He returned her smile and she felt the happiness grow within her so she thought she’d burst with it. “I can’t wait to accompany you to the orphanage.”
His smile faded. “Don’t expect well-behaved children. They’re a rough lot by and large. They’ve had to be to survive.”
“Tell me about them,” she said softly.
And he did, and she listened, feeling she could for hours, feasting her eyes on him.
A little bird had landed on the grass close to them and Damien threw it a crumb. Soon, there were half a dozen sparrows hopping on the grass, picking up the crumbs as soon as they fell.
The two of them sat very still and Lindsay watched, fascinated, as a couple of the birds drew nearer and nearer until they were almost within touching distance of his hand. She never tired of watching his hands. They were so expressive, his fingers long and slim.
“I used to be quite good at this as a boy,” he said quietly. “I’d play out in the woods and fields all day in the summer.”
His patience was rewarded. Finally, the boldest of the little sparrows picked the crumb from the center of his palm, where it lay open on the ground.
His eyes met hers and he smiled, sitting back and brushing off his hands. “Jesus tells us we are of more value than many sparrows.”
She nodded, thinking of her father’s stuffed bird collection. How very different Damien’s interest in these birds was from her father’s in the dead species he collected and displayed.
All at once she experienced a yearning to get beyond her husband’s reserve and know the Damien he hid from the world. The yearning was so deep it left her breathless. Would he ever let her get beyond the man who was always gentle and good-tempered, caring for even the least in the Kingdom of God?
How she longed to be the one who helped him with whatever weakness, pain or fear he might experience. But would he always try to protect her from the more serious sides of his work, and keep her sheltered like the butterfly in her father’s glass case?
Chapter Thirteen
Damien looked up from the lesson he was giving to the group of twenty boys. At the far end of the sparsely furnished orphanage room, Lindsay sat on a low stool, a ring of young boys around her on the floor, their small, young faces rapt as she read to them from a storybook. A toddler of two sat on her knee, two of his fingers stuffed into his mouth.
Warmed by the sight, Damien turned his attention back to the older pupils, who ranged in age from five to fifteen. “Alfred, please read this sentence to me and fill in the verb.”
The twelve-year-old boy with the lanky, pale hair and sad gray eyes squinted at the words on the chalkboard. “Y-yester-day wh-en I c-came home late, my m-mother—” The boy paused and scrunched up his face further at the blank chalk line in the sentence.
The silence stretched out and the boy was no nearer the answer. Damien’s glance roamed over the other boys. “Anyone care to answer?”
Two arms shot up. He chose the younger boy.
“Had already laid supper on the table,” the boy finished proudly.
Damien turned back to the first boy. “Do you see why the missing word should be ‘had’?”
Alfred pushed out his lower lip, still puzzling it out. “’Cause it was suppertime?”
The other boys roared with laughter, causing Lindsay to look up. Damien reassured her with a smile. “Yes, that is so. But the boy is late for supper and his mother has not waited for him. Thus, he must use the auxiliary verb ‘had’ to show that supper is already on the table. Do you see that?”
“Alfred’s too slow to see anything,” a large fourteen-year-old said from the rear row of desks.
Damien eyed him. “Since you are so much quicker than he is, Joel, why don’t you do the figures for me in your mathematics text when the rest of us go outside to play in the yard?”
The boy slammed his book on the desk as the others laughed.
“All right, next exercise.” Damien turned to the blackboard. “Michael, can you read the sentence, please?”
“When I arrived at school, the bell…”
Later, in the large stone courtyard of the orphanage, the boys chased after a ball while the younger ones clung to Lindsay’s skirts. Damien heard her tinkling laughter as she held two by the hand and instructed the others to form a circle.
He watched her as he kept half an eye on the older boys. He had never expected things to go so well. Since yesterday’s picnic, he’d been living in a sort of cloud. He caught himself every few minutes remembering something, from the way Lindsay had looked sitting across from him to the feel of her slim waist when he’d lifted her out of the boat. For a few hours, he had almost believed they were courting and had a future together. He shook aside the notion as he did each time it formed in his mind. He must never forget he was only her protector for a time. As soon as her father showed any signs of softening, Damien would let her go.
