A Bride of Honor

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Puzzled, she continued praying. Gradually, she grew drowsy, barely aware when Damien finally entered the room.

  The memory of the price he was paying for her lie came back to her. She stiffened in the bed, not wanting him to be aware that she was still awake. He undressed in the dark as he always did. He never allowed her to see him when he’d removed the peg. But she’d shown him that she loved every part of him, if not with words, then with her touch. In the darkness, she’d caressed the leg, though he’d shied away at first. No part of him disgusted or frightened her.

  When he climbed into bed beside her, he stayed to his side, as was his habit. Every night it was she who curled up beside him. But this night she, too, kept to her side.

  The following day she rose early, the day promising to be hot, and began to familiarize herself with her new cooking facilities. In spite of her meager kitchen, she managed to start a fire and set a kettle to boil. Then she hung another pot over the fireplace with water and oats.

  They would be able to do very little cooking here, and buying cooked food would be expensive. Thankfully, Florence and Jonah had left them with an ample supply of things from their farm.

  “Good morning.”

  She turned to greet Damien.

  “You’re up early,” he said when he approached her and bent to kiss her cheek.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you feeling better today?”

  “Yes.” Until she put something in her stomach, the nausea would not subside.

  “Here, let me stir that for you.”

  “You shouldn’t have to cook.”

  But he took the wooden spoon from her hand. Feeling too queasy to argue, she straightened and went to sit in an armchair. In the morning light, its upholstery revealed many more stains than it had the evening before. She sighed, thinking perhaps Florence would help her sew some slipcovers. If she could afford to buy the material. Perhaps some Holland cloth wouldn’t be too dear. She had no idea how much money Damien had available. She’d never discussed finances with him. He’d given her a monthly household amount and never questioned how she spent it.

  “You’re very quiet.”

  She started and looked up. “What are you going to do now?”

  He stared into the pot as he stirred. “I’ve been thinking about that very thing all these days. And now the reality confronts me. I need to find work to do.”

  She was unable to picture him as anything but a clergyman. The thought she had last night about ministering to their new neighborhood returned to her now.

  “I will go to the different clockmakers and offer my services.”

  She drew in a sharp breath. How could he go back to being a simple clockmaker?

  “Do…do you have any money at all?” she finally ventured.

  “I have a small sum. Florence and I were left some money from our parents, but I gave most of it to her when she married for the purchase of their farm.” He gave a short laugh. “I didn’t think I’d need much besides what I earned from the curacy. Naturally, she and Jonah want me to have anything back they can spare.” He looked at her, as if asking for her understanding. “I said no, of course. I know they’ll need it until the farm begins to pay for itself, as I have no doubt it will. Jonah is very knowledgeable. But,” he said, “you must forgive me for not consulting with you first. You have as much a say over our goods as anyone. This affects you, as well.”

  “You did right.” She tried to put a bright face on things. “This is all we need. As long as we can afford these rooms.”

  He gave a small nod, as if he wanted to say more.

  “Let me get some bowls,” she said, when he remained silent.

  As they sat across from each other at the small round table covered with one of their nice clean linen cloths from the parsonage, she asked, “Will you not be able to do any ministry?”

  “I have no authority from the church.”

  “What about your work at the orphanage and workhouse? What about the prison? You cannot just leave it. Who will take your place?”

  He rubbed a hand across his forehead as if the questions pained him. “I don’t know.”

  “Will Reverend Doyle appoint someone else?”

  “I don’t know,” he repeated, although this time more slowly. “He did not initiate these ministries. Florence and I did.”

  “Will Florence continue?”

  “As much as she can from where she lives. And after the birth of the baby…” He shrugged and looked down at his bowl.

  “You cannot just leave these people. They need you.”

  He looked at her and she read turmoil in his blue eyes.

  She chewed the corner of her lip, wondering if she should say what had been on her mind. “Why don’t we continue to minister to them? I know we have little to offer now, but we must believe the Lord will continue to provide.” As the words tumbled out of her, her enthusiasm grew. “You can preach to them on Sunday. Does anyone ever preach to them on Sunday?”

  He said nothing, but seemed deep in thought as they ate.

  She finished her breakfast, feeling a little better when she’d eaten her porridge.

  When he prepared to leave, he asked her, “Will you be all right here by yourself?”

  She nodded, although the prospect of being shut up within these dingy rooms depressed her. “I shall be fine. I think Elizabeth is stopping by later.”

  “That’s good.” With a final look at her, he bent down and kissed her softly on the cheek. How she wanted to turn her head just a fraction and meet his lips. But she no longer felt worthy to call herself his wife. She’d brought him to this state.

  In the silence of his departure, she turned to tidy up, fighting the desolation that threatened just beneath the surface.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was late afternoon before Damien returned. He felt bone-weary, hot, thirsty and discouraged. But at least he had some good news to bring home.

  Home. He stopped short at the word, his hand on the knob. A pair of rooms he’d only spent one night in. More humble than any he’d ever lived in. Yet, it was home.

  And he knew why.

