A Bride Of Honor. Ruth Axtell Morren
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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