The woman’s lips were chapped. “Is there any water you can give her?” he asked the nearest person, a thin, middle-aged woman.
“She don’t want nothing no more. Too far gone.”
At the low sound of their voices, the woman’s eyes fluttered open. They looked sunken in her wan face. Damien took the limp hand lying against the blanket.
“You…” she rasped.
“Yes, I’m here.” He turned to the women, his eyes seeking Lindsay. She stood beside him. Reassured that she was all right, he addressed one of the women. “Please, get me some water.” He fumbled for his own handkerchief, the only clean thing in the room, and handed it to her. “Soak this and bring it to me, please.”
Eyeing it speculatively, the woman took it. He turned his attention back to the woman on the bed. She had closed her eyes, but at the press of his hand, she opened them again and struggled to say something. Damien leaned closer to her.
“I need…”
Someone nudged him from behind. He turned and saw with relief the other woman had returned with his handkerchief. “Bless you.” He took the wet cloth and pressed it gently against the woman’s lips. She sucked weakly for a few seconds, then lay back exhausted.
She opened her eyes again. “Please…”
“Yes, what would you like me to do?”
“Pray…for me.”
He squeezed her hand. “Certainly.” Immediately, he closed his eyes and began to pray.
When he said “Amen,” she opened her eyes again. “Thank you, dear sir.” She took a few labored breaths then attempted to speak again. “My…baby…”
He looked at the child who still sat quietly. One of the women standing by the bed nodded. “That’s ’ers. Don’t know what’ll become of ’er.”
“Take care of my baby,” she gasped, her eyes beseeching him.
He eyed the women forming a circle around the bed, but each one averted her eyes. Finally, the one who’d handed him his handkerchief shrugged. “No one can take ’er. We’ve enough children of our own we can barely feed.”
Damien looked at the child again. Her trusting blue eyes met his. Despite her tangled hair and dirty face, she was lovely. He turned to Lindsay. She was staring at the child.
The room was silent for a moment, and then one of the women jerked her head at Lindsay.
“What about you, miss? Can’t you take ’er?”
Damien’s heart froze in his chest.
Chapter Nineteen
Lindsay started as if she’d been shouted at. Her eyes turned to Damien, and he read stark, raw fear in their brown depths. He took hold of her hand and squeezed.
“She’s a sweet little thing,” another woman added. “Never gave her mum no trouble. Look at ’er, sittin’ so quiet like. Nuff to break your ’eart.”
“Don’t you want ’er?” the girl who had come to fetch them asked shyly. She stood at the foot of the bed with the boy, probably her brother, still beside her.
In an effort to protect Lindsay, Damien spoke. “The orphanage—” He stopped at the look of indignation on the faces around him. He understood perfectly. It was the last place he’d want to send a child, especially a two-year-old.
“As good as killin” er if you send ’er there!” an older woman spit.
Lindsay pushed her way toward the child, almost as if she were propelled. The women made way for her. When she reached the girl, she hesitated. At that moment, the child looked at her and held out her dirty little rag. “Da—”
Lindsay reached out her hand and touched it. “That’s very pretty, my dear.”
A woman beside her said, “’Er name’s Abigail.”
“That was my mother’s name,” Damien said quietly.
Lindsay’s eyes met his.
“You’ll take care of ’er, won’t…you?” the dying woman whispered in a halting voice.
Lindsay reached the woman’s side and clasped her hand. It felt dry but tightened on hers with surprising strength. Tears welled up in Lindsay’s eyes. “Please—” The woman’s blue eyes implored her.
How could she accept this child? The pain of her own loss was too recent. Lord, don’t ask me to lay my heart open to this poor babe. I can’t. Even as she said the words silently, she found herself nodding her head. The woman immediately released the pressure on her hand and smiled wanly.
Damien leaned over the woman and said, “You’ll get well again and take care of her yourself.”
A look of fear displaced her smile. “I shan’t. She’ll be all alone.”
