reason to linger beside Miss Phillips although his brief talk with her had only increased his misgivings. Something appeared to be wrong.
He made his way back to his seat and conversed with the small core of students that were truly eager to learn more of God’s word, but his mind and attention remained fixed on Miss Phillips.
When the group dismissed for the evening, Damien stood at the front door to bid his guests goodbye. Most of the gentlemen had departed, but Miss Yates remained speaking with Florence about the prison ministry.
As he turned from bidding farewell to a couple of gentlemen, Miss Phillips approached him. She had already donned her bonnet and pelisse.
“Miss Phillips.”
“Might I…” She bit her lip.
“Yes?” He strove for a tone of reassurance, eager to know what she wanted to say.
She began again. “Might it be possible to ask you something?”
“Certainly.” When she said nothing, he said more gently, “You may ask me anything. Is something the matter?”
“No.” She wet her lips and looked away from him. “Yes.”
He reached out a hand but dropped it before it touched her sleeve. “What is it, Miss Phillips? What is wrong?”
“I…that is…I just needed to ask you something. Is there…somewhere we can meet?”
His heart began to pound unnaturally loudly. “Yes. Could you come by tomorrow with Miss Yates?”
She shook her head immediately. “Not here.” Her cheeks grew red.
His mind cast about for a suitable reply. “Would you like me to…er…come to your house?”
“No.”
He recoiled at the immediacy of her reply. Would she be embarrassed by a visit from him? Of course. He didn’t blame her, even as the pain shot through him. He stepped back.
Almost as if reading his thoughts, she said more softly, “I mean…I’d rather it not be at my house.”
He considered. She wasn’t his parishioner and even if she were, it would be unseemly to meet her alone anywhere. “Is there somewhere we could—ahem—meet, then?”
“I have a music lesson tomorrow afternoon in Marylebone—that’s not so far from here.” The words came out in a rush.
He blinked, not expecting that. At a loss, he blurted out, “Do you sing?”
“A bit, and play the pianoforte.”
How little he knew of her. “How nice.”
“I finish at three o’clock. Could…could you perhaps meet me there afterward? It’s at number four, Portman Square.”
He thought for a second, but her look of appeal made him forget all other considerations. “Very well.”
“Oh, thank you!” Her heartfelt look of gratitude erased any lingering doubts.
As he bade both ladies good-night, his mind was troubled. What could be on Miss Phillips’s mind to ask him such a thing? Why wouldn’t she go to her cousin, or to her father…or to her own pastor, Reverend Doyle? Was she in some kind of trouble?
He resolved to increase his prayers for her—and for himself—that God would grant him the wisdom to give Miss Phillips whatever she needed.
Chapter Four
L indsay sighed in relief at the sight of Reverend Hathaway leaning against the wrought-iron fence that surrounded Portman Square. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how worried she’d been that he wouldn’t be waiting for her when she left her music lesson.
He saw her immediately and straightened. But he didn’t approach her, discreetly waiting across the street. She bade her teacher goodbye and tucked her drawing pad under her arm. “My maid will return the key in a little bit when I’ve finished my sketch.” It had been the only pretext she’d been able to think of to borrow the key to the square.
As she turned from the house, she said to her maid, “Clara, please wait for me in the carriage.”
The girl bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, miss.”
Lindsay waited until the girl had climbed into the coach and the door was shut behind her. Then she quickly crossed the street.
“Hello, Reverend Hathaway,” she said breathlessly. “Thank you for coming.”
He lifted his hat in greeting and smiled. “How was your lesson?”
She was reassured by the warmth of his tone. Suddenly, the day truly felt like spring—she began to hear the birdsong and feel the fresh breeze upon her cheeks. “My lesson? Oh, it was fine.” She shook her head. “I must practice more. That’s what I’m always told.” And suddenly, she laughed out loud for the sheer pleasure she felt. The weight of the past few weeks fell from her shoulders. Reverend Hathaway would know what she should do.
She gestured toward the large square. “Would you care to take a stroll in the park?”
“That would be very pleasant.” He took the large iron key from her, unlocked the gate and held it open.
They began to walk along the hard-packed dirt path under the elm trees in the neatly laid-out square. The reason for her being there returned and her spirits fell. She said nothing for a few minutes, unsure how to begin. She had never done such a thing in all her life. But she was so confused….
She swung around to him, bringing him to abrupt stop. “I would like to ask you something. It’s only a theoretical question, mind you.”
He nodded, his blue eyes regarding her steadily. Why did they look even bluer out-of-doors? “Ask away. Clergymen are always having theoretical questions pitched at them.”
She felt her face grow warm. Was she that transparent?
As if sensing her chagrin, his expression sobered. “What is it, Miss Phillips? What is troubling you so?”
She bit her lower lip. “If one is required to do something, to obey, but one finds the choice…distasteful, but one wants so very much to obey…”
He nodded. “Obedience can be very difficult at times.”
“Oh, yes!” He did understand. “Have you ever felt like that? As if the Lord were asking something impossible of you, and it would cost you everything to obey?”
