The small spring he was holding popped from between his fingers and fell inside the enclosed clock housing.
With a stifled exclamation, he fished inside for it but couldn’t reach it. Holding the clock steady in one hand, he reached for a screwdriver to aid him.
As he struggled to retrieve the tiny spring, he kept turning over and over in his mind what he could do to help Miss Phillips. The thought of her impending doom hadn’t left him the entire day.
There must be something he could do. Anything. But what? Ever since Jonah’s description, Damien had wanted more than ever to take Miss Phillips away and promise her that she would never have to marry the detestable Jerome Stokes.
It was too late, he’d kept telling himself, if the girl’s father had made a binding agreement with the gentleman. There was nothing a poor curate could do to intervene. So far, Damien’s prayers had seemed to fall on deaf ears. He must trust the Lord in this, he must!
“Ach!” The spring kept slipping from the tip of the screwdriver. He should give up this task tonight.
With a sense of relief he heard the chime of the front bell. He set the clock upright, his heart beginning to pound, the wild thought entering his mind that it was Miss Phillips.
Of course not! She’d be receiving her guests. He pictured a lavish party full of Mayfair’s premier families. He couldn’t help glancing at the mantel clock. Half-past seven. He sat, still and tense, unable to distinguish any sounds until footsteps approached his door, followed by a soft knock. “Yes?”
Betsy peered round his door. “The rector is here to see you,” she whispered in an exaggerated fashion, her eyes round.
He gave a weary sigh as reality reasserted itself. “You showed him to the drawing room, I trust?”
“Oh, sir, I showed him into your study. He asked only for you, and seeing as Mr. and Mrs. Quinn are sitting upstairs—”
He nodded. “Thank you, Betsy. I should have known I could count on you.”
She dipped a curtsy. “Oh, yes, sir. You can that.”
Damien rose, feeling a kink in his neck from the hour hunched over the worktable, fretting about Miss Phillips. “Bring us some tea, will you?”
“Oh, right away, sir. And I’ll make sure no one disturbs the two o’ you.”
He smiled faintly. “Very well, thank you.” The whole household was aware of the delicate relationship between him and his superior since the incident with Jonah.
As Damien straightened his waistcoat and donned his coat, he felt a faint anxiety increase. He hadn’t heard anything from the rector since Jonah’s pardon. Doyle had made his displeasure known then, but until now, he’d not called to discuss the incident with Damien in any official capacity.
And yet, Damien couldn’t muster more than slight concern over the rector’s visit, his worry over Miss Phillips’s fate overshadowing everything else.
Glancing at the small mirror by the doorway, Damien smoothed down his hair, knowing the rector was a very polished gentleman and would expect to be received by Damien in like manner. Taking a deep breath, he straightened, exited the shabby workshop and made his way down the corridor to the study.
The rector was standing before the marble fireplace, his hands clasped loosely behind him. Like Damien, he wore a black tailcoat and black knee breeches denoting his clerical office. He turned at the sound of the door. He wore no smile as he habitually did.
“Good evening, Damien. I trust I am not disturbing you at this hour.”
Damien advanced into the room. “Not at all. You are always welcome here, whatever the hour.”
The rector inclined his head to acknowledge the remark.
Damien indicated the upholstered armchair before the fireplace. “Please, have a seat. I have asked Betsy to bring us some tea.”
“Thank you, but I believe I prefer to stand while I say what I have come to say.”
Damien inclined his head in turn. The rector’s tone was the solemn one he used when delivering an admonishing sermon.
Neither said anything for a few moments. Damien remained standing beside the other armchair.
“As you know, your conduct with the fugitive Quinn disappointed me deeply.” A profound sigh issued from his chest. “Deeply.”
The weight of the rector’s words pulled Damien down anew. Ever since he’d had to go against Doyle’s counsel, he’d felt the guilt of disobeying the one who’d guided and mentored him since he was an impressionable youth. “Yes,” he replied, bowing his head. There was nothing he could say to alter what he had done or change the rector’s opinion of his conduct. They both knew that Damien would not do anything differently if he had to do it over again.
