A Bride Of Honor. Ruth Axtell Morren

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СКАЧАТЬ removed her apron from the hook and began to tie it behind her. Jonah immediately took over the task. “Thank you,” she murmured. “What I mean is, these women are ladies, undoubtedly from Mayfair. They probably only came to our chapel to ogle the ‘pardoned felon’ this morning.”

      With a final tug on the bow, Jonah straightened. His heavy black eyebrows knit thoughtfully. “Did you think so? I confess I didn’t get any such impression. The older lady seemed quite amiable and the younger—” he looked across at Damien and winked “—why, she only had eyes for our good parson here.”

      They turned to look at Damien, and he felt himself flush. He glanced down, closely examining the narrow brim of his low-crowned clergyman’s hat which he held in his hands.

      “Nonsense,” Florence said, smoothing the front of her apron. “I admit, they were ladylike enough, but to have them here the first time you lay eyes on them?”

      Jonah scrubbed his hands clean at the pump, took up a linen towel and leaned against the soapstone sink, eyeing Florence. “Don’t you think you’re good enough for the likes o’ them?”

      Florence took his place at the pump. “That’s beside the point. They are obviously ladies of rank who accepted your unexpected invitation out of a sense of obligation. They would have found it impolite to do otherwise.”

      Jonah crossed his burly arms across his wide chest. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. The young one was eating up the parson’s words, eh, Damien?” Jonah’s green eyes danced with mirth.

      Damien hung up his hat. “I didn’t notice.”

      Jonah chuckled. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t, being the godly man you are.”

      Damien crossed the kitchen to the door opposite, hoping to escape everyone’s attention.

      Florence sniffed. “Most of the congregation is usually held captive by Damien’s sermons, so that is nothing unusual. Besides, why should you be so interested in distracting Damien with some foolishness about a young lady’s attention?”

      Once again, Jonah put his arm around his future wife. “I suppose, dear heart, since you’ve made me such a happy man, I only wish the same for the preacher.” He looked at Damien over Florence’s head. “The good book says it’s not good for man to be alone. Since I’ll be stealing his only kin from him, I feel an obligation of sorts to make up for his loss.”

      Damien was touched by the sincerity of Jonah’s words beneath the lighthearted tone, even if the man’s concern was misplaced. Before he could think how to change the subject, Florence turned around, disengaging herself from Jonah’s hold.

      “In any case, you really should think twice before inviting someone to tea.” She’d softened her tone, and Damien realized she was truly worried about the coming afternoon. “You tell him,” she said to Damien.

      Damien put his hand on the doorknob. “I would never presume to curtail Jonah’s hospitable inclinations. That is what we are here for, whether those invited belong to our parish or not.” He smiled to ease his sister’s concern. “Don’t distress yourself about this afternoon. I’m sure everything will be fine if you behave with your usual amiability. Our guests will most likely be bored by our limited conversation and make their visit short. They’ll feel under no obligation to return the invitation, and we’ll not see them again.” He nodded at Jonah’s frown. “You did right in issuing the invitation.”

      Before anyone could comment further on their impending guests, Damien exited the kitchen and headed to his study.

      Once he’d entered the quiet of his private sanctuary, he could put aside his mask of serenity and contemplate the coming afternoon.

      He hadn’t felt so nervous since the first time he’d had to stand in the pulpit and preach. He glanced down at his black cassock. That presented another problem. Would he wear it during the ladies’ visit, or remove it and appear in his dark jacket and knee breeches, the way he usually did for such social calls, the only sign of his office the two white, rectangular preaching bands hanging from his collar?

      He removed the cassock now, unbuttoning the long row of buttons down the front, as his mind struggled with this new dilemma. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice about the matter. But now, dread of removing the ankle-length gown rose up in him.

      In the church this morning, under the cassock and surplice, his wooden leg had not been so apparent. In his knee breeches, however, the dark peg strapped to his left leg called attention to itself like a lightning-scarred tree in a healthy forest.

      He hung up the cassock, trying to ignore the thump of the wooden leg as he walked back to his desk. He sat down heavily, his fingers rubbing his left knee absently as he stared out the window to the garden beyond. Why did it matter now? He’d accepted the loss of his leg so many years ago that he hardly gave it any thought anymore. But on the brink of the impending visit by a lovely young lady who’d eyed him—if not the way Jonah described, at least with some measure of admiration—his peg leg loomed like a great, hulking deformity.

      Today was no different than any other, he reasoned with himself. His congregation—the entire parish, even the prisoners at Newgate, where he frequently ministered, and the inmates of the Marylebone workhouse and orphanage—had grown accustomed to his disability.

      It was only when his leg hindered him in his activities, or when he was meeting people for the first time, that he was at all aware of it. But that awareness usually passed quickly.

      “Stop it, Damien,” he chided himself in a harsh whisper. “You’re overreacting! It’s nothing but a simple tea with some parishioners. Nothing you haven’t done a hundred times before.”

      Taking up his feather quill and twirling it between his fingers, he reminded himself that he was the curate of a small parish. He was the Lord’s servant, not a gentleman to worry about his appearance. He was here to meet the needs of his flock.

      But the young lady’s heart-shaped face and large brown eyes flashed across his memory, and he recoiled from the moment she’d meet him without the long cassock. He steeled himself for the disgust that would cloud her pretty features as soon as her gaze dropped downward.

      Damien swiped a hand across his eyes to dispel the image and pulled toward him the large, worn Bible that lay open on the desk. The best antidote to such foolishness was God’s word. It was balm to his spirit, solace to his tortured thoughts.

      The young lady had clearly been hungry for God’s word. Damien bowed his head and closed his eyes, praying for something to give her when she came this afternoon. She was a precious lamb, and perhaps the Lord had sent her to St. George’s that morning to receive something from Him. He prayed for guidance in ascertaining what that something might be.

       Chapter Two

       L indsay’s heartbeat quickened as soon as the curate appeared in the doorway. She’d had to hide her dismay when she’d first entered and not seen him in the drawing room. For a moment, she’d feared he would be absent for tea. Now, an enormous relief overtook her at the sight of his tall frame.

      “Good afternoon,” he said. The curate had such a warm smile, she couldn’t help smiling back. “Good afternoon,” she replied with a curtsy.

      He began walking toward them. She sucked in her breath. He was lame! Just below his left knee was СКАЧАТЬ