Lindsay squeezed her hand. “No, she won’t. She won’t be alone, I promise you. I’ll take care of her myself.”
Immediately, the woman lay quiet again. What had she done? Lindsay looked back at the child, who was now looking at her mother. She’d given her word to take Abigail’s mother’s place. Her lip trembled at the enormity of her promise.
Only vaguely did she hear Damien recite the Twenty-third Psalm and then the Lord’s Prayer. The woman’s lips followed his silently in the last one. Lindsay closed her eyes, allowing the words to minister to her, as well.
Afterward, the woman’s agitation grew again. “I done so many bad things…”
“God forgives you. You have a savior in His son, Jesus,” Damien said, smoothing the hair from her forehead. “You needn’t fear. Trust in Jesus who has paid the price for your sin. He will receive you.”
The hour grew late. Lindsay had no idea what time it was or how much time had passed. The girl began to cry again. Prying her hand carefully from the dying woman’s, Lindsay reached for the child. As she brought her up in her arms, the small body cuddled against hers, warming her in the chilly room.
Lindsay stroked her soft hair, feeling the tangles. Finally, the child fell asleep, her thumb in her mouth, her rag pressed to her chin.
It was dark outside when the woman passed away. Damien bowed his head and said a final prayer, thanking the Father for having received her. Finally, he covered the woman’s face with the sheet.
“I’ll make arrangements with the undertaker for her burial,” he told one of the women. “Is there anyone who should be notified?”
Several of the women shook their heads. “She’d no one.”
Damien approached Lindsay. “Let me carry the child. You must be tired.”
Lindsay felt strangely unwilling to relinquish Abigail. But her arms ached with holding her, and finally she allowed Damien to take her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Just a little stiff.” Her eyes didn’t leave the child. “Will she be warm enough?” Giving him no chance to answer, Lindsay turned to the women and asked for a blanket. Someone found a filthy one. It would have to do for now. Abby stirred against Damien and he glanced down, a look of tenderness in his eyes.
One had died and one had lived. Why had her unborn baby had to die? Her heart ached with the question. The tears began to fill her eyes until Abby’s face blurred. She didn’t want to be drawn to this child who was another’s. But then she remembered the child’s helplessness. Abby was all alone in the world.
No. She had Lindsay and Damien.
The cold, hard knot inside her began to give way. The questions she’d not dared ask herself all these weeks as she’d buried her feelings came tumbling out even as the tears spilled over her lids and fell down her cheeks. Why couldn’t I have my own baby to love? The fruit of Damien’s and my love?
“Lindsay?” Damien’s voice was filled with concern. “Perhaps I can find someone from St. George’s who will be able to take her.”
“No!” She swallowed, surprised at the vehemence in her tone. “I mean, we—I can take care of her.”
His eyes searched hers. “Are you sure?” he asked softly.
“I know nothing of toddlers, but…” Her voice trailed off.
“I know little, either. Perhaps together we can offer her a home.”
Lindsay looked at him, at the hope in his eyes, and she remembered Florence’s
words. Perhaps, he, too, needed this child to love.
The little girl sighed in her sleep. The tiny sound drew Lindsay’s attention. Each time she looked at Abigail, she felt her own loss afresh. Yet other emotions filled her. She’d promised a dying woman to care for her babe.
A sense of awe overcame her. Perhaps by fulfilling this promise, the awful void she’d lived with since the loss of her baby would begin to fill. She glanced at Damien again. Perhaps they could begin to be a family after all, just in a different manner from the one she’d seen in her dreams.
Lindsay patted Abby’s hair dry before the fire. She’d just given the girl her bath and prepared her for bed. A few weeks had gone by since the evening they’d brought the orphan home and since then, she’d blossomed.
“Mama.” The girl twisted around and held the comb up. “Comb.”
