A Bride of Honor

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Florence shook her head at him. “You, Jonah, are a hopeless romantic. What is to be done when rumors of this come to the congregation and there is talk about things Damien is wholly innocent of?” When her husband said nothing but continued to regard Damien with a speculative look in his eye, Florence turned to him. “If I can talk no sense into either of you, what is left to do? Calmly accept your ruin? After all the years of sacrifice to see you where you are today?”

  Damien looked down at the bowl of porridge he’d hardly touched, marshaling his thoughts. The first hurdle would be presenting his decision to his sister. He needed her on his side. Folding his hands together on the edge of the tablecloth and clearing his throat, he looked across at her. “The first thing to be done is to marry Miss Phillips as soon as possible.” At the look of disbelief in her gray eyes, he continued quickly. “I will try to obtain a special license directly from the archbishop this morning. Obviously, after last night, the rector would be unwilling to perform the ceremony, but I believe I can ask a colleague of mine who lives in—”

  “Damien, you can’t be serious—”

  “Why shouldn’t the lad be serious?” Jonah cut in. “You’ve been telling me all along he should wed. Well, now’s the perfect opportunity.”

  She turned upon her husband. “You cannot encourage Damien in this madness! Goodness, Jonah, don’t you understand the magnitude of what that girl has done to him with her careless words last evening?” She turned back to Damien before Jonah had a chance to respond. “Even if you did marry her, it will not erase the accusations. People will believe you actually stole a young maiden’s virtue!” She shook her head, as if too distraught to utter another word.

  “I understand what you are saying, Flo, and I agree. However, after careful thought and much prayer, I have concluded that for the immediate future, there is no recourse but to marry Miss Phillips. Her father will not take her back unless she agrees to wed Mr. Stokes. And that is clearly out of the question. In the meantime, she has nowhere to go. She has no one but her cousin, who is completely beholden to her father. Even if she had family to turn to now, she is ruined. No, she must marry.”

  He held up his hand when he saw Florence about to speak. “Before you say anything, hear me out.” He looked down at his place setting, the next part more difficult to say than the previous. “When I say I will marry Miss Phillips at the soonest possible date, I mean I will marry her in name only.”

  A profound silence greeted his words. When he ventured to look up, he saw them both looking at him, dumbfounded. He cleared his throat, fighting embarrassment. “I will give Miss Phillips my name and protection, but I shall not touch her.” He felt his neck flush with color. “I cannot believe her father will cut her off forever. Someday when they are reconciled, I want to be able to release Miss Phillips from any connection to me so that she may return to her father in the same condition in which she came to us. When she is of age, free to marry someone of her own choosing, and of her own station, she will be able to return to her world and enjoy that which is rightfully hers.”

  Florence continued staring at him. Finally, drawing in a long breath, she said, “Regardless of how much you selflessly sacrifice for her sake, her name will still be ruined.”

  He bowed his head a fraction. “That may be true, but in time, memories will fade. Miss Phillips will be a wealthy young lady, with all the attributes of beauty and breeding you have seen for yourself. I am certain there will be a gentleman who will appreciate her for what she truly is and love her the way she deserves. I do not want to deprive her of that opportunity.”

  “Might you not be that man?”

  He regarded his brother-in-law for long seconds. Finally, he said, “No. My life would be no life for her. It would not be fair to require someone of her station and upbringing to share in my calling.”

  All was quiet for a moment.

  “And if she loves you, lad?” Jonah’s soft voice broke the stillness.

  Was that sympathy or pity in his brother-in-law’s eyes? Did it matter? No. He’d had long moments of dreaming about winning Miss Phillips’s love last night and had discarded such flights of fancy as hopeless wishes to be relegated to the deepest recesses of his heart, to be witnessed only by himself and God.

  “She is young and impressionable. If she came to me last night, it was because she was desperate and had no one else to turn to. Perhaps my role as Bible teacher has won her confidence. But I will not take advantage of that. Someday she will want to return to the world she belongs to.”

  Jonah said nothing more, sitting back in his chair with a sigh.

  “And what are we to tell Reverend Doyle? What will he say when he hears of your hasty marriage?” said Florence quietly.

  “Mayhap he’ll be pleased because Miss Phillips is a lady,” Jonah said with a shrug.

  “But not one he has chosen,” she immediately countered. “And one who has been disowned by her own father, a powerful man in his congregation.” She sighed. “It will only need that he bring this to the attention of the Bishop of London.”

  Damien acknowledged what she was saying. He’d thought it all through last night. “I’m willing to pay the price.”

  She raised a skeptical brow. “For her?”

  He could not answer directly. How to tell Florence that he would do anything Miss Phillips asked of him? That his heart had swelled with pride last night when she’d come to him, when she’d thought of him as her knight in shining armor? That she came to him penniless and he could offer her every material good he had. “It’s the right thing to do. The only thing to do.”

  Florence looked at him a moment. Then, reaching for her husband’s hand, she addressed Damien. “Very well, you know we stand behind you in whatever way you choose.”

  Jonah’s large hand wrapped around his wife’s and he nodded. “That you know, lad. Come what may, we’ll be behind you.”

