“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”
Lindsay sat near the front of the church with her cousin and listened to Reverend Hathaway’s steady voice repeat the age-old words. Mr. Quinn and his bride stood with their backs to the congregation. There was not a seat to be had in the chapel. She felt honored the reverend and his sister had reserved these seats for them. The entire parish must have turned out for the ceremony.
The late-May day was a glorious one, warm and sunny, filled with birdsong.
“‘It was ordained for the mutual society, help and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity…’”
Would she ever come to feel this for Mr. Stokes? She could well imagine such sentiments between Mr. Quinn and Miss Hathaway. After all, their love had already been tested by the most supreme adversity.
Mutual society…comfort. Would Mr. Stokes ever offer her those? Whenever he was with her, all his attention seemed fixed on her physical proximity. They had no conversation between them, unless one counted his going on and on about some scientific interest he shared with her father. The two men could converse for hours while she sat silently by with her needlework in her lap.
“‘Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?’”
Jonah Quinn turned to his bride. “I will.” Lindsay caught her breath at the solemn look of devotion in his eyes.
How would it be to have a man look at one and pledge his life in such a manner? Her glance drifted to the curate. How handsome he looked in his priestly robes. The light streaming in from the stained-glass window caught on his short curls, turning them gold. His hands looked so fine as he held the prayer book before him.
How tenderly he repeated the question to his sister. How proud he must be of her on this day, how happy to be able to join her with the one who cherished her so.
She had grown to admire him more and more each time she attended his Bible study. He always made a point of asking her how she was, looking at her so searchingly with his blue eyes. How close she had been to confiding in him the last time! But they were always surrounded by so many people, and she didn’t dare ask again for a private meeting.
Remembering Beatrice’s words, she wondered again if there was a special person in his life. She had observed no young lady at the Bible study. She sighed as she sat in the church pew. To have a man like the reverend—a man who was so good and pure and true—look at her the way Mr. Quinn was looking at Miss Hathaway…
At that moment Mr. Quinn took his bride’s hand in his and repeated the words the reverend spoke to him. “I, Jonah Michael Kendall Quinn, take thee, Florence Diane Hathaway, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
I plight thee my troth. A solemn promise of fidelity. To receive such a vow from a man one had such high regard for. Her gaze drifted back to the curate.
She brought herself up short at the direction of her thoughts. Reverend Hathaway was a man of the cloth. She had no right thinking of him in such a way. Had all her admiration for him been nothing but romantic infatuation?
Yet her thoughts persisted, even after the ceremony was over and the congregation exited the church. An outdoor reception was being held in the apple orchard to accommodate the entire gathering. Long tables laden with food and drink formed two rows between the trees.
Lindsay held a cup of cider in one hand, the other toying with the green ribbons of her new bonnet. Beatrice smiled beside her, her glance taking in the crowded yard. “They could not have had a better day for their wedding.”
Lindsay held her face up to the warm sunshine. “No, indeed.”
“Hello, my fine ladies. I am honored you could attend our humble wedding.” Mr. Quinn approached them, his bride on his arm. Miss Hathaway—Mrs. Quinn now—looked radiant. For one whose complexion was naturally pale, today she had a positive bloom to her cheeks.
“Thank you for inviting us. We are honored you call us friends after such a short but most congenial acquaintance.” Beatrice held out her hand to him and addressed them both warmly.
Mr. Quinn bowed over Lindsay’s hand. “I hope you consider us friends, as well.”
Lindsay blushed and smiled up at the large man. “Oh, yes! I wish you and Mrs. Quinn all happiness.”
“We hope to be able to see you as joyously united as we are,” Mrs. Quinn said with a firm shake of her hand.
“Th-thank you.” She bit her lip.
The reverend joined them at that moment.
Mr. Quinn slapped him on the back. “Well, Damien, you yoked me at last.” His twinkling green eyes looked at his new wife. “I have the feeling my new shackles will be tighter than those at Newgate.”
The reverend chuckled in response. “Ah, but she has been the making of you, has she not?”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Mrs. Quinn said to her husband.
“That you did, many a time.” He bent down and planted a kiss on her cheek. “And you have indeed been the making of me.”
“Now, see here, we are in company. You must be more circumspect.”
“I think I may take some liberties on my wedding day.” His arm came around his new wife’s waist and he tightened his hold visibly. Then he turned to Beatrice. “Miss Yates, why don’t you let me offer you some of the fine fare we have over here? You can fix a plate for yourself and your young cousin.” With a wink in Lindsay’s direction, he offered Beatrice his other arm.
