With a sigh, she turned away from her mirror and began her nightly struggle to get undressed. She was without her personal maid and her clothes were fancier than the simple schoolgirl outfits allowed at the academy, where the girls helped one another undress.
In her nightgown, she sat down to brush out her hair. Her strokes slowed, once again thinking of her new husband. How bold she’d felt, her heart hammering in her chest, when she’d gone to kiss him good-night. He had not responded, neither pushing her away nor drawing her closer. Had she done the right thing? She’d had to thank him…. She held her silver-backed brush in her hand, staring unseeing at her reflection, remembering only the feel of his cheek against her lips, the soft scent both soapy and masculine, its texture smooth and rough at the same time, like a fine emery board. So different from her own, she thought as she brought her fingertips to her cheek.
With a deep sigh, she resumed brushing her hair. Tomorrow, she would begin her new life in earnest. She would face the entire congregation as Mrs. Damien Hathaway for the first time. She would be charming and friendly and win their approval as their curate’s wife.
She would “study to show herself approved” as the word said, meekly learning everything Florence had to teach her. She would make herself indispensible to Damien so he would never want to send her back to her father—never.
By the time the receiving line had thinned out, Lindsay didn’t know if she could keep her smile fixed in place. Although Damien stood by her side at the entrance to the small church, and his congregation greeted him cordially enough, many eyed her with less than friendly looks. She detected curiosity and judgment and some outright coldness, but few had greeted her with genuine friendliness.
“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Hayward,” Damien said to the last couple. “So nice to see you this morning. May I present my wife, Lindsay Hathaway?”
The middle-aged couple inclined their heads to her before turning back to Damien and engaging him in conversation for a few moments.
When the last parishioner had left, Damien said to her with a smile, “How are you doing after your first Sunday?”
She returned his smile, determined by neither look nor gesture to indicate that anyone had made her feel less than welcome. “Fine.”
“Let me have a word with the church warden a moment. If you’d like to walk back with Florence, please do so. Or, if you’d care to wait for me, I shall be only a moment.”
She quickly looked around for her sister-in-law. Thankfully, she was already outside with her husband. “I’ll wait for you, if that’s all right.”
He merely nodded and reentered the sanctuary.
Lindsay breathed deeply, feeling her first and perhaps most difficult test, that of facing Damien’s congregation, was behind her. Of course people would eye her suspiciously. Florence had warned her that they had been taken completely by surprise at Damien’s announcement of his impending marriage.
“They’ll think Damien has behaved less than honorably toward you. A hasty marriage is little better than an elopement at Gretna Green,” Florence had said with a shake of her head.
It disturbed Lindsay greatly that they could suspect anything untoward of Damien, but she could say nothing. It was all her fault, and anything she said would only make things worse. She could only hope time faded the details of their marriage.
Damien rejoined her with a smile and offered his arm. He no longer wore the ankle-length cassock and surplice but breeches and tailcoat. “Shall we return to the parsonage?”
She smiled in answer and placed her hand in the crook of his arm. He led her around the churchyard to the rear and across a field. The day was overcast but warm and she felt her spirits lift. “I enjoyed the message.”
“Did you? I’m glad.” He sounded genuinely pleased. “You didn’t think it too complex?”
“No, not at all.” They discussed it some until arriving at the back entrance of the parsonage.
Florence was in the kitchen when they entered. Delicious aromas wafted over from the range. “Ah, there you are. If you care to take off your wraps, Mrs. Hathaway, I will show you what needs to be done here.”
“Yes, of course.” She always felt disapproval in Florence’s tone. She unbuttoned her spencer and Damien helped her off with it.
“I’ll hang it up in the front entry if you’d like.”
“Yes, thank you.” She handed him her bonnet, as well. “Let me fetch my apron,” she told her sister-in-law. She’d never in her life worked in a kitchen before and still found it hard to adjust to the notion that a lady should do so.
