A Bride of Honor

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  She nodded. “Yes, it was as if I’d never left him.” She smiled, letting out a long breath of relief. “He has forgiven me for leaving him. I know it shouldn’t matter, but I’m glad.”

  “Certainly it matters.” He tried to smile and be glad for her, even though he felt the tentacles of her old life reaching out to pull her away from him. “How long will you be here?”

  “I don’t know. He lapses in and out of consciousness.” She bit her lip and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m so afraid he might not wake up.” She searched his face, as if for reassurance. “What if he departs without acknowledging you as my husband?”

  “He hasn’t done so?” The news shouldn’t have surprised him, yet it fell like a blow.

  “He behaves as if I haven’t married. I can’t contradict him in his present condition.”

  “Of course you can’t. How is Abigail?” he asked, anxious about the little girl and eager to get off the topic of her father.

  Lindsay smiled. “She’s wonderful. The staff have taken to her as if she were their little pet. We are looking for a full-time nurse for her, in order to give me more time to be at Father’s bedside.”

  “Yes, I see.” A full-time nurse. It made Lindsay’s stay at her father’s sound more permanent.

  “But come,” Lindsay said, taking his hand in hers and pulling him toward the stairs. “Let us go into the parlor. I shall ring for tea….”

  By the time he left the Phillips mansion, Damien was full of gloom. It was the first time he’d seen Lindsay as mistress of the type of home she should have been presiding over.

  He walked all the way back to the farthest edge of Marylebone. His gloom deepened as the neighborhoods changed back from well lit and spacious to dark and narrow.

  By the time he returned to his cold flat, he knew his prayers had finally been answered. Lindsay had been returned to her rightful world.

  No matter the reason she’d been called away or the fact that she promised to return quickly. Deep down, he knew she would never return. Her father would never let her go again.

  Damien had always known this day would come. He’d planned to bring it about himself, in fact. Annulment, hadn’t that been his original intent? And now that it was here, completely unprovoked by him, he found his world shifted beneath his feet.

  The reality of a life without Lindsay hit him so hard he doubled over. How could he survive? He stared at the fireless grate, seeing in its blackened interior the desolation of his life.

  He bowed his head, his fingers digging into his skull, trying to stem the tide of hopelessness threatening to drown him.

  Damien awoke early according to his habit. The rooms seemed deathly silent. Since Lindsay’s miscarriage, he had been sleeping in the sitting room on the couch. Last night he had slept in their bed, needing to be near her somehow. He’d buried his face in her pillow, breathing in the scent of her.

  And he’d been dreaming of her. He lay perfectly still, trying to recapture the dream. He’d been holding her, and she’d been smiling at him. Remembering her departure brought despair so heavy he couldn’t face the day before him.

  If only he could slip back into sleep. His limbs felt like lead. He couldn’t even utter his usual prayers.

  Dear God, why did You bring her into my life? Why let me grow accustomed to her presence when it was not to be?

  His fist ground into the pillow in frustration. How he wanted to go to her! Maybe she needed him. No! She had everything she needed there. He must give her up.

  Yet the thought of not seeing her that day—or in the coming days—took away an interest in anything or anyone else. He knew he had things he must do, people he’d promised to see, but he couldn’t think of any of them. He just didn’t care.

  A harsh laugh erupted from his lips. He’d thought he could give Lindsay up on his own. He’d planned to restore her to her father someday? What kind of fool’s paradise had he been living in? Each day he’d dug himself deeper, binding himself more securely to her. Seeing her smiling face, listening to her soft voice, watching her keep the account books or make a simple breakfast in their fireplace…She’d proved herself a willing and indispensable helpmate in both a comfortable parsonage as well as the most dismal London slum. His head sank back onto the pillow. How was he going to make it without her? And why would he want to?

  A week later, Lindsay descended the last step of the wide staircase and willed a different answer to her question than the one she’d received each day during her stay. “Any post for me?” she asked her father’s footman.

