A Bride Of Honor. Ruth Axtell Morren
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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
L indsay’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