“What a splendid idea.” Beatrice added to Lindsay, “You don’t mind being left with the reverend for a moment, do you?”
She blushed as she stole a look at the curate, remembering her thoughts about him in the church. “Not at all.” When he didn’t say anything, she hoped he didn’t mind standing with her. He would be too nice to object.
Self-conscious all of a sudden, she watched the three-some stroll across the deep green lawn.
When she turned to the curate once again, a polite commonplace on her lips, her breath caught. His keen eyes were fixed on her. They reflected the blue sky above him. He’d removed his white surplice, but still maintained his long black cassock. The outfit warned her again of his office. She could feel the warmth stealing through her cheeks. “You must be very happy for your sister.” Her voice came out embarrassingly breathless.
His glance finally left hers and followed the couple’s progress. “Yes. Florence deserves a good husband and home of her own. She has been taking care of me, and our parents before that, and giving herself to this congregation so selflessly for many years. I am grateful that the Lord has blessed her with someone who will look after her now.”
“Mr. Quinn seems awfully nice,” she said, watching the ladies laugh heartily at something he had said. They reached one of the long trestle tables and he handed each one a plate.
“Yes, he is a good man. A man whom adversity has made all the stronger.”
“The wedding was beautiful.” She tried to think what more to say, wanting to prolong the conversation, but was mindful that, as host, he had many people to attend to.
His glance strayed to the sky. “The Lord provided a fine day—the finest.”
“Yes. Mrs. Quinn looks beautiful in her gown. The ceremony was so romantic, just as a wedding should be. And he is so handsome. The two make a distinguished couple.” She felt herself babbling but couldn’t stop, she was so afraid he’d walk away.
His gaze met hers again. “I’m sure some young gentleman will have the privilege someday of awaiting you at the altar and you will enjoy just such a romantic ceremony of your own.”
In those few seconds, she felt time stand still. Why couldn’t it be Reverend Hathaway himself? The thought stunned her. It had been growing within her for some time, she realized, only she’d been too afraid to give words to it.
“Is something the matter?” His fine eyebrows drew together, his gaze never wavering from hers.
She swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat. “I fear I shall never enjoy such a romantic day.”
“Why ever would you say such a thing in such forlorn tones? You are a very young lady with much ahead of you. You must have all the gentlemen of the fashionable world at your feet.”
A shuddering sigh escaped her. “I fear my papa has already chosen for me.”
His frown deepened. “What are you saying, Miss Phillips?”
The words were harder to say than she’d anticipated. She dreaded them. It was as if while she’d kept the news back from these new friends, a sliver of hope remained.
“I…I am betrothed to…a man….” She could no longer bear to look at those pure blue eyes. “A man of my father’s acquaintance.” She stared down at the cup in her hands. “He is a man my father greatly esteems, but who is a…stranger to me.”
“I am sorry, Miss Phillips, truly sorry,” he said at last, as if the words were difficult for him to utter.
She felt tears welling up in her eyes, and dared not blink for fear they would overflow onto her cheeks. Oh, why had she blurted it out? She didn’t want to ruin the day. She averted her head, holding her breath, afraid to sniffle.
A second later, his forefinger came under her chin, and very gently he turned her face upward. His face blurred and she couldn’t keep from blinking. She felt two tears roll down her cheeks.
“My dear.” He sounded so distressed at the sight of her tears.
She tried to muster a smile, her heart warmed by his words. “I didn’t mean to s-say any…anything.” She brought her hand to her face and sniffed. “Not on this happy day for you and Miss Hathaway—”
He dug into a pocket and handed her his handkerchief.
“Th-thank you.” She turned her back to him a moment while she composed herself.
When she faced him once again, not quite ready to meet his eyes, she kept his handkerchief clutched in her fist.
His hand reached out to her but then he dropped it at his side. “Is there anything I can do? Anyone I can speak to?” His voice sounded unsteady to her ears.
She shook her head. “Papa has his heart set on—” she couldn’t bring herself to utter the name “—on this.”
“I see.” Though his arms hung at his sides, his hands had formed fists, she noticed. “I shall pray for you,” he said.
The words sounded so heartfelt, it was almost as if he were touching her. She was able to raise her eyes to his. “Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you.” She put everything she couldn’t say into those words.
“The Lord will not give you more than you can bear, I promise you, Miss Phillips.” There was a tremor in his tone, as if he were willing to stake his life on the promise.
All she could do was nod, and trust in his words.