Lindsay breathed in the sweet clean smell of her. “That’s right, dear. Mama’s going to comb your hair.” She adjusted Abby on her lap and set down the towel. “Mama’s going to make your hair very pretty. She’ll put a bright bow in your hair once she has combed it.”
Abby sat happily on Lindsay’s lap in a pretty little nightgown Florence had given her. Lindsay slid the comb through the child’s damp golden locks. Dear God, I thank You for bringing Abigail into my life. She now understood the meaning of bittersweet. The pain of her own loss was still with her, but she could never regret the joy the new child gave her each day.
As she gently worked the comb through a tangle, she heard a knock on the door. Who could it be? Damien was the only person she expected and he wouldn’t knock. “Just a moment,” she called out.
Setting Abby on a rug well away from the hearth, she smoothed her skirts and made her way to the door.
Her landlady stood there with her usual sour expression. Not bothering with a greeting, she jerked her head toward the stairs. “There’s a gent’s carriage below and a footman asking for you.”
Lindsay’s eyes widened.
“He seemed in a hurry.”
Lindsay glanced at Abby. “Could you watch the child a moment?”
The woman took a step back. “I’m a busy woman.”
“Very well. Can you send him up here?”
Wordlessly, the woman turned away.
Lindsay frowned. No one of her former life had visited her since she’d married Damien, and she could think of no one else who drove a fancy carriage. Perhaps a former parishioner of Damien’s.
A few minutes later, another sharp rap sounded on the door.
“Tom!” She recognized one of the grooms from her father’s house. “What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me?”
The man bowed politely. “Your father’s secretary sent me to fetch you.”
Her pulse quickened. “Me?” Had her father finally had a change of heart?
“Mr. Phillips is ill.”
She clutched the door frame. “Ill?”
“Yes, miss—madam.”
Fear filled her. “How serious is it?”
“Quite grave, madam. You’d best come. He’s calling for you.”
What was she to do? She glanced from Abby to the groom. She couldn’t just leave. But her father needed her.
For the first months of her marriage she’d dreamed of a visit from her father. But to be summoned to his bedside to find him gravely ill—she’d never wanted their reunion to be like that.
“Mama.” She turned quickly to see Abigail coming toward her. Lindsay scooped her up in her arms and brought her back to the doorway. The groom’s eyes widened. “Your—?” His face reddened.
“She’s an orphan who recently lost her mother. We’re bringing her up,” she said with a smile.
“Yes, madam.”
He waited and she realized her dilemma. “I can’t leave her. I must wait for my husband to return.”
The footman pursed his lips and shook his head. “I don’t know if you should wait. Your father is very sick.”
Her breath caught. She must go to him.
“I shall have to take the child with me,” she said finally. “Perhaps one of the servants can look after her while I see Father.”
He nodded, looking relieved.
“But I must take some things for her.”
“I can wait for you.”
“All right. Come in and have a seat.”
It only took her a few minutes to gather a few things for Abigail. She glanced at her own dresses hanging on their hooks, wondering if she would have to stay, or if she should just go to her father’s first and return here if she needed anything. But then she remembered her full cupboards in her old room. If her father had not rid himself of everything of hers when he’d disowned her, she would have more than enough there. In the time she’d lived with Damien, she’d learned to live with so much less and be much happier.
She wished she could see him before she left. Instead, she had to be satisfied with penning him a hurried note.
With a longing look around the shabby room she’d shared with Damien for the past few months, she closed the door behind her and followed Tom down the stairs, Abby in her arms.
Damien climbed wearily up the narrow stairs to his rooms. The day had been arduously long, between ministering to the inmates at Newgate and visiting some of the poorer quarters by the hospital.
“Your wife’s gone,” the harsh voice of his landlady called up the stairwell. He turned in the dark passage and looked down where she stood with her neck craned up to him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You ’eard me. Up an’ left. Took the babe with ’er.”
Her meaning was beginning to penetrate. “Mrs. Hathaway went out?”
