Page 33 of Miss Devoted
He was all tidied up, cravat neatly knotted, hair damp-combed, cheeks gleaming, his coat folded over his arm. That he should be dressed while Psyche lounged about in her robe and slippers felt very informal indeed.
“Your side seam was coming undone,” she said. “Plenty of tea in the pot. You can pour out for us both.”
“Two cups,” he said, taking a seat at the table and surveying the tea tray. “The kitchen has noted that you have a guest.”
“Hazel has guests occasionally, particularly once the Season starts. Today, she will sleep until noon, though whether she’s sleeping alone or in company is her business. No untoward gossip will reach your superiors.” Psyche knotted off the thread, snipped the end, and passed over the waistcoat. “You are welcome.”
Michael studied the repaired seam, shrugged into the waistcoat, and buttoned up, but left off his coat. “Thank you. You made a much better job of it than I would have done. My superiors are very selective about which bits of untoward gossip they trouble over. Steal from the poor box, and you’re doomed. Keep a mistress in Chelsea, and as long as you’re a bachelor, they wink. You never did answer my question about supper with Dorcas and MacKay.”
He poured for them both. Psyche served up the ham and omelet, and the sun peeked above the horizon. Morning light likely did not flatter her, but Michael was the last man to judge anybody on the basis of appearances.
“Another dinner with the MacKays might be imprudent,” Psyche said. “I like them, and Hazel considers Dorcas a friend, but maintaining my reserve in your presence will be taxing. I might slip and call you Mr. Smith or pat your arm or smile at you.”
“Horrors. Such familiarity. Did you notice Mrs. Buckthorn patting Colonel Goddard’s arm?”
“I am not Mrs. Buckthorn, and you are not the happily married colonel.”
Michael ate with the polite dispatch of a man who appreciated his victuals, a man who had places to go and roles to play. Psyche liked seeing him half dressed, freshly shaved, and well rested.
Liked it too much.
“I am a bachelor who spends most of his waking hours in a cramped office scribbling away on such topics as whether a woman can chair a congregational pastoral committee when no men are willing to hold that office. I want to reply that yes, women are perfectly qualified for such responsibilities—we’ve had a female monarch serving as the head of our whole denomination, haven’t we? I must instead avoid alluding to that obvious historical fact and similarly avoid recalling that women led congregations rather than committees in the early church.”
He speared a bite of ham, then put down his fork, the meat untasted. “I will instead,” he went on, “emphasize that committees are the province of individual congregations, and we must allow women to make whatever contributions they can, the better to shelter their weaker natures in the citadel of theological… I write tripe. Utter, reeking tripe, and I am praised and even paid for it.”
Steam curled up from their plates, and beyond the window, a pigeon strutted about on the sunny balustrade of a balcony otherwise draped in snow. The bright sunshine made the day look warm, while the air outside remained frigid.
“This is what went wrong in Yorkshire, isn’t it?” Psyche asked. “You grasped that the church your father had served his whole life was not a church you could respect.”
A bleakness came into Michael’s eyes, or rather, the bleakness that always lurked in his gaze became more apparent.
“I studied for ordination because it was expected of me, and the whole time, I might have been apprenticing to a tailor for all the spiritual significance the curriculum held for me. I don’t regard honor as a spiritual matter, but simply a moral compulsion. To be decent, kind, honest… One doesn’t need years of Latin or reams of Scripture to aspire to those goals.”
She patted his hand. “You are a heretic. I like them even more than I like radicals.”
“Suffice it to say, I was at the very least unsuited to my post in Yorkshire. Had I not spent those years in the north, I might have slipped into the vicar’s role at St. Mildred’s, or another congregation like it, part social club, part propaganda mill for the crown, but capable of much good too. St. Mildred’s is full of kind people who mean well. Nonetheless, I gained a wider perspective on church leadership in the north, and I cannot ignore what I learned there.”
He had taken vows that had not gone at all according to plan, in other words. Not a simple or pleasant fate. “Can you find other employment?”
He lifted the spoon from the honeypot and let a golden skein of sweetness catch the morning light.
“I am well compensated clerking at Lambeth,” he said, “and my father is proud of me, though he shouldn’t be. Maybe once Papa is gone, I can turn my back on the Church, but for now, I honestly need the money. I spent my time in Yorkshire paying off debts incurred in arrogance and ignorance, and that has set me back compared to other young men. Failed priests are not easily employed outside the Church, so I bide my time and count my blessings.”
His tone had turned ironic. He ceased playing with the honey and resumed eating.
In a sense, Michael was admitting that he, too, could not have children. He could not afford offspring or the wife who’d bear them. For him, the problem was more theoretical, if it was a problem, but he was still held back, limited, frustrated, and soldiering on as best he could.
“I would be delighted to join you for dinner at your sister’s, Mr. Delancey.”
“Would you?”
“Very, and I might even pat your arm, but only the once.”
His perfectly symmetrical brows knit. “Should I be worried or flattered?”
“For God’s sake, we both worry more than enough. Let us agree that we will not be a source of worry for each other.”
He studied her for a long moment, as if deciding the best manner to begin a sketch. “That much, I have to give. We will not cause each other worry, and I will look forward to seeing you at Dorcas’s tomorrow evening.”