The parsonage loomed empty that evening after Jonah and Florence left for their honeymoon and the Nicholses had retired to their own cottage for the evening.
Never had Damien felt so at loose ends, so alone.
He could not get his mind off Miss Phillips.
The news of her betrothal stunned him. Married! She was too young. She was too—
His hands fisted futilely. Too—what?
No, the idea of her married to someone she didn’t know, someone chosen for her by her father—
He prowled the confines of his workroom, too restless to tinker with his clocks. No, it didn’t bear thinking on. He banged his fists against the window sash. It couldn’t be. When had it happened? Why would her father compel his only daughter into a marriage that made her so unhappy?
Her distress had been too real. Even now the memory of her tears reawoke in him a desire to rescue her in some form or fashion. But who was he? He was nothing in her life. He had no right to do anything but mouth some platitudes about fortitude and courage.
How he’d wanted to wipe her tears away, take her in his arms and promise her she didn’t have to marry anyone against her will. How he wished he could have offered her some real comfort!
Was that what she had sought him about when she’d asked for that meeting in the park? His mind went back to that day, trying to recall in detail her words, every nuance and inflection of her voice. She’d been glad to see him and troubled about doing the right thing. But he’d merely thought she had some trivial problem, perhaps a slight disagreement with her father or with a friend. What a fool he’d been. Hadn’t he seen her quandary was nothing short of cataclysmic?
And all he’d been able to do for her today was promise to pray for her.
Well, at least he could make good on his word. He turned with renewed determination and knelt.
How soon was she to be married? Would she ever come to the parsonage again after her marriage? How he would miss her cheerful face and probing questions at the Bible study.
He dropped his face into his hands. This couldn’t be! He must stop the train of his thoughts. He had one duty alone toward her, to pray for the Lord’s will to be done in her life, for His grace to sustain her in whatever she must do.
A week later, Damien greeted Jonah and Florence on their return with more relief than he’d ever have imagined possible. Their absence had only highlighted his own solitary—permanently solitary—state. Someday soon, his sister and brother-in-law would depart for good, but he preferred to rejoice in their temporary return to the parsonage.
“You look wonderful. Honeymoons must agree with the two of you,” he said, drawing apart from his embrace with Florence and turning to Jonah. The man gave him a bear hug that squeezed the air out of him.
With a final clap on the back, Jonah let him go. “I would recommend a honeymoon to any man.”
Florence had never looked so beautiful, and she seemed…he searched for a word…softer, somehow. As if sensing his scrutiny, she busied herself talking with Elizabeth.
“So, lad, what have you been doing with yourself all these days on your own?”
Damien turned back to Jonah with a smile. “Keeping busy, you know. A parish never sleeps.”
Jonah leaned his muscular frame against the large pine table in the kitchen and eyed Damien with a twinkle in his moss-green eyes. “The widows calling at all hours?”
He chuckled. “No, the widows were amazingly well behaved, although Mrs. Cooper did call with her daughter more than once.”
Jonah gave a knowing nod. “She won’t rest till she has you married off to young Charlotte.”
Damien fiddled with the cutlery on the table. “Well, she’ll have to remain restless as I’m not disposed to make any advances to her daughter.”
“Glad to hear it. If you marry the young Cooper, you’ll have her mother breathing down your neck for the next decades.”
Damien shook his head with a smile.
Jonah suddenly asked, “How’s Miss Phillips?”
Damien looked away from him. “I haven’t seen her since your wedding.”
“You haven’t? You’re neglecting your duties.”
Damien frowned. “She is not in my parish.”
“Excuse me if I misunderstood. I thought the young lady was coming to be discipled—isn’t that the way you put it? Isn’t that what you’ve been doing with me since you made my acquaintance?”
“Of course it is! But in this case it isn’t as simple as that.”
“Well, when one is a babe in the things of the Lord, it doesn’t do to let a person go, if you take my meaning.”
“I haven’t ‘let her go’!” He cleared his throat, attempting to compose his tone. “I have no opportunity to see her.”
“Couldn’t you have called on her and her cousin?”
“That would not be appropriate. Reverend Doyle is the parish priest, remember?” He didn’t mention that he’d taken to perusing the society news in the paper. He’d seen various mentions of Miss Phillips attending the theater and opera. The name Stokes had frequently appeared linked with hers.
Jonah pursed his lips as if considering. “Well, perhaps we’ll see her this weekend.”
“See whom?” Florence rejoined them.
“Your brother here says he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of either Miss Phillips or Miss Yates since we’ve been gone.”