Even this morning, he’d hesitated when introducing Lindsay as his wife to the boys. The more the world knew of her as Mrs. Hathaway, the more difficult it would be for her to return to her father. But she’d been so happy to come and looked at him so appealingly that he couldn’t deny her request. He grinned, remembering the boys’ reaction. At first the oldest ones had whistled and told her how pretty she was, but her response had been so ladylike, they’d soon been shamed into behaving like gentlemen.
“Reverend Hathaway, catch!” His attention swung back to the game, and he reached up just in time to catch the ball.
After the recess, they spent a few hours in the girls’ half of the orphanage, giving reading and arithmetic lessons. Lindsay had brought some of her drawing materials and enthralled a group with a lesson.
In the late afternoon, they left the austere building at the eastern edge of Marylebone. Damien glanced up and down the street seeing no hacks available. Usually, he walked the few miles home, but with the day advancing and Lindsay with him, he didn’t think it advisable.
“We shall probably have to head down to Oxford Street to find a coach,” he said in an apologetic tone.
“I don’t mind walking.”
She was always willing to do anything he proposed, never complaining. He marveled at her spirit. “We shall need some new storybooks soon. The children love to be read to,” she said.
“Perhaps some of the women in the parish would be willing to donate a few of their children’s old books.”
“Perhaps.”
He glanced over at her. “Are any of the ladies thawing yet?”
She didn’t look at him. “Mrs. Moore is a dear. She has tried to enlist some of the other ladies, but it seems as if every week, there is some new rumor about me. It’s almost as if someone is making mischief, but then I tell myself I am imagining things.” She shook her head. “In time, they should become accustomed to me.”
They said no more for a bit. He wished he knew how to help her, but the more he tried to stand by Lindsay, making it clear to the congregation that she was his wife, the less it seemed to help. He wished he knew who the mischief maker was, if in fact one existed at all.
“Your drawing lesson was a marvelous idea—” His sentence was cut short by a dirty-looking young man who jumped out of an alley and stood in front of them, brandishing a cudgel.
“Who’ve we got ’ere?” he drawled, planting his feet apart and slapping the stout weapon against his dirty palm.
A group of youths emerged behind him. Damien took hold of Lindsay’s arm, his eyes scanning the group. They were obviously a gang, one of the many that inhabited the neighborhood around the workhouse and orphanage.
Damien gauged their intent. The oldest, a heavyset youth as tall as Damien, looked about eighteen years of age. The youngest, a dirty urchin, appeared a sturdy twelve. In all, there were five of them.
Damien attempted to walk forward, keeping his tone steady. “Kindly let us pass.”
The leader took a step directly in front of Damien and lifted his cudgel to his chest, ef
fectively blocking Damien’s way. He turned to the others, mimicking Damien’s accent. “‘Kindly let us pass.’ D’ye hear, lads, we’ve got a toff.”
The next instant the youths circled around them. Damien drew Lindsay near and gripped his walking stick.
“And look at ’is lady. Wot a fine-looking dame she is.” The youngest one flicked one of Lindsay’s curls and she flinched.
Damien shielded her with his body, feeling a sudden rage rise within him. “Leave the lady alone.” His voice shook with anger but he feared that he wouldn’t be able to defend her.
Raucous laughter greeted his words. “Jealous, are you? What if I touch ’er like this?” The leader shoved Damien aside and rubbed the back of his hand against her cheek.
“Please!” she implored him.
Damien saw red. With a feral sound, he lunged at the young man, tackling him and pinning him to the ground.
The next moment someone wrested him off the gang leader and held his arms pinioned behind him. “Run, Lindsay!” he yelled before another youth punched him in the gut and he doubled over, the wind knocked out of him.