He was looking at her keenly now, all traces of humor erased from his features. “I think we all come to that place in our walk with Him, where He requires us to surrender all to Him.”
Her spirits sank. It couldn’t be. How could she bear it? “But if the choice is so…so disagreeable?”
“His grace is sufficient for thee,” he answered gently.
Her shoulders slumped and she turned back to the path, resuming their walk. “I never thought my coming out would be filled with that kind of decision, as if having my own will would cause others so much displeasure, but obedience will cause me—” She wrung her hands together, unable to express her horror. “I do so want to be obedient. These last few weeks at your Bible study, I’ve learned so much about the Lord’s word. There’s so much I feel I need to learn. I don’t want to be a self-willed person. You speak of the cross and dying to the old nature. But what if that old nature refuses to die?”
He walked alongside her, his hands clasped behind his back. His wooden leg didn’t seem to impede him. She discerned no limp, although the wood made a different sound than that of their shoes upon the ground.
“I’ve found, in the years I’ve been counseling the flock the Lord has brought me, that many times a person’s spiritual growth is impeded by one thing alone—a thorn in the flesh, as it were, and not by a host of earthly pleasures.”
“Oh, yes, that’s it exactly. One thing alone!”
He glanced at her. “At least in your case, you are honest enough to admit it. Most people hide from the knowledge, and the Lord has to work on them for years before they are willing to put the item on the altar.” He sighed. “In the meantime, however, they don’t realize how many years have gone by, years in which they could have been growing in the knowledge of the Lord and reaching new heights.”
Her spirits sank further. She didn’t want that to happen to her. But the alternative! Jerome Stokes’s face rose in her mind. To be betrothed to him. She shuddered.
“Come, Miss Phillips, can it be so very bad? You are a young lady born with every privilege, your whole life before you.”
She turned to him, stricken. If only he knew what Papa was asking of her. “Yes,” was all she could whisper. She could never speak anything ill of Papa.
They were both silent some moments, and she focused on the soft sound of their footsteps on the ground. The bark of a dog on the other side of the square and the chirp of birds barely registered with her.
She drew a deep breath. “Have you never faced that kind of dilemma? In which…if you say no, you would be holding back from God?”
He was quiet a moment, and when she feared she had overstepped the bounds of propriety, he said, “I gave my heart and soul to the Lord as a young lad, before I was faced with many worldly temptations.”
He hastened to add, “Not because I was some kind of saint, but simply out of my desperate need.” He gestured with his chin downward. “After my accident, my need for God was great.”
She followed his gaze, realizing he was referring to the loss of his limb. “H-how did it happen?” she finally dared ask.
“I ran out in the road after a duck.” He glanced sidelong at her, his expression unreadable to her. “I was eight years old and responsible for a flock of ducks.”
She held her breath. “What happened?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t look before running out. A heavy wagon ran over my leg.”
“Oh, my—” Her hand covered her mouth. She couldn’t imagine the pain and anguish for an adult let alone a child.
“It was a miracle I survived. The wheel could just have easily run over my body. There, now, Miss Phillips, please don’t be upset. It happened so long ago. Eighteen years,” he murmured, as if amazed himself. “The pain and terror have long since faded.”
“How…could you bear it?” she asked, her voice still faint.
“I believe I wouldn’t have if not for my parents’ faith.” His finely shaped mouth turned up at one corner. “And Florence’s. Hers was more the bullying kind. Once I was fully healed and fitted with a wooden leg, I had to face perhaps what was harder than the physical pain I’d endured before. I had to take up my life, face the children at school, pretend I was as normal as they.
“Florence was my champion. If a boy so much as snickered behind my back or dared even breathe a nickname, she was over him, giving him the thrashing of his life.”
She couldn’t help laughing at the image of the spare woman fighting a big bully. “How wonderful it must have been to have a big sister,” she said wistfully.
He looked at her as if he understood more than she was saying. “You have no brothers or sisters?”
She shook her head. “I always envied my friends at school who had several brothers and sisters. Tell me more of what you meant. You said your accident made you turn to God for help.”
“Yes. Having Florence defend me and my parents shower their love on me wasn’t enough. To be able to face every day with my head held high, I needed to know the Father’s unconditional love. I needed the Lord’s grace to make it through each day, knowing I was no longer a whole boy, but a—” his Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed “—cripple.”
“Oh, no! You’re not a cripple. You are many things. A fine curate for one.” Yes, that was true. His disadvantage seemed so very small in light of the whole man before her.
He smiled, but it didn’t hide the bleakness in his expression. “But that’s what I was in the eyes of others. In order to overcome my limitations, I had to rely on God’s strength. I came to understand in a very personal way, the verse, ‘My strength is made perfect in weakness.’ God proved it to me time and again.”
They had walked the whole perimeter of the square. Lindsay, unwilling to have their walk end so soon, said abruptly, “You were so brave to take in a…fugitive.”
He blinked at the sudden change in topic. “Quinn?”
She nodded.
He shrugged. “At the time the choice seemed easy. A man came to our door on a rainy winter’s night, cold, feverish, hungry. In truth, it was my sister who brought him in. I only seconded her decision.”