With another sigh, the rector continued. “Since you were a lad, an unschooled boy laboring in his father’s shop, I saw great promise in you. It was I who recommended you to your patron, Lord Marlborough, who in turn undertook to pay for your schooling.”
The rector walked to the bow window overlooking the street, his slim hands still clasped behind him. “It was I who saw the makings of a cleric in you. I sensed a passion for the things of the Lord in your young bosom. I envisioned a great man of God preaching from the pulpit of one of our finest churches. This chapel was but the commencement. You could have aspired to my living one day, and who knows, even a bishopric—” He waved a pale hand in the air as he turned to regard Damien with something like contempt in his fine features.
He began his slow pace again, stopping at Damien’s desk and picking up a small porcelain vase a parishioner had given him. “I have prepared a full report to the Bishop of London detailing your conduct in this unfortunate affair of Quinn’s.”
Despite his having expected no less, the news hit him like a physical blow. “I have absolved neither you nor Florence. Your conduct has been, suffice it to say, not that which behooves a member of the clergy of the Church of England or his sister.”
The rector looked at Damien from beneath his dark eyebrows, which contrasted with his prematurely gray hair. “I have recommended disciplinary action for you.”
Damien swallowed, not having expected that from the man who’d been his closest friend and advisor over the past decade of his life. He stared down at his loosely intertwined fingers. “It is no more than I deserve.”
“I am glad you at least can recognize that.”
Damien raised his eyes to meet the rector’s once again. “I am not ashamed of my conduct, but I do recognize that I broke the law in harboring a fugitive.”
The man’s forehead furrowed at Damien’s words. “You most certainly did.” When Damien made no reply, the rector took another few seconds as if to compose himself before continuing. “It will undoubtedly take some weeks before I receive a reply from the bishop’s office. Due process must be served. I am sure after reading my report the bishop will wish to make his own inquiry.
“Neither of us shall know for some time, therefore, what action will be taken.” He drew himself up. “I would caution and admonish you in the meantime to lead an exemplary life. This marriage ceremony you performed for Florence and that criminal—” his thin lips curled in disdain as he spoke “—will do you no credit in this affair. I suggest you consider your conduct and that of your office very carefully in the coming weeks.
“Apropos of that, I have heard disturbing reports of late of the evangelical tinge to your sermons.” His dark eyes narrowed. “I have warned you too lightly in the past, it seems, that you are a minister of the Church of England. You are not a dissenting preacher, shouting to the masses in a cornfield.”
Before Damien could formulate any sort of reply, he heard the front bell ring again. Both men turned to the door at the sudden interruption. This time Damien was close enough to the front of the house to hear sounds of distress—a woman’s voice. Damien took a step toward the door before stopping, his glance returning to the rector.
“You seem to have a situation you must attend to.” He gave a nod of dismissal. “You may see to it. I shall await y
our return.”
Before he could reach the door, Betsy knocked and opened it a crack without waiting for permission. She glanced at the rector, then back to Damien. “If you please, sir, can you come a moment—”
In a few steps Damien reached the door of the study. As soon as he looked toward the front entry, he stopped. Miss Phillips stood there. Relief flooded her eyes at the sight of him, and she took a few steps toward him before her pace faltered, as if unsure.
He quickly closed the door behind him and hurried to her, stopping himself before he grasped her hands. “Miss Phillips, what is it?” Wild thoughts raced through his mind. Somehow, the Lord had heard his plea and would use him to save her.
She was breathing heavily as if she’d run a distance. The hood of her dark satin cloak was thrown back. He’d never seen her look more elegant. Her hair was gathered atop her head amidst a crown of pale pink roses with a profusion of curls framing her face.
“Reverend Hathaway, please help me! I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
This time he couldn’t refrain from taking both her hands in his. “It’s all right. You were right to come here.”