The leader righted himself and swung his cudgel at Damien. “Why, you—”
Lindsay screamed. Damien felt the blow like a sledgehammer to his arm and he fell to the ground. Lindsay rushed to him, kneeling beside him. “Are you all right? Damien! Say something.”
Pain shot through this arm. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to push himself up.
“Wot’s the cripple going to do?” The leader swung his cudgel in front of Damien’s face before kicking him in the gut. Damien doubled over on the ground at the impact.
Lindsay scrambled to her feet. “How dare you attack a parson! You cowards!”
“Lindsay, don’t,” he tried to say through the haze of pain flooding him. He had to stand. He had to protect her.
While their attention was on Lindsay, he managed to get to his knees.
“You—you overgrown knaves!” Lindsay shouted at them, grabbing Damien’s walking stick and swinging it at them. This caused them to jump back. They formed a circle around her and began to jeer.
He had to get their attention off of her. His gut screaming in protest, he pushed himself to his feet. “Leave the lady alone.”
Deliberately, he shoved at the leader. “Only a coward attacks a lady.”
The young man turned to Damien. “Look, fellas, the cripple’s stood up. Let’s have some fun. Grab his lady.”
The largest youth grabbed Lindsay and held her by the waist. She began to scream and struggle. Damien rushed to her, but the gang leader grabbed him from behind and held him fast.
He fought against his hold but the other man was stronger. “Hold still or we’ll hurt the lady.”
The fight went out of Damien. Fear clawed at him as he looked at Lindsay’s terrified face.
The youngest boy grabbed the walking stick from Lindsay and began to mock him, stooping over and wobbling on his legs, one hand in front of him as if begging. “Alms for the one-legged man, alms for the lame!” The taunts began in earnest.
Praying that their attention would remain on him and off Lindsay, Damien stood quietly.
But Lindsay kicked her captor on the shins and he let out a yelp. “We’ve got a wildcat here!”
“Leave the lady alone,” Damien said again quietly, eyeing the boy. “Have your sport with me, but let her go.”
“Did you ’ear that, lads?” jeered the leader, tightening his hold. “The parson says we can ’ave our sport with ’im. Wot are we waiting for?” At that, they all turned on him.
Damien prepared for the beating that was to come. Anything would be preferable to having any one of them lay his filthy hands on Lindsay. He prayed she’d make a run for it.
His walking stick was stabbed into his middle. Damien flinched, causing them all to laugh. He clenched his stomach, praying that he wouldn’t disgrace himself before Lindsay.
“Leave him alone. He is a man of God, you black-guards!” Lindsay screamed with fury.
He shook his head at Lindsay in warning.
“A ‘man o’ God’?” came the mocking tones. With more zeal, they tugged at his coat and pulled his watch chain until it came loose. “Oh, this’ll fetch us a pretty penny,” the youngest boy cried, holding up his watch. The leader grabbed it from him and stuffed it in his pocket. “Search for his handkerchief.”
“Here’s his pocketbook.” Another gang member took his leather wallet and shook it open. The younger ones went scrambling for the few coins that fell out of it. They looked at Damien in disgust. “Hardly more’n a few coppers.” Damien knew to carry little money when he went about his rounds in this neighborhood. “Where’s the rest of yer blunt?”
“I don’t have any.”
He received a blow to his cheek that knocked his head back. He worked his jaw, hoping it hadn’t been dislocated.
“If you ’aven’t any more blunt, we’ll see wot else you’ve got o’ value.”
The younger boy laughed. “Wot about his wooden leg?”
All eyes focused on his leg. One of them kicked at it. “Nice piece of polished oak, I’ll wager. It’ll fetch us a few quid.”
Damien braced himself. Rough hands tugged at the leather strap holding it in place. He would have fallen if his arms hadn’t been gripped from behind.
The youth waved his wooden peg leg in the air with a triumphant shout. “Look at this. I can knock someone over the ’ead wiv this stick!”
The next second, the boy jerked to a stop at the clatter of horse hooves and carriage wheels down the street. “Away, men, away!” the gang leader shouted.