After washing up in the scullery, she did as Florence instructed her, making sure everything in the dining room was laid out properly. Betsy bobbed a curtsy to her in passing. “I’ll just bring in the dishes, ma’am.”
“Yes, of course.”
Dinner proceeded smoothly, mainly due to the presence of Jonah. He kept Lindsay smiling, even laughing, with his running commentary on the food, the morning’s service, anything and everything. His shrewd green eyes didn’t seem to miss anything.
“I say, Florence, why this formality between you and Mrs. Hathaway? You’re sisters now. Shouldn’t you be calling each other by your Christian names?”
Lindsay felt herself blush as she looked over at Damien’s sister. She still didn’t feel quite right in having taken her sister-in-law’s place at the table.
Florence turned to her husband across the table. “I shall be glad to, if Mrs. Hathaway gives me leave.”
“You mean you’re waiting for her permission?” Jonah raised his eyebrows in mock surprise to Lindsay. “Well, then, what do you say, Mrs. Hathaway? Do your new brother and sister have leave to call you Lindsay?”
“Of course you do. I didn’t realize you were waiting for my permission.” Again, she felt as if she’d been in the wrong.
“Thank you, Lindsay,” Jonah said immediately. “I am Jonah, as you are probably aware of. A notorious name it is, to be sure.”
She laughed. “Notoriety? Perhaps we have a little of that in common.”
Jonah joined in her laughter although she noticed the other two did not. Her laughter died on her lips. How could she laugh at having ruined Damien’s reputation?
“I’m having a tea this afternoon for some of the ladies at church to get to know you…Lindsay.” Florence paused a fraction before uttering her name. “I hope you don’t mind my taking the liberty. It’s to introduce you before I depart.”
“Of course not, thank you, Florence.” Why did she feel so awkward addressing her by her first name? She was surely not that much older than Lindsay and certainly much younger than Beatrice, whom she hadn’t had any trouble calling by her first name. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
“Wonderful idea, Flo,” Damien said in an enthusiastic tone before looking at Lindsay with a slight lift of his eyebrow as if to ask her approval. She gave a barely perceptible nod and smile to reassure him that everything was fine, though her appetite had suddenly left her.
The afternoon began well enough. A dozen ladies at least, of all ages, began arriving by mid-afternoon. Both Damien and Jonah had disappeared, leaving the “ladies to their devices,” as Jonah had put it before donning his coat and hat and exiting with Damien.
Now, Lindsay sat with her hands clasped in her lap as Florence introduced each lady.
“Thank you for coming,” she said with a smile to a lady and her daughter, who appeared about Lindsay’s age. Lindsay gave her an encouraging smile, but the girl and her mother seemed to look right through Lindsay, holding themselves very straight as if by their proximity to Lindsay they might contract something undesirable.
“Florence, how are we to do without you?” the older woman said, turning away from Lindsay.
The young lady was a pretty brunette named Charlotte Cooper. “Would you care to have a seat?” Lindsay asked her.
The girl looked down her nose at the chair Lindsay indicated. Finally, when Lindsay thought she’d
flounce away, she sat, her body slightly turned away from Lindsay.
The other ladies were talking together in little groups of twos and threes about the room. Florence had decided to oversee the pouring of the tea so that Lindsay would be free to converse with her guests. Now she sat with her hands knotted together, wishing she had the tea service to occupy herself with—and hide behind.
“Have you lived here all your life?” Lindsay asked Miss Cooper. She was dressed quite fashionably for the small parish, which boasted more farmers than ladies of quality.
“All my life,” she said with a sniff, not deigning to turn around when she spoke. “I’ve known Reverend Hathaway since he came here. That was six years ago. He’d just taken orders.”
“I see.” Why was she telling her this? It made her sound as if she had some special relationship to Damien.
“How long have you known Reverend Hathaway?” Her amber gaze eyed Lindsay as she flung the question at her.
“I, uh, not as long as you,” she said with a little nervous laugh.