Her eyes shone as they looked into his, and he felt he would do anything for her. “Tell me, what has happened?”
“I need your help!” Tracks of tears dampened her cheeks. Before she could say anything more, the two heard the sound of carriage wheels from the street. “He’s followed me here—”
“Who?” Indignation filled him at the thought of Stokes coming after her. He would not permit that man to touch her!
Her hands squeezed his as her eyes implored him. “Please help me.”
Without thinking, he put his arm around her slim frame to sustain her. “You have nothing to fear.”
She jumped at the sound of a shout from the street. The next second a pounding on the door reverberated through the hallway. Damien braced himself and gave a nod to Betsy to answer it. He felt Miss Phillips trembling within his arms. “Please, he’ll hurt me, he is so angry—”
“No one will hurt you as long as you are under my roof, Miss Phillips,” he promised her, his tone resolute.
Miss Phillips cowered against him at the sight of the man framed in the doorway. Damien tightened his hold on her shoulder.
It was not her fiancé. The gentleman standing there was perhaps around the same age as Reverend Doyle. This man’s hair was still a golden blond. His features were patrician, well formed and strong. He was dressed in evening clothes and carried an ebony walking stick with a heavy gold knob, which must have been what they’d heard banging against the door panels.
“Lindsay, you will disengage yourself from that—” the man’s haughty gaze swept down the length of Damien, landing on his wooden leg “—clergyman. Return home with me this instant. Your guests await you.” He never raised his voice, his tone sounding almost bored. Yet his eyes fixed on his daughter, as if by force of will alone he would compel her to obey him.
At the realization that the gentleman was her father, Damien began to remove his arm from Miss Phillips’s shoulder, but she clung to him. “I cannot, Papa.” Although her voice faltered at the beginning, by the end, there was a firmness so unlike her that Damien was convinced it was born of desperation.
“You cannot or will not?”
“I cannot.”
Her father swung his cane back and forth as he surveyed the hallway. “So, this is where you have been sneaking off to.”
Miss Phillips straightened. “Papa, this is Reverend Hathaway. His home is where I have been coming with Beatrice to study the Bible.”
Instead of acknowledging the introduction, Mr. Phillips examined the head of his walking stick. “And has this man taught you to defy your parent and bring reproach on yourself, your family, and not least on an honorable gentleman—” he stressed the word, his glance flicking to Damien before returning to his daughter “—for the sake of a man who calls himself an officer of the church?”
“No, Papa, of course not.” As if her outrage gave her courage, she left Damien’s supporting arm and faced her father. “I came here because I had nowhere else to go. I told you, Papa, I could not—cannot—attend your ball tonight. I cannot—” her voice broke, and she looked down “—go through with a betrothal with Mr. Stokes. I am…sorry, Papa, truly sorry to be a disappointment to you, but I cannot.”
The door behind Damien clicked open, and Reverend Doyle entered the corridor. Damien turned, desperately thinking of how he could protect Miss Phillips from further censure.
“I heard a commotion—” The rector looked past Damien and, at the sight of father and daughter, he broke off. “Mr. Phillips, what is the trouble?”
“Reverend Doyle!” Relief filled Mr. Phillips’s voice. “Perhaps you can shed some light on a most vexing situation I find myself in.”
The rector looked from Mr. Phillips to his daughter, one dark eyebrow raised. “Miss Phillips, this is indeed a surprise. What brings you to the parsonage this evening?”
She looked like a fox ringed about with hounds as she stood mute, her gaze darting from one man to the other. Damien’s heart went out to her, and he wished he could offer a ready explanation. Before he could speak, steps sounded on the stairs above Damien. “Damien, what is going on here?” Florence’s footfalls were followed by Jonah’s heavier tread.