  “No, madam. There was nothing.”

  “Very well. Thank you.” Lindsay’s tone revealed nothing of the worry and urgency growing in her. She’d not been able to step outside the house while Papa’s life had been in danger. But two nights before, the fever had finally broken. She felt a gratitude beyond measure for God’s grace.

  But why had she heard nothing from Damien since his visit? She could understand if he had been too busy to stop in, although that also hurt. But to not write? What could be wrong? She must overcome her pride and write to Florence. The thought brought a sense of shame. What would his sister think to know her brother had not communicated with his wife? She must be aware of it. Was she relieved Damien was now well and truly rid of his unsuitable wife? The proof of it was she had heard nothing from Florence, either.

  Lindsay turned and headed back up the stairs. Even though she’d received nothing from her husband, she had sent him daily missives during the days of vigil over her father, keeping him posted of her father’s condition and Abby’s new words and skills.

  Before reentering her father’s bedroom, Lindsay paused and took out the only letter she’d had from Damien, the day after he’d visited her. She unfolded the creased sheet of paper. She could recite it by heart now, but it helped to see his writing and hold the paper he had held in his hands.

  Dearest Lindsay,

  Thank you for communicating your whereabouts to me. You can be sure that I shall pray for your father, and for your well-being, of course. Please do not overtire yourself or concern yourself about me. The Lord shall sustain me. Give Abigail a hug and kiss from me.

  You have all my well wishes,

  Yours,

  Damien

  With a sigh she refolded the letter and held it against her breast a moment before putting it away in her pocket. She pushed open the door and put a cheerful expression on her face. Indeed, she was grateful with all her heart that the Lord had spared her father’s life. And as soon as she could, maybe even today, she’d order the carriage and go to Damien.

  “Is that you, Lindsay?” Her father’s voice was still weak but he was alert.

  “Yes, I am here, Papa.” She approached the heavily draped bed.

  “Where were you?” he asked, his hand fumbling on the counterpane.

  She took it in hers.

  “Just peeking into the nursery to see Abigail and checking on the post.”

  He ignored her mention of mail and said instead, “It’s been a long time since that room was used.”

  She smiled as she took her seat. “Yes. It’s nice to see her enjoying all the things I loved as a child.”

  He coughed and she poured him some water. “Perhaps I shall soon be well enough to climb the stairs,” he managed.

  “Don’t hurry it. You have been gravely sick. You must regain your strength.”

  He nodded and shifted his head against his pillow. “No news?”

  She blinked at the question. “News?”

  He made a motion with his hand against the counterpane. “Yes, from where you were living.”

  She looked down at the bedcover with a small shake of her head.

  “I’ve summoned my solicitor.”

  Her eyes lifted, startled. “Your solicitor?”

  He looked at her steadily. “Yes. When you broke your betrothal, I was quite angry with you, as you well know.”

  “Papa, that is in the past now.”
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br />   “I changed my will, as I said I would.”

  “Yes, Papa, I know,” she answered quietly.

  “I wasn’t going to have some…some fortune hunting, depraved cleric—” His voice rasped, and his face turned a mottled red.

  “Papa, please, calm yourself. There was never any danger of Damien taking what was yours. He was not—nor is—interested in what is yours.”

  Her father’s hands knotted in the bedclothes. “Despicable, cowardly, immoral—” Another coughing spasm hit him.

  “Papa! You mustn’t speak so.” She tried to lift his head to ease his coughing.

  When he had calmed, she said quietly, “Damien is my husband.”

  He glared at her. “He is not your husband. We shall have that taken care of as soon as permissible.”

  She stared in dismay at the venom in his tone. “What are you saying, Papa?”

  “Before I fell ill, I had everything researched by our solicitor.” His breath came in short gasps. “Granted it won’t be easy, but there are ways to terminate your marriage.” He shuddered at the word as if he could hardly bear to have it on his tongue.