“Oh.” She frowned at the two men. “Well, that isn’t unusual. She must be a very busy young lady.”
Damien drew in a deep breath and straightened away from the table. They might as well know. “Yes. She informed me at your wedding that she herself was betrothed.”
They both looked at him round-eyed. “When did that happen?” Florence finally asked.
“I don’t know. I believe recently.” He cleared his throat. “At least I haven’t read an announcement.”
“Who’s the lucky man?” Jonah rubbed his chin, his forehead creased.
He shrugged. “A Mr. Stokes, I believe.” He colored as the two looked more closely at him. “The papers have mentioned his name a few times. She said it was someone her father had chosen for her.”
Florence’s head drew back. “Chosen by her father?” she asked sharply. “You mean it is not someone she has chosen for herself?”
Elizabeth and Jacob approached the table. Damien glanced around the group uneasily, reluctant to discuss Miss Phillips with so many. Yet, the elderly couple had known him all his life, and little went on in the parsonage without their knowledge.
“I believe not,” he said at last. “She didn’t say much to me. Only that her father had selected a gentleman of long-standing acquaintance. He must have a high regard for the gentleman if he has chosen him for his only child.”
Jonah nodded. Florence seemed to be considering, her hand fiddling with the lace at her throat. Finally, she said, “It still seems awfully strange. It’s only her first season, a time a young lady is supposed to enjoy having many suitors.” She turned to Damien, a troubled look in her gray eyes. “Did she seem pleased about her betrothal?”
He considered how to answer. “You would have to ask her yourself.”
She said no more. Damien felt badly about withholding the truth from his sister. He trusted her judgment, and perhaps she could help.
Later that afternoon, he knocked on her door.
“All unpacked?”
“Yes, at last. Jonah is settled in, as well,” she added, then blushed and looked away at the reference to their new sleeping arrangements.
“I’m so happy for you, Flo.”
She squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”
“I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Earlier, when you asked me about Miss Phillips.”
She nodded, a question in her eyes.
“I didn’t want to speak of it before the others, because it is none of my business, but she did not seem happy with the prospect of her betrothal.”
Florence shook her head. “That is too bad. How can a father do something like that?”
“I wanted to ask if you could perhaps talk to her yourself. I have no way to—” He shoved a hand through his hair in frustration. “She is not of our congregation. Perhaps you, as a woman, could call on her.”
“Of course, Damien. I shall call on her tomorrow.”
He squeezed her arm. “Thank you, Flo. I knew I could count on you.”
His sister would find out if there was cause to worry or not. She’d put things in perspective for him. Perhaps he’d been creating worries out of nothing, the combination of an overactive imagination and the fact that he hadn’t seen Miss Phillips in so many days. Her distress may have grown to disproportionate dimensions in his mind. He could only hope that were the case.
The next evening, Florence sat with Damien and Jonah in the drawing room. Instead of relieving his worries, Florence’s report of her visit only increased them. “I didn’t like how Miss Phillips looked.”
“Well, tell us, love, what did she look like?” Jonah asked.
“She looked very pale and acted nervously. I asked her how she’d been and she assured me everything was fine. She seemed determined to have me talk of my journey. She is really a dear thing, not selfish at all, as you’d expect of someone of her society.”
Damien sat on the edge of his seat, willing himself to listen, knowing his sister would inform him of everything she thought important without his asking.
His sister looked from Jonah to Damien. “At first she didn’t want to say anything, but I put her at ease and eventually managed to discover a few things.”
The only sounds in the room were the ticking of the clock and the song of the cicadas coming through the open window. “More than just having no choice over her future husband, or even knowing him at all, she seems downright averse to him.”
“Why doesn’t she say something to her father?” Jonah demanded.
“She seems almost afraid of him.” Florence shook her head. “She believes the fault is hers if she cannot warm to Mr. Stokes. Don’t forget how young and impressionable she is.”
Damien could sit still no longer. He got up and paced the room. What could he do to help Miss Phillips?
Jonah and Florence continued talking quietly. Damien came to stand before the empty grate, his fists on the mantel, his head bowed. Helpless and useless was how he felt.
“Did you hear me, Damien?”
Jonah’s peremptory tone jerked his attention back to them.
“I said we need to get a look at this fellow for ourselves.”
Damien turned slowly, hardly understanding his words. “I beg your pardon?”
“To satisfy ourselves that he’s a gent worthy of Miss Phillips. Can you honestly live with yourself if you allow her to be shackled to some monster for the rest of her life, at the whim of her father—a man who might be so proud he can’t be bothered with his daughter’s well-being?”