In a flash, they scattered down the alley. Damien fell to the ground. With a cry, Lindsay came to him, but he was already struggling to stand.
She took him by the arm and helped him up. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he assured her, looking at her closely. Black fingerprints smudged her cheeks and her hair had come loose from her struggle. Futile anger rose again at the manhandling she’d endured. And he’d been able to do nothing to prevent it. “Did they hurt you?”
She shook her head almost impatiently. “No, but what they did to you! Oh, I could murder them!” She touched his jaw with her fingertips. “It’s swelling.” With a half sob, she dug into her pocket for a handkerchief. “They even stole your handkerchief,” she said as she wiped the dirt from his face.
“Thank the good Lord for sending help.” He looked at the approaching coach.
Without a word, Lindsay draped his arm across her shoulder to support him. Her slim form was surprisingly strong. “Are you sure they didn’t hurt you?”
“I’ve been through worse.” Now that the immediate danger was past, Damien found it hard to look at Lindsay. The humiliation of the encounter and his present condition came to the fore.
As the coach drew near, she waved at it. “Stop! Please stop! We’ve been robbed.”
With a jingle of harness, the horses drew to a stop, a cloud of dust billowing around them. A groom swung down from the footboard in the rear.
“A gang has set upon us and robbed my husband,” Lindsay cried out breathlessly as the man hurried to them.
The groom’s eyes widened at the sight of Damien. “Are you all right, sir?” His glance flickered from his face to his leg, and Damien felt the strain of staying upright on one leg.
“If you could be so good as to take us back to my parish on Edgware Road,” he managed, his body feeling pummeled and bruised.
The groom gave another bow. “If you will excuse me a moment, sir, I will arrange it.” He returned to the coach and conferred at the carriage window with the man within. In a few moments he was back.
He handed Damien a card. “My employer offers you use of his carriage to wherever you and your wife need to be conveyed.”
Lindsay took the card before Damien could reach out his arm, which had begun to throb abominably. She held it out for him to read. Mr. Robert Bellamy was engraved
in a fine script with a Mayfair address. “Thank you. We should be most grateful,” she answered for Damien.
The man coughed and held out his hand. “Would you like me to assist you?” he asked in a hesitant voice.
“They beat my husband terribly and stole his wooden leg,” Lindsay replied before Damien could say anything.
He felt the flush stain his cheeks.
The groom tsked-tsked. “Terrible things that happen on our streets these days. In broad daylight, too.”
Damien hopped to the coach door, the young groom supporting him on one side, Lindsay hovering on the other. By the time they reached the coach, the pain was nearly overwhelming. Damien fought to remain conscious.
A distinguished-looking gentleman leaned out of the door and grasped his arms to help him up. Damien swallowed a groan at the pressure on his swollen arm. “My goodness, what happened? What did they do to you? Are you hurt, sir?”
“I’m all right,” he managed, falling onto the seat. He turned to the groom and gave him the address of the parsonage.
“Very good, sir. I’ll convey it to the coachman.”
Damien leaned back against the swabs, angry at himself, feeling as helpless as a beached seal. “I’m very grateful for your help, sir,” he said to the coach’s owner. Then he turned to assist Lindsay, but the groom handed her up into the coach.
She sat down beside Damien. With a quick nod to the owner, she turned to face Damien. “Are you all right?” she whispered, taking his hand.
He nodded, unable to say more due to his humiliation as much as the pain.
As the coach began to move, they both turned to the gentleman seated opposite. Mr. Bellamy looked to be in his sixties with gray hair worn in the older style of a queue. His clothes, too, were in the past fashion of knee breeches. His pale, well-tended hands rested upon a walking stick as he studied Damien. “You are a clergyman?”
“Yes, sir.” He introduced himself and Lindsay, the rumble of the coach jarring every sore muscle in his body.
“You were set upon, my man tells me.”
“Yes, by a gang of young men.”
“Shameful to set upon a clergyman!” he said with a decisive shake of his head. His sharp eyes focused on Damien’s leg. “And a cripple. What is the city coming to?”
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