  “Papa, we mustn’t talk of this now.” She tried to smooth his coverlet.

  He brushed aside her hands. “You cannot…stay married to a man who has disgraced you.” He shook his head and gulped in some air. “And now lost his living as a curate. The man is a discredit to his profession.”

  “Papa! He lost the curacy because of me—because he stood by me and refused to expose my lie!”

  “If he lost his living it was from his scandalous conduct.”

  “No, Papa. Damien would never do anything like that. The fact is he never stole my virtue.”

  Her father finally seemed to hear what she was saying. “What are you talking about? I heard you with my own ears.”

  She looked down a moment, hating to relive that night of her shameful conduct. “I lied to you.” She raised her eyes, pleading with him to understand. “I know it was despicable of me, but I was so desperate not to marry Mr. Stokes.”

  Her father stared at her, his hands falling limp on the coverlet. “You lied to me? Why, Lindsay, why?”

  She cringed at the look of disbelief in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Papa. I was so scared to tell you how much I disliked your friend. I didn’t plan to lie to you. I ran away that night, only knowing I couldn’t marry Mr. Stokes.” She reached out a hand to her father. “I did not mean to disgrace you. Please believe that. Damien did nothing wrong. He merely stood by me when I came to him. He did not expose my lie, even though it meant disgrace to him. He has lost everything because of me. No one could have behaved more honorably than he.”

  “He would have saved us all a lot of trouble if he had spoken up that night.” As the notion grew, her father’s ire returned. “I’m sure he saw an opportunity for himself and seized on it. He is a blackguard and a scoundrel! No, I will not permit you to remain married to him. We will find grounds for an annulment. Fraud. Breach of contract. He is not the man he made you believe he was, nor has he lived up to the man you believed you married.”

  “Papa, please don’t say such things. You’ll harm yourself.” Lindsay gently pushed him back against his pillows, alarmed by his heightened color and shaking hands. He was so angry, Lindsay wasn’t even sure he could hear her any longer.

  “Lindsay,” her father said in a quiet rage, “you will kill me if you stay married to him!”

  Chapter Twenty

  The week passed with excruciating slowness for Damien. Each day he fought against his desire to go see Lindsay. Finally, he could stand it no more. He returned to Mayfair.

  The same butler opened the door, but before Damien could say anything, he spoke. “I have been given orders not to admit you.”

  Damien stared at him in disbelief, hardly comprehending the words. “Orders by whom?”

  The man looked down his nose at him. “Orders from the master himself.”

  “Please send a message to my wife to tell her I am here.”

  “She is with her father and not to be interrupted.”

  Without a word, Damien turned away from him and descended the steps, not knowing which way to turn or what to do. If he wrote to her, would she get his message? Why hadn’t he written before?

  Did she think he’d abandoned her?

  In the days following, Damien went through the motions of preaching and ministering, keeping himself under rigid control, not allowing himself to think beyond the present moment. Any breach in the dam would let loose a torrent he knew he wouldn’t be able to shore up. Thankfully, he didn’t see Florence or Jonah for some days as Florence was in the final months of her confinement and keeping close to home.

  When he next saw Jonah at Newgate, he told his brother-in-law before he had a chance to ask about Lindsay, “Her father was deathly ill. She had to return home to nurse him.” He hurried on before his voice betrayed him. “He had no one else.”

  Jonah’s eyes scrutinized him. “You’ve been by yourself since when?”

  “Over a week now.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us? You could have come to stay at the farm.”

  He shook his head. “I’m closer to my ministry here in town.”

  Jonah put a hand on his arm. “Anything you need, you know you’ve only to ask.”

  He nodded, turning away. Thankfully, Jonah assumed it was a temporary absence.

  “How is her father? What have you heard?”

  “He is recovering slowly now.”

  He felt Jonah had more questions, but was grateful when he didn’t voice them.

