A Bride of Honor

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “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 m
ust 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.