  Damien’s throat tightened up and he barely managed a whispered thank-you.

  The next interview was perhaps equally difficult. He’d spent the rest of the morning in his workshop, tinkering with a French ormolu clock that needed cleaning. But his ear had been attuned to the slightest sound as he listened for Miss Phillips to come down.

  Around ten o’clock he heard his sister leave for the market. Through the back window, he observed Jonah making his way to the fields with Jacob. Betsy and Elizabeth came out a few moments later and began hanging out laundry. The day was clear but with a brisk breeze that whipped at the wet garments as they were pinned to the long lines. He could almost smell the fresh scent of windblown linens.

  He turned back to the clock escapement and carefully placed a drop of oil on a gear tooth. With a rag, he rubbed it over the rest of the teeth.

  The chimes of another clock on the shelf across the room had just rung eleven when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He set down his rag and made his way to the corridor.

  Miss Phillips stood hesitating at the foot of the stairs. At the sight of him, she started, her hand going to her throat, as if she hadn’t expected to see him there. “Good morning.”

  He smiled. She looked well rested though still pale. He recognized her gown as one of Florence’s. The flowers were gone from her hair and it was dressed simply, but she looked as beautiful as the finest porcelain figurine. “Good morning. I trust you slept well.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, I seem to have overslept. Has everyone breakfasted? I couldn’t get to sleep right away.”

  “I understand. We all had a bit of difficulty sleeping. Come, why don’t you breakfast now? I believe my sister has gone out, but I’ll tell Mrs. Nichols to fetch you some fresh tea. Would you care for some porridge or bread and butter?”

  “Anything would be fine.”

  When he’d shown her to the dining room and given Elizabeth instructions, he smiled at Miss Phillips. “Just fetch me from the workshop when you’ve breakfasted.” He gripped the back of a chair and looked down at the table. “I think
we should talk.”

  “Yes,” she said in a low tone.

  Once again, he waited in his workshop, this time more nervous than before. He gave up any attempt at work, his fingers incapable of grasping the minuscule screws and springs.

  Hardly a quarter of an hour had passed when he heard a soft knock on the door. “Come in.”

  “You wished to see me.”

  He rose and ushered her in. “Yes, I thought it might help if we talk a little about—” he could feel his cheeks redden “—what we plan to do.”

  “Of course.” She entered hesitantly, her eyes widening at the sight of all the clocks. Her glance came back to him, puzzled. “I didn’t know…you are a clockmaker?”

  “Mainly a repairer of clocks these days, when I have a few moments to spare. My father was a clockmaker,” he explained.

  She nodded. “I remember.”

  He stood, very aware of his wooden leg in the small space. “We can sit in the drawing room upstairs or in my study if you prefer.”

  “No, this is fine.” She looked around for a place to sit, and he hurried to bring the only other chair over to the table.

  She sat down primly, her slim hands folded on her lap. “What an interesting collection of clocks.” She studied the parts of one that he had laid out on his worktable.

  He smiled ruefully. “Studying their inner workings seems to help me puzzle out things I’m facing as curate.”

  She moistened her lips. “I see.”

  When she said nothing more, he turned away from the clock pieces and gave her his full attention. Suddenly, his palms felt sweaty and his collar too tight. Would she think him completely mad to suggest what he was going to suggest? But what other course was there? He cleared his throat. “I gave a lot of thought to your situation last night.”

  Her stricken eyes met his. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you. I’ve been thinking. I shall go back to my father this morning and confess the truth—”

  “No!” When she blinked at his sharp tone, he attempted to continue more calmly. “What I mean is…I don’t think that’s the best course for you to follow.”

  She twisted her hands together on her lap, clearly distraught. “What I did to you was unforgivable. My only excuse is that I was not thinking clearly. I can only hope what was said last night will go no further and that I can somehow make amends.” Her voice choked and he reached out a hand to her.

  “No more apologies. Please believe that I understand why you did what you did last night.” He cleared his throat, trying to keep from reaching out and comforting her the way he wished. “What I wanted to discuss with you is what I believe is the, ahem, best solution for the present.”

  She sat quietly, waiting for him to continue. He felt his face flush. Fixing his gaze on a small clock spring lying on the table, he said, “I believe we should marry as soon as possible.”

  He glanced at her. Instead of laughing at him, a look of relief seemed to pass over her features. “Yes.”

  He let out an inaudible breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The worst was over. He could face anything else.

  He hurried on. “We won’t really be married, I mean in the, ah, conventional sense.” Again, his neck felt too thick for his collar and his cheeks were hot.

  She blinked. “Not really married? I don’t understand.”

  He coughed. “I mean we shall be married. I shall apply for a special license, so we needn’t wait for the banns to be posted or hold the ceremony in our own parish. But,” he said, and swallowed, unable to look at her, “we shan’t be sharing a bedroom.”

  When she said nothing, he stole a glance at her. She frowned in puzzlement. “But all married people have separate bedrooms.”