When he realized Jonah was serious, Damien began to shake his head. “I’m sure Mr. Phillips has made a wise and careful choice.”
“Ha! You’ve seen enough of these Mayfair coves to know how little they care about a person’s feelings.”
Damien stood staring at his brother-in-law, not liking the picture he conjured up. Perhaps he was right. They should know something about Miss Phillips’s future husband, if only for their own peace of mind. He cleared his throat. “If I were to assure myself of this man’s worth, how would I go about it?” He gave a nervous laugh. “I mean this gentleman and I inhabit different worlds. He has his clubs and I—” He made a futile gesture in the air.
Jonah leaned forward, a gleam in his eye. “That’s it, we’ll find out which clubs he belongs to.” He smiled, warming to the idea. “It wouldn’t hurt to get a look at the fellow, and what better way to find out a man’s habits than see how he passes his leisure hours?”
Damien shook his head at his brother-in-law’s unorthodox ideas. “You mean wait for the man outside his door until he comes out and get his measure just by looking at him?”
Jonah sat back and stretched out his muscular legs before him. The look in his eyes was indulgent. “That would serve little purpose but to look foolish. What I propose is to visit one of the gent’s clubs and get a little information on the cove. Get his lay, if you ken my meaning. Find out his habits,” he added at the look of puzzlement on Damien’s face.
Damien glanced at Florence to see if she agreed that Jonah’s ideas sounded ridiculous, but her attention was fixed on her husband.
Damien sighed in exasperation. “So, you think one can get into an exclusive St. James’s club—for I am certain the man belongs only to the best—and sit ourselves down for an ale and watch him?”
Jonah chuckled and shook his head. “For someone who’s roamed about some of the worst places of London, you remain an innocent, my friend. That’s what I like about you.” He folded his arms over his chest and smiled as if enjoying the conversation. “There are ways to obtain information.” He held up a hand before Damien could offer further objections. “Perfectly legitimate ways. First, we find out which clubs he frequents. Then—” he grinned at both of them “—I can take care of this next part. It would just involve moseying on to the back of the club and getting friendly with some of the kitchen staff. All it takes is a waiter—”
Damien broke in. This had gone far enough. “Now, I’ll not have anything illegal—”
“Perfectly legal. No one will be hurt, and no one the wiser. I’ll just offer a little blunt to a waiter who seems disposed to talk.”
Both Damien and his sister drew in their breaths. “A bribe?” she asked.
“I call it payment for some information. Bow Street Runners use this method all the time.”
“What kind of information would you be seeking?” Damien asked in an even tone, liking the turn in the conversation less and less.
Jonah glanced at his fingernails on one hand. “There’s no telling what you might find out about a person. Does he play for high stakes? Does he belong to any other clubs?”
Damien stood staring at him for some moments. His heart balked at invading a person’s privacy in this manner. It seemed a violation. “That would be like listening to gossip, unreliable at best.”
“Not necessarily.” He pointed to his cuff. “I’ll wager these new cuff links your sister gave me—” He glanced quickly at Florence with a smile. “Don’t worry, love, this is how sure I feel about this bet.” He turned back to Damien. “I’ll wager these cuff links that if this gent belongs to some Mayfair club, he also belongs to some not-so-exclusive ones, where it won’t be so hard for me to get in.” He eyed the two of them. “Most men have habits they’d rather keep secret. They have no idea how much a servant or waiter is privy to.”
Damien felt paralyzed. Fear for Miss Phillips’s future warred with distaste for prying into an individual’s life.
As if reading his thoughts, Jonah’s words goaded him. “You have a moral obligation to get this toff’s measure, see if the man is someone you could trust to treat Miss Phillips as he should.”
Damien rubbed a hand across his mouth, not liking the options. He was almost ready to put an end to the notion when Florence spoke up. “I think Jonah is right.”
Damien stared at his sister.
“You look shocked, Damien.” She smoothed down her skirt. “But think about it. What if Miss Phillips is forced to enter into a union with a less-than-savory character? You didn’t hear the fear in her voice.” Her gray eyes looked troubled. “Perhaps it is only maidenly nerves. But what if it is more? Could we live with ourselves, as Jonah said, if we didn’t do anything?”
Lord, what would You have me do? He bowed his head, his hands clasped behind him. Finally, he looked back at the two of them, his eyes coming to rest on Jonah. “Very well. Tell me what to do.”