Page 81 of Miss Devoted
Michael’s pace was deliberate enough that even a small child could keep up. What could he possibly have to say to the daughter whom he was preparing to hand over to the devil?
“Wait inside the church, Hazel,” Psyche said, gathering up her reticule. “Take the side entrance. Let Vicar Tom know Michael and Bea have arrived.” Psyche popped down to the cobbles Henderson-style and waited for Hazel to descend more slowly.
“He looks calm,” Hazel said. “I would have brought a blunderbuss and lurked behind the lych-gate.”
“Michael has other weapons.” But would he use them? “I am usually glad I have keen powers of observation, but seeing him with Bea, the child so downcast, marching toward their doom… I wish I was blind, Hazel.”
“No, you don’t. I’ll be inside, where at least the wind hasn’t turned the air to ice. Be careful, my dear.” She patted Psyche’s arm and made a quick progress through the gate that led past the graveyard and around to the side entrance.
A large coach lumbered up to St. Mildred’s steps, and two men got out, Arbuckle—stout, resplendent in Bond Street finery, his walking stick gleaming—and a trim older fellow, who followed Arbuckle slowly up the steps. Helmsley, no doubt.
Psyche ascended behind them and positioned herself so the child was between her and Michael. The girl was staring at the gray flagstones and probably wondering what on earth was to become of her.
“Is this your leman, Delancey?” Arbuckle asked.
The other fellow winced.
Michael bowed to Psyche. “Mrs. Fremont, may I make known to you Mr. John Helmsley, my former superior at Lambeth. You’ve met Hannibal Arbuckle. Mrs. Fremont offered to be present by way of moral support. I consider her a friend. If you offer her further insult, Arbuckle, particularly before a child, you must be prepared to name your seconds.”
Psyche expected the churchman—Helmsley—to speak up, to pour oil on troubled waters. He maintained a watchful silence and avoided so much as glancing at Bea.
“Mr. Arbuckle.” Psyche barely nodded.
“Come here, Letitia.” Arbuckle waggled gloved fingers at Bea, who was still staring at the ground. “Are you deaf, girl? I saidcome here.”
The nursemaid, hovering a few feet off, bristled.
“A moment,” Michael said. “Take a good look at the girl, Arbuckle. You saw your supposed ward earlier this week, in my company. Is this the same girl?”
Arbuckle’s hand returned to his side. “What nonsense are you about, Delancey? You stole the child from me, and now you’re giving her back.”
“I have admitted nothing of the kind. You claim she was stolen from you. I recall a foundling brought to the vicarage, a little girl of less than a year, with blond hair. Is this that child?”
Arbuckle stared at the top of the girl’s bonnet. “Show me your face, Letitia.”
The child gazed at him, though the brim of her bonnet obscured her expression from Psyche’s view.
“That’s her.” Arbuckle was very sure of his conclusion.
“The child whom you directed me to take to a frigid, disease-ridden, wretched poorhouse had blond hair. This child is a brunette. Are you still sure this is your ward?”
A stillness came over Helmsley at Michael’s words.
Arbuckle did not so much as glance at the girl. “Of course I’m certain. I know my own ward.”
“The girl whom you condemned to certain death would be about six had somebody intervened to spare her life. You contend that this girl is the right age to be your alleged ward?”
How could Michael be so calm? So detached? Psyche wanted to fling the vilest profanities at Arbuckle, but for Michael’s sake, for the sake of the child, she held her tongue.
“Of course she’s the right age,” Arbuckle snapped. “That is my ward, you are her kidnapper, and I have reached the limit of my patience with you.”
“Very well.” Michael dropped the child’s hand, and a vast emptiness opened in Psyche’s heart.
The girl looked up at Michael, who smiled slightly. “He says he’s your guardian. I dispute that claim.”
“For God’s sake,” Arbuckle said, snatching the child by the arm and starting down the terrace steps. “You can dispute my claim with the hangman. My next stop is the magistrate. Helmsley, I have given this scoundrel enough warning that he can decamp for the Antipodes and spare the busybodies at Lambeth any scandal. I vow, the Lord’s work grows more onerous—”
“You come back ’ere!” the nursemaid shrieked, starting after him. “You get your filthy, lying paws off my Jenny.”