“Nothing to alarm yourself about,” he answered quietly, finding his wits at last. He strode to the front door and shut it firmly behind Mr. Phillips. Although their street was quiet at this time of night, they didn’t need any more witnesses than they already had in the corridor. “Miss Phillips has merely come seeking my assistance, and I am happy to be of service to her in any way I can.” He ended his words with a smile in her direction, striving to reassure her.
Florence slowed as she reached the bottom step. She gave a brief nod to the rector before turning to Miss Phillips and her father. “Good evening, Miss Phillips, how nice to see you this evening. I don’t believe we have met your father.”
“I’m sorry.” Miss Phillips curtsied to Florence. “I didn’t mean to call so late and without prior notice.”
Florence waved aside her apology. “Nonsense, you know you may call upon us anytime. Pray come in, let me take your wrap.”
Mr. Phillips replied before she had a chance to react. “That won’t be necessary. My daughter is returning with me. She is due at her house for the grand ball given in her honor this evening. Even now, our guests must be wondering where their hosts are.”
Florence gave him her attention. “I see.” Even his sister seemed at a loss for what to do.
Reverend Doyle turned to Miss Phillips. “Come, my dear, your father is waiting.” He nodded to Damien. “I think my business with you is finished for the moment. I can see myself out with the Phillipses.”
“I cannot accompany you.” Miss Phillips’s voice sounded amazingly resolute. She returned to her place beside Damien.
Her father drew himself up. “Lindsay, I will only say this once more. You will return with me at once.”
“I cannot return with you, Papa.” She squared her shoulders, her expression firm despite the tears on her cheeks. “I have promised myself to Reverend Hathaway.”
Chapter Nine
Lindsay clenched her fists within her skirts and fought the trembling threatening to overtake her whole body. A shocked chorus of exclamations surrounded her. No one was more surprised than she at the words she’d uttered.
Her eyes sought Reverend Hathaway’s as silence descended.
Dear God, she pleaded inwardly, please don’t let him abandon me in my hour of need. With a wave of relief, she read no censure in the reverend’s blue eyes. Only by a slight drawing together of his eyebrows did he express a question, as if silently trying to communicate with her. All she could do was respond in kind. Please help me! Please understand I must do this. I see no other way.
“What is the meaning of this f
oolishness, Lindsay?”
Her father’s voice shattered the silence and Lindsay lifted her chin to face him. She felt stronger already, trusting the curate would stand beside her no matter what. “I have promised myself to Reverend Hathaway.” Doubt and fear quickly replaced her fledgling confidence at the stern look in her father’s eyes, but she couldn’t back down now.
With each passing hour, she’d realized she could not go through with the betrothal to Mr. Stokes. It wasn’t until seeing the care in the reverend’s eyes and feeling his strong arms around her that she’d realized where her hope lay.
She didn’t know why she’d made such an outlandish claim. All she knew now was that it felt right to come to the reverend.
As she feared, her father turned on Reverend Hathaway. “What nonsense is this? I should have you thrashed for such impertinence.”
Reverend Hathaway came to stand beside her. “It is as your daughter has said,” he responded quietly.
Relief swept through her with such intensity she felt her knees would buckle. As if understanding this, Reverend Hathaway’s arm came up once again to sustain her. He would not abandon her.
Her father responded with a dry bark of a laugh. “Who are you to stand in the same room with my daughter?” His look of scorn swept the length of the reverend. “Before you are so quick to steal my daughter, let me inform you, she is not of age, and as such, penniless.”
“I neither desire nor expect anything that is yours.”
“I will not have some maimed, fortune-hunting curate—” he spat out the words “—come between my daughter and her future husband, a gentleman of her own station and wealth.” With a last sniff of dismissal, he turned his attention back to Lindsay. “You will return with me this instant and behave like the daughter I have brought you up to be, worthy of the name Phillips.”
“I told you, Papa, I am promised to Reverend Hathaway.”
“You are not in your right mind. Now, you will obey me or you will be forced to suffer the consequences.” Without a word, he turned on his heel and headed to the door.
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