“That’s right. Up and left with a fancy man in livery. Left in a toff’s carriage, the likes o’ which we ’aven’t seen in this neighborhood in my lifetime.” Without another word, she entered her own rooms and slammed the door.
Damien stood immobile, the echo of her closing door ringing in the passageway. Without giving himself a chance to puzzle things out, he turned and hurried upstairs, although he was unable to stop from thinking of the time Lindsay had run away. He shook his head to dispel the thought.
When he opened the door and felt the chilly room, his glance went immediately to the empty grate. His heart began to thud at the unnatural stillness.
He set down the satchel and walking stick he carried and slowly entered the room. Pushing aside the wave of apprehension, he called out in a normal tone, “Lindsay?”
Silence answered him. He looked in the bedroom. No one. Not even Abby’s things disturbed the neat arrangement of the bed. He frowned. Despite Lindsay’s efforts, having a baby in their cramped midst always meant a certain amount of disorder.
Slowly he backed out of the room. He searched the parlor for any sign of what had happened. Almost immediately he saw a paper on their small dining table. He picked up the folded sheet with “Damien” written on it in Lindsay’s handwriting. Foreboding chilled his soul like ice. With shaking fingers, he opened it.
Dearest Damien,
I write this in haste. Father is gravely ill and a carriage has been sent to fetch me. I was hoping to see you but couldn’t wait. Don’t worry about Abigail. She is with me. She will be well cared for if I have to remain for any length of time. I will try to return as soon as possible.
Do not be concerned about me. I trust Father has kept my things in my old room if I should need a change of clothes.
God bless you, and please pray for Papa.
Yours,
Lindsay
Damien reread the message. Her father was “gravely ill.” Damien felt a start of concern for the man he’d met but once. Of course Lindsay had to go to her father. Perhaps now she would be at last reconciled with him.
This is what Damien had hoped for, had prayed for.
He should go to her.
Feeling a sudden urgency, he picked up his hat and stick again and hurried back out.
The ride
from his neighborhood to Grosvenor Square was like traveling from darkness to light. Dingy, boarded-up buildings and narrow, muddy streets gave way to light-colored limestone facades and neatly paved streets.
He paid the driver and walked up the steps to the massive front door. It was only the second time he’d faced the house Lindsay had grown up in.
He lifted the knocker and let it drop.
A few moments later, when he’d given up hope that anyone would answer the door, it opened to reveal a tall butler with an impassive face. His glance fell to Damien’s wooden leg.
Damien resisted the urge to step back. “I’m here to see—” he hesitated at the word in face of the man’s braided uniform and forbidding stare “—my wife. Mrs. Lindsay Hathaway.”
Without a word, the man stepped aside. After waiting a second, Damien stepped across the threshold into the shadowy interior.
The door closed with a soft bang and the butler left him.
As he stood there, he looked around the entryway. He’d rarely been in the finer homes of Mayfair. This one was grander than most he’d seen. Marble statues sat on pedestals. A majestic staircase curved toward him at the rear, darkness visible through a window at the landing. A crystal chandelier hung suspended from the high ceiling.
He stepped toward a tall case clock set along one wall, examining the timepiece with the eye of a professional. It was a fine piece of workmanship.
Before he could study it further, he heard rapid footsteps on the staircase. He turned to see Lindsay hurrying toward him. His heartbeat picked up at the sight of his wife, and he realized then how worried he’d been that he wouldn’t see her.
“Damien!” she said, reaching him and holding out her hands. “You came. You saw my note.”
He nodded, clutching her hands in his, wanting to enfold her in his arms. But the imposing entryway, the oil paintings, the statues surrounding them stopped him.
Reluctantly, he let her hands go. “How is your father?”
Her pretty eyes clouded and he read real worry in them. “He’s quite feverish. Please pray for him.”
“Of course I will. Was he glad to see you?”
A Bride of Honor Page 27