  Lindsay’s sweet face appeared in his mind, her dark eyes shining with pride as they had when she’d managed to lay out a simple supper last night and prepare breakfast this morning.

  Lindsay made it home. Wherever he lived now would be home because of her presence. The despair that had been weighing him down all day lifted a fraction as he pushed open the door.

  The sitting room was empty, though everything was neat and tidy. The small round table had a clean cloth, and tea things were laid out. He stopped on the threshold, noting the small vase of daisies upon it.

  Closing the door softly behind him he entered the room and gazed slowly around it. He noted other touches here and there, a paisley shawl draped over the stained couch, a row of the few books he’d brought with him set out on a shelf, the grate before the fireplace scrubbed clean and a fire burning in it with a kettle on the hob.

  “Lindsay?” No answer. He walked across the room and into the bedroom beyond it. He stopped short, seeing her lying on the bed, dressed, her arm curled under her head. She usually didn’t sleep in the daytime but lately she had been looking drawn. Undoubtedly the stress of moving.

  He crossed noiselessly to the bed and stood observing her. Her golden hair spilled over her shoulder, where it had come loose from its pins. One lock lay against her cheek, and he couldn’t help leaning down and brushing it away. He had missed feeling her body curled up against his last night.

  The touch was enough to awaken her. Her dark eyes stared up at him with gradual recognition. What started out as a smile quickly turned to a look of worry and she began to rise. He pushed her back gently with a hand and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You needn’t get up.”

  “Wh-when did you return?” She sounded disoriented.

  “Just now.” He kept his hand on her shoulder. Suddenly, he found himself leaning down an
d touching her lips with his, forgetting everything else. He needed to feel her warmth, her sustaining presence. He deepened the kiss without intending to, his resolve to protect her from himself momentarily forgotten. Her arms wrapped around him. With what sounded like a small sob, she began kissing him back fervently.

  Before he knew it, he had forgotten everything else and sought only his wife’s presence.

  The shadows were lengthening and they were forced to light the candles when they finally sat down to supper.

  It was the first time they’d ever made love in the daylight. He’d always avoided having to force her to see his leg. But she’d been so tender and loving that he’d actually begun believing she didn’t see the ugly, deformed limb that he did.

  “There, it’s hot,” she said, turning from the fire with the kettle to pour some water into the teapot.

  She looked delightfully rosy, dressed only in a silk dressing gown, her hair knotted loosely at the base of her neck, tendrils falling around her face.

  He bowed his head over their supper of bread and butter and some sliced meat. When he looked up, he realized he was famished. He’d eaten no dinner at noon, preferring to continue seeking work than coming home with nothing good to report.

  He dug into the simple fare with relish. With his hunger satisfied, he sat back and took the teacup in his hand. “I found some work at a clockmaker’s not too far from here. It will keep me occupied a few hours a day, leaving me enough time to visit the orphanage and workhouse, if the wardens there still wish me to come.” He cleared his throat. “I shall have to tell them I no longer come as a clergyman.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  He blinked in surprise. “To do otherwise would be to deceive them, don’t you think?”

  She nodded slowly, seeming to mull over what appeared quite clear to him. “I was thinking that whatever the rector or bishop do to you, you still remain a man of God.”

  At his raised eyebrows, she continued. “God has called you to preach the gospel. I can’t see you doing anything else. If someone tries to tell you you can no longer do that, whom are you to listen to? You have done nothing wrong. Your conscience is clear.” She looked down at her plate. “I’m the one who lied. You have not exposed my lie out of a desire to protect me.”

  How had she guessed? He had tried so hard not to reveal it to anyone.

  Her large brown eyes looked into his now. “Why didn’t you tell me that was the true reason you were dismissed?”

  He swallowed, wanting desperately to be able to reassure her he did not hold her responsible. “There was no point. You were not the only reason. I told you, the bishop had an entire catalog of errors.” He gave a bitter laugh. “If anyone was to blame it was my own rector. It was Doyle who supplied the bishop with all the information.”

  Before she could argue further, he reached over and covered her hand with his. “Whatever the reason for my being defrocked, I have no wish to do anything differently. You were—and are—my wife.” In spirit and in truth now, he realized. There was no going back. No chivalrous route to restore her to her former life, no matter how much more attractive that life appeared now.

  Instead of filling her with happiness, his words seemed to bring more sadness. With dismay he watched tears fill her luminous brown eyes. “I’m sorry, Damien. I’m so terribly sorry for all I’ve caused you.”

  “Oh, Lindsay, don’t cry. The Lord has a plan for me, you will see.”

  That seemed to restore her. With a sniff, she straightened. “I regret the circumstances that brought you to this pass, but I believe you should continue to preach…with a clear conscience.”

  She seemed so sure. “But I have no pulpit any longer.”

  “You have a ready audience at the workhouse, at the prison, at the orphanage.” She looked toward the window and waved her hand. “Indeed, you have an entire city waiting to hear the gospel. Remember those boys in the street.”

  He could hardly forget them.