  Later, he trudged wearily back to his rooms. He stopped short at the sight of the boy who’d come with the older girl that day to summon him to Abigail’s mother’s bedside. Memory of that day awakened painful memories.

  The boy met his gaze. Something about him bothered Damien, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. He stopped in front of him when the boy continued looking at him. “Does someone need me?”

  The boy looked down at his feet and kicked at the dirt, shaking his head. Damien noticed his cracked shoes. When he said nothing, Damien asked gently, “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I…uh…” He rubbed his nose and shuffled his feet more.

  “What is it, son?”

  At the word son, the boy gave a startled glance upward. Before Damien had a chance to decipher it, words tumbled from the boy. “I’m sorry for what we did to you that day. We shouldn’t’ve acted that way. It was mean and cruel taking your leg from you and leavin’ you like that.”

  Comprehension dawned on him. “You were part of the gang who attacked my wife and me?”

  The boy sniffed, refusing to look up, and nodded. “I’m sorry. Felt bad about it ever since, but I was afraid to speak out. Afraid the others would laugh at me and worse.”

  Damien nodded in understanding. “Yes, I’m sure you would have had to pay a stiff price for disobedience.” After a moment, he said, “Are you still part of that band?”

  He shook his head. “I run away every time I see ’em, but I’m afraid they might catch me.”

  Damien reached out a hand and pressed his shoulder. “I understand. You know there’s one who can protect you and defend you.”

  The boy stared at him. “You came to help that woman the other day. You didn’t care how poor she was. I never see no parson come into our neighborhood. You treated her like she was someone.”

  “She was someone. A child of God.”

  “Can…you pray for me? I don’t want them to catch me.”

  “Sure, son. Why don’t you come upstairs with me? Maybe I can find you a bite to eat.”

  About an hour later the boy left. Damien gave thanks to God for that soul and prayed for the wisdom to continue helping the boy, Peter. He sighed, feeling too tired to do anything more than sit in front of the fire.

  He didn’t realize he’d dozed off until a sharp knock jolted him awake. “Just a moment,” he called out, confu
sed for a moment, wondering if Peter had returned. Rising too quickly, he almost lost his balance.

  He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to awaken fully. When he opened the door, he stared at the stranger before him. A middle-aged man, a gentleman, dressed in sober dark garments, removed his tall beaver hat. “Reverend Hathaway?”

  “Mr. Hathaway.”

  The man handed him a calling card. “Mr. Goldsmith of Goldsmith, Quimby and Dean.”

  Damien frowned. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course. Forgive me.” His wits were still fuzzy from sleep.

  When the door had shut behind the gentleman, Damien indicated a chair by the fire. “Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you. Mr. Phillips is my client. He sent me to see you.”

  Lindsay’s father. What could it mean? He could only picture the man lying ill although Lindsay’s last letter had indicated he had pulled through the crisis. But what would he be doing dealing with his solicitor so soon after his illness?

  When the two were seated, Damien asked, “How is Mr. Phillips?”

  “Much better. Steadily on the mend. He has a strong constitution.” The man coughed discreetly. “The presence of his daughter, of course, aids him in his convalescence.”

  “Yes, of course,” Damien said.

  “Mr. Phillips had his daughter’s…er…precipitous and somewhat unorthodox marriage much on his mind—” he cleared his throat “—even before his illness.”

  Damien said nothing. There was no response to such a statement.

  “Indeed,” the solicitor went on when Damien didn’t speak, “for months he has been in consultation with me about the possibilities of an annulment.”

  Annulment. The word reverberated in the room. “How—” Damien cleared the hoarseness from his throat. “How is that possible?”

  The man crossed his legs. “It is not an easy procedure by any means, but not as impossible as it might seem. Given the most recent information Mr. Phillips has received, we now believe the way has been made clear for said procedure.”

  Damien shook his head to clear it. “Recent information?”