“Mama and I—indeed, the entire congregation—were shocked when he announced he was to be married. We had no idea—no inkling—he even planned on such a step.” She sniffed again, jutting her pert nose in the air. “It is not something to be entered into lightly by a clergyman. A congregation has a right to meet their curate’s future wife. What if she doesn’t suit? Why, we all thought he would choose from among his own congregation.”
Lindsay had a sudden understanding. Had Miss Cooper wished to marry Damien? She looked more closely at the young lady. Her lavender sprigged muslin and matching color spencer were very fetching against her dark curls. “I shall try my best to be a good curate’s wife.”
Miss Cooper scrunched up her nose. “I don’t believe anything you do will erase the taint of a rushed marriage. Why weren’t you married by Reverend Doyle here at the chapel? He is Reverend Hathaway’s superior and has always been involved in all the happenings at the parish.”
Lindsay swallowed, unsure how to answer. “We…that is…the rector was unavailable on such short notice.”
Miss Cooper suddenly stood. “If you will excuse me, Mrs. Hathaway, I find I cannot sit here any longer. I came to satisfy myself about the disturbing particulars of this marriage, but you have said nothing to put my fears to rest.”
Before Lindsay could form a reply, Miss Cooper turned on her heel, her skirts swirling around her ankles, and walked swiftly away. Several ladies looked at her, a silence descending on the room. Lindsay felt her face grow warm.
Miss Cooper went to stand beside another young lady, and the two put their heads together, whispering. Lindsay swallowed, her gaze traveling slowly around the room. The coldness emanating from the women lashed her like a stiff north wind.
Florence rose. Like a queen, she swept from behind her tea table and brought a cup to Lindsay herself. “Here you go, my dear.”
With shaking hands Lindsay took it from her. Its rattle was the only sound in the room.
Florence turned to the ladies. “I hope you all welcome Lindsay to this parish and make her feel at home. She is Reverend Hathaway’s wife and needs all our support and encouragement. She is very young, just out of school. I’m sure she will make my brother a fine wife and a superior addition to this parish.” Her stern eye roved over the gathering. “For my sake and Reverend Hathaway’s, please take the time to get acquainted with her.”
A ripple of murmurs went around the room. Lindsay stared into the cinnamon hue of her tea.
“Welcome to our parish, Mrs. Hathaway,” a soft voice said above her. She raised her head to find an older woman she’d been introduced to earlier standing before her with a smile.
“Th-thank you,” she whispered, trying to smile.
“I am Mrs. Moore.” She waved a hand. “I don’t expect you to remember that until we’ve had a chance to get better acquainted. May I?” She indicated the seat vacated by Miss Cooper.
“Of course.”
She settled her ample form on the seat. “I’ve known Damien Hathaway since he was a young tyke, and I’ve prayed for many years for a nice young woman for him to wed.” She smiled complacently. “It’s wonderful to see my prayers answered at last.”
“I hope I can be a good wife to him.”
“I’m sure you shall, my dear.” Her gaze swept the room. “It isn’t easy to face so many new people at once.”
The older lady stayed at her side for the remainder of the tea, engaging her in pleasant conversation revolving around the parish. Only one or two other ladies joined her at intervals. The rest remained conversing among themselves or with Florence.
Finally, it was over, and Lindsay excused herself as soon as possible to go to her room. Her nerves felt strung out, and all she wanted to do was shut herself away somewhere.
Had rumors of her accusations against Damien reached his congregation? Was she to be ostracized because of her hasty marriage? She buried her face in her pillow, feeling ashamed once more over her conduct. Would she ever be able to erase it?
The weeks that followed improved little for her. Although grateful for how Florence had stood up for her at that first tea, Lindsay soon found her sister-in-law’s opinion hadn’t changed much in private. Several times, she’d heard Florence suck in her breath in impatience at Lindsay’s inability to carry out a task she was showing her. Keeping the household accounts was the worst. It seemed every penny spent—from the Nicholses’ salary to what a length of ribbon cost—was noted in the ledger. Lindsay’s pages were all smudged and crossed through with mistakes she’d made. Florence kept reminding her to enter in any expenses she’d made, and Lindsay kept forgetting.
