Page 29 of Miss Devoted
“Arbuckle said you lacked warmth of feeling, were stubborn, and failed to respect church doctrine as you ought. He added a few polite flourishes—‘with proper guidance and time,’ et cetera—but he was sabotaging your fortunes in the Church, Delancey. My superiors want me to make further inquiries of him, but if you’ve no ambition to leave Lambeth, I’ll let the matter drop for now. Arbuckle likely resents that you won the post you have, and he can’t yet work your successor into the ground as effectively as he did you.”
“I won’t argue with your assessment. Mr. Arbuckle and I were not compatible as vicar and curate.” Or much of anything.
“A pity you could not try for the diplomatic corps. Back to work, Delancey, and I will take your endorsement of Ingram under advisement.”
“Before I resume my duties, might I make one other suggestion, sir?”
Helmsley’s expression informed Michael that his suggestion had best be humble, quick, and untroublesome.
“You may.”
“When I arrived here, the correspondence was woefully behind. We were months replying to some inquiries, and in many cases, that rendered our efforts all but pointless. Because the staff has worked without ceasing and taken some organizational measures, we are all but caught up.”
Helmsley came alert in a subtle fashion. “Organizational measures?”
“We took the time to put together a book of sample replies for the issues that come up most frequently—infidelity, intemperance, a flirtatious curate—we estimate that about a dozen issues account for three-quarters of our work. The same scriptural references usually apply from letter to letter, so we decided which were most appropriate in each situation and incorporated them into sample replies.”
Helmsley consulted a pocket watch encased in chased gold. “You’re merely copying the same template over and over?”
Well, yes, and Helmsley didn’t mind that they’d become more efficient. He minded that he’d not come up with the means to accomplish that feat.
“Not copying, sir. We refer to the templates to get us started rather than perusing Proverbs from start to finish in preparation for every drafting exercise. That way, we aren’t constantly interrupting each other for confirmation of this or that citation.”
“And whose idea was this catalog, Mr. Delancey?”
Michael wished he had Danner’s ability to look cherubically innocent at all times. “You gave us the idea, sir.”
“I did?”
“Your letters of recommendation are model works of prose, and they reliably contain the same elements from letter to letter. A hearty endorsement, a reference to a few outstanding character traits, a wish for the success of the candidate in question. Very efficient, and yet, you spare yourself the tedium of creating an entirely fresh composition for each letter.”
Helmsley was both lazy and smart, delegating every task he could and reducing the few jobs he tended to personally to their least onerous components.
“One strives to be efficient,” Helmsley said, snapping the watch closed. “What was your suggestion?”
“Give the fellows a half day,” Michael said. “They spun a mountain of straw into gold over the winter, spring approaches, and the lowliest scullery maid gets a half day her first week on the job. The Sabbath is not quite the day of rest for the clerks that it might be for others, and yet, they are as deserving of respite as a scullery maid.”
Helmsley looked intrigued. “You say my approach to letters of recommendation gave you lot the inspiration for your template scheme?”
“That it did.”
“Well, if my example has inspired the staff to such heights of productivity, I suppose we can allow a half day on Wednesdays on a trial basis. The staff will be excused at one of the clock, provided all correspondence remains current.”
Michael bowed, knowing exactly how he’d spend that half day. “Thank you, sir. If you hear a hymn of thanksgiving coming from the clerk’s office, you will know the cause.”
Helmsley assayed his genial superior smile again. Before he’d resumed the seat at his desk, he’d doubtless begin puzzling out how to take credit for a near miracle he’d had nothing to do with.
No matter. The entire discussion of a half day had been—for Michael—beside the point.
He returned to his office and closed the door. He tried stretching. He tried reciting the Lord’s Prayer in French. He tried sitting at his desk and plowing through more correspondence while ignoring a ball of rage that burned more brightly than the flames of hell.
Thirty minutes later, he admitted defeat and took a leaf from Psyche Fremont’s book. “Damn you, Hannibal Arbuckle. Damn your arrogant, lazy hypocrisy and bedamned to your polite flourishes too. May you rot in a purgatory populated with corrupt, lying churchmen and managed with the same lack of compassion that feckless babies find in the poorhouse.”
The quiet, private cursing helped some.
Not enough.
ChapterSeven