  He realized in that moment how innocent she was. “Yes, er, that may be true of the families in your social sphere. But most married couples share a bed. What I mean to say is that, unlike what you told your father last evening, your virtue will remain intact while you remain under my protection. We will not…uh…be joined in the way God intended when he brought man and woman together in holy matrimony. There will be no children in our union.” He hurried on, wanting to get this subject over with as quickly as possible. “You will have your own room here at the parsonage and I wouldn’t expect you to do what a curate’s wife is expected to do. I mean in an official capacity, although the parishioners will, of course, believe we are truly married.”

  “I see.” She was no longer looking at him. “When I told Papa…when I involved you in this—my situation—I was ready to accept the consequences of my words. I’m willing to become your wife…fully.”

  His heart leaped—she could be his in every way he’d dreamed. Then it tumbled back down to grim reality. She didn’t realize what she would be giving up. “I…thank you. Your words mean a lot to me.” On an impulse he reached across to her and tenderly touched a lock of her hair. She looked up at him then and he read longing and fear. He smiled sadly. “But I am not willing to take advantage of your trust.”

  At the question in her eyes, he attempted to explain. “You are very young. You have your life ahead of you.” She began to shake her head and he stopped her with a motion of his hand. “You came to me out of desperation. I am here to help you in any way I can as your brother in our Lord Jesus Christ. I agree to be espoused to you in name only, to shelter and protect you as long as you need until such a time as you choose—or can—return to your own home.”

  At the renewed shaking of her head, he leaned back in his chair. “I know you don’t believe it now, but someday your father will realize what he has done. He will want you back.”

  “No.”

  The word came out stark and uncompromising. He continued, making his voice more resolute than he felt. “You are his only offspring, his only daughter. He will not have you throw your life away on being a mere curate’s wife. He will come to his senses and offer you your home once again.”

  “He may view it as throwing away my life, but I do not.”

  “Your father has behaved precipitously. I’m certain in time he will seek a reconciliation. When that happens, I want to be able to say to him truthfully that you can return to your world as pure and untouched as on the evening you sought refuge here. By having this marriage annulled you can resume your old life, and someday—” he pressed his lips together and looked away, finding the next words difficult “—marry a man of your own choosing.”

  It seemed as if she wanted to interrupt him but then she stopped, and he plowed on. “Someone you can love, and who will be the kind of man who is worthy of your love.”

  She bit her lower lip, a sheen appearing on her eyes, and his heart constricted, appalled that he would make her cry. Before he could know what to do, she rose and walked to the window.

  “You don’t know my father if you think he will seek a reconciliation.” Her voice sounded calm, and Damien wondered if he had imagined the tears.

  “He is very hurt and angry right now, I’ll allow. At the very least, pride will prevent him from coming to you. But given time, perhaps a few years, when you are of age, I am sure the two of you will want to mend this breach.”

  She touched the lacy undercurtain. “Do you really think so?” Her tone sounded skeptical.

  “Yes, by God’s grace.” He strove to infuse his words with encouragement. “When that happens, I will not have you yoked in an unequal union that may have long since grown burdensome to you, which you only entered into out of desperation because you had no other recourse.”

  Again she bit her lip, her fingers clutching the lace curtain, but she said nothing.

  Unable to stop himself, he stood and went to her. He reached out a hand, wanting to touch her, but stopped short, making a fist instead. “What is it? Have I said something to displease you?”

  “No,” she whispered, dropping the curtain and half turning from him. “It’s nothing. You are too good to me. Let us…hope you are right and that my father will be more
forgiving in a few years.”

  “You’ll see. He will accept you back in your own home. You will have reached your majority and will be free to choose a husband of your own—”

  Her large brown eyes turned to him, this time the sheen unmistakable. “Please, say no more, I beg of you.”

  How he wanted to take her in his arms. But he had no right. As he struggled with himself, she walked past him.

  Startled, he stepped back.

  She paused at the door. “If that is all, please excuse me.”

  He nodded his head. “Of course.”

  She bobbed a quick curtsy. “I will do whatever you think best. I await your further instructions.”

  Damien stared after the door, its quiet echo like a death knell in the cluttered workroom. Although it had cost him more than she could ever know to speak the words he had, he was not the only one in turmoil. Despite his best efforts to assist Miss Phillips, he could see that he had wounded her—deeply.

  Chapter Ten

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…”

  Lindsay had just heard those words at the marriage of the Quinns. And now, they were being spoken for her and Reverend Hathaway—Damien, she corrected herself. She still blushed remembering when he’d first asked her to call him by his given name, only a few days before the wedding. Everything had happened so quickly, she could scarcely believe she now stood at the altar with him. Her greatest fear had been that somehow her father would stop the wedding.

  She inhaled deeply, only now beginning to believe she would well and truly be Mrs. Damien Hathaway. She snuck a peek at her soon-to-be husband’s profile through her thin veil. He was staring straight ahead at the young curate performing the ceremony.

  Damien had introduced her to his former classmate and friend, but Lindsay couldn’t remember the clergyman’s name. So many times in the rush of the morning she had felt giddy with nerves. But Florence’s firm presence and Beatrice’s tender counsel had carried her through and now she stood, ready to repeat the solemn vows of love, honor and fidelity to the man standing so seriously beside her.