“A curate’s income is not great, and it is imperative you know where every penny goes, so that you may see where to economize if you are short at the end of the quarter.”
“Yes, Florence,” she replied in her meekest tone, thinking of the pretty bonnet she’d spied in the shop window on her last outing. She supposed it was out of the question to even think of purchasing it. Perhaps even purchasing the ribbons to dress up her old bonnet was beyond their means.
She’d never seen so many sheets, stockings, shirts and other linens that needed mending. Gone was the pleasure of embroidering pretty colored flowers and leaf borders at the edge of a handkerchief or cuff. Black or white thread was all she needed these days.
The one or two times she’d asked Damien if she could accompany him on his rounds had ended in gentle refusals. It was either too dangerous or too dirty. She was only able to accompany Florence on her visits to women in the immediate vicinity, and most of those visits were excruciatingly tedious since she had to sit mute in the face of the women’s continued hostility to her.
When not mending, many afternoons were spent singing and painting. There was no pianoforte to practice on, but at least she could sing. If there was enough sunlight coming through the western window she would sit at her easel and paint her still life watercolors. This afternoon she’d picked a posy of anemones and poppies, and put them in a pretty old vase of blue and white china.
She hardly saw Damien until suppertime and the few hours at dinner when Jonah and Florence would accompany them. Rarely, though, did she see him alone. She wondered if she had displeased him in something, but he was always polite and solicitous, asking about her day. No, it was more likely he was regretting having been forced to marry her.
She sighed. How different from how she’d imagined life would be at the parsonage with him. Close conversations and Bible studies together, helping him in his work…raising his children. This last thought brought a warmth to her cheeks and a deeper sadness at the realization of what would never be.
She shook aside her melancholy and dipped her brush into the red paint, dabbing it onto her canvas.
When the sun descended behind an oak tree, she knew it was time to stop. She sighed again and sat back, staring a moment at the picture. “Pretty pictures,” as Florence had said one day in a dr
y tone.
She set her brush in the glass of water and wiped her fingers on a rag. Maybe a cup of tea would help. Glancing at the mantel clock, she saw it would be a couple of hours yet before Damien returned. She knew he was at the orphanage at Marylebone this afternoon and he usually didn’t come home until just before supper on those days.
She made her way to the kitchen. Hearing Jonah’s low tone, she paused, not wanting to interrupt his conversation with his wife.
“You say the bishop has written to him?”
“Yes,” came Florence’s voice, worry evident in the one syllable. “Damien didn’t even want to tell me. The bishop wants to review Damien’s conduct over the last few months, including giving you refuge here at the parsonage and his recent wedding.”
Lindsay’s heart began to pound and she found she couldn’t move from the doorway.
“That hasty marriage in no way helps his position now. In fact, it weakens it desperately. He might have been able to defend himself in his earlier conduct since the prince regent himself issued you a pardon. But to marry quite suddenly, and to have to disclose that the bride’s father has cut her off—”
Lindsay’s fist went up to her mouth as if to silence her very breathing.
“Oh, why did she have to embroil him in this scheme? I can understand her wanting to defy her father, but to latch onto our poor Damien…”
“There, there, love,” Jonah said. “I think she’s the best thing to happen to Damien. ’Tis unfortunate her father was so opposed to the marriage and so set on the one with that loathsome gent.”
“I’ve tried my best to prepare her for her life here, but I think she’s as ill prepared as the day she came to us. The women still haven’t warmed to her. I think too many were disappointed at Damien’s sudden marriage. It was almost as a repudiation of all the fine young women in our own congregation. Like a slap in the face to their mothers.” Florence sighed.
A Bride of Honor Page 15