  “I haven’t been able to get them out of my thoughts,” she continued. “Each time I think of them, I pray for their souls. When can such souls ever hear the gospel? They will never enter into a church.”

  The more he listened to her, the more he marveled at the words coming out of her mouth. Was God using this very young woman who had lived a sheltered life to speak to him about his path?

  He shook his head. He mustn’t allow himself to grasp at straws without truly knowing if they came from God. He noticed her plate. “You’ve hardly touched your food. Aren’t you hungry?”

  She seemed surprised at his attention. “I suppose not.” She picked up a piece of bread and bit into it.

  Her dressing gown was open at the throat, revealing her pale skin. His breath caught, remembering its silken softness. “You’ve lost weight. You must have a care.” He tried to inject a note of cheer into his voice. “I don’t want you to weaken on me. If you want to be part of this ministry…” He paused, the words having come out unplanned.

  But at the look of anticipation in her eyes, he couldn’t dispel the sense that she was truly his companion and partner in ministry…in life.

  She leaned toward him. “Oh, I do so want to be part of your work. I already feel part of it.”

  When he still didn’t say anything, she continued, her voice pleading, “May I come with you this Sunday when you preach?”

  He leaned back and rubbed his face. “I don’t know if I will preach.”

  She smiled. “You will. You cannot do otherwise.”

  Long after Lindsay slept, Damien rose from the bed and lit a lamp at the table where they’d eaten supper. He spent that evening reading the word and on his knees in prayer.

  Finally, as the first tinges were lighting the sky, he sat back staring at the Bible open before him. “To the one we are the savor of death unto death; and to the other the savor of life unto life.”

  God had given him the gift of preaching to take the word of life to a dying world.

  “For we are not as many, which corrupt the word of God: but as of sincerity, but as of God, in the sight of God speak we in Christ.” He knew in his heart that he hadn’t corrupted God’s word. His words had been sincere and his message was Christ.

  His eye fell to the beginning of the next chapter. “…need we, as some others, epistles of commendation to you…Ye are our epistles written in our hearts, known and read of all men…”

  Lindsay’s words came back to him. Did he need the bishop’s or the rector’s commendation? The souls he’d ministered to at the workhouse and orphanage had come to Christ through his preaching. They’d been forgotten by the rector, by the church. Did he have a right to forsake them now?

  Dear Lord, You’ve given me a desire to preach and minister to the least of them in this great city. I’ve been stripped of my pulpit, my credentials. He fingered the pages of the Bible open before him. What credentials did he need? Those given to him by men, or those given to him by the Lord Himself?

  His heart began to beat as the message was birthed in him, a message of hope inspired by his own recent hardships. With steady fingers, he took up pen and paper, words rushing through his mind.

  Lindsay longed to sit down, but there was no seating at the northeast corner of Hyde Park, only dusty earth and grassy lawn on which to stand. The September sun beat down on her face despite her bonnet. She adjusted her posture, kneading her lower back with one hand.

  Even though she loved to hear Damien’s preaching, this Sunday morning, she felt distinctly off. She didn’t know quite what was wrong with her. She was almost positive she was with child. She’d heard from Florence that a woman had a series of minor complaints including the fatigue and general malaise that she’d been feeling for some weeks.

  Damien was closing his sermon, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before they could leave. Although, from their experience last week, she knew people gathered around him afterward to talk with him for as long as he remained.

  She surveyed
the crowd in front of her, feeling her heart swell. The number of bystanders had doubled from last week. There must have been at least fifty people. Word of her husband’s inspirational, moving sermons was apparently spreading.

  Sudden pain surged through her lower abdomen. She grimaced, her pleasure in the crowd forgotten. This couldn’t be right. Frantic, she tried to get Damien’s attention, but a crowd surrounded him.

  “Mrs. Hathaway!”

  She turned with an effort and almost sagged with relief at the sight of Mrs. Moore.

  “I thought it was you there.” The elderly woman approached her with a smile and took her hand, then peered at her. “Why, whatever is the matter, dear? You don’t look yourself.”

  “Pl-please can you get Reverend Hathaway? I’m not feeling well.” She gasped at another onslaught of pain.

  “Certainly, dear. Steady there. I shall be back in a thrice.” She patted her hand and bustled away.

  In a moment, Damien was at her side. “What is it? You look pale.”

  “Please—” She tried to speak through the pain. “Can we go home?”

  “Of course.”

  As he looked about him, Mrs. Moore spoke up. “It’s a good thing I brought my carriage. Come, it’s right here at the curb. I can convey you both home.”

  A look of relief washed over his face. “Thank you, Mrs. Moore. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”

  “Say nothing more. Come along.”

  Lindsay took one small step. Pain seared her middle so hard that she staggered.

  “Lindsay!” Without another word, Damien lifted her in his arms.

  A footman held open the carriage door. As Damien began to ascend the steps, Lindsay felt a discharge. “Oh, please, no!” she cried, her hands gripping her abdomen.

  “What is it? Tell me!” Damien’s voice was frantic as he laid her down on the seat. He bent over her and wiped her brow with his handkerchief. “What is it, love? You are in great pain?”