Page 27 of Miss Devoted
“That’s better.” Psyche did not hug him—it washis turnto hug her, apparently—but rested in his embrace, her hands flat against his chest. She wanted to feel all the muscle and sinew she’d seen on so many occasions, wanted to sense the beating of his heart.
Desire tried to wedge its way into her awareness, but she was adept at ignoring that nuisance. The closeness, the warmth, the pleasure were sufficient without the distraction of howling animal spirits.
“You have a talent for this, Mr. Delancey.”
“Michael. We heretics have all sorts of unexpected skills. If I don’t turn loose of you soon, I will never survive the trip across the river.”
“The coach awaits, and you will take the leftovers.” What a delight, to converse while being hugged.
“I must accept the quiche,” he said, “because Hazel abhors such a rich, delicious offering, and good food should not go to waste. I am on to you, Mrs. Fremont.”
She stepped back by supreme effort of will. “Psyche. Will I see you next week, Mr.—Michael?”
“You will. Archangels hurling thunderbolts would not keep me away. Until then.”
She passed him the food and stood grinning like a happy drunk long after his departure.
“Have a seat, Mr. Delancey,” Helmsley said. He’d perfected the hearty good cheer of the competent administrator, and yet, he was issuing a command rather than an invitation. He’d also perfected the appearance of a churchly man of business—trim, graying, with shrewd blue eyes and immaculate hands.
His smile was facile and sympathetic, while his devotion to his post was ruthless.
Helmsley’s calculated charm had a reptilian quality that Michael had first encountered in Rev. Hannibal Arbuckle up in Yorkshire, and that put Helmsley firmly in Michael’s do-not-trust category.
Michael took one of the legendarily uncomfortable seats before Helmsley’s desk. The fire roared in the hearth. Decanters full of good vintages were neatly arranged on the sideboard. The rendering of Canterbury Cathedral over the mantel was sunny, majestic, and hopelessly dull.
“I trust your family is well,” Michael said, by way of getting the conversation past the starting line. If Helmsley meant to offer him a congregation, Michael would decline. If Helmsley sought to parse some delicate bit of church politics, Michael would politely weigh in on the side of common sense and kindness.
“My mother thrives, and my sister endures,” Helmsley said, tossing half a scoop of coal onto the already blazing fire. “I’ve invited them to visit Town in the spring. We Londoners never see the sights unless we have company from the shires, do we?”
The sights being the pitiful specimens in the Menagerie, the ostentation of the Sunday carriage parade in Hyde Park, and streetwalkers without number outside the fashionable theaters?
“I do try to stop by St. Paul’s from time to time,” Michael said, “but you have a point. I grew up here and stopped seeing Town for the marvel it can be.” A few nights in the gaming hells would do that, if the plethora of beggars did not.
Helmsley watched the flames eat into the fresh fuel. “Did you miss London when you were up north?”
That question was not by way of awarding Michael his own pulpit, which was a relief. “I missed my family terribly. The Dales are beautiful, though they can also be lonely for a young man unfamiliar with the north.”
“Homesickness is a cross we bear at your stage in life. I’m still attached to the old place in Hampshire, but then I make my annual pilgrimage, and I see the oak in the courtyard has some dead limbs, the butler is hard of hearing, and Mama is as querulous as ever. My longing for London by about the third day of my rural visit astounds me.”
“And now you are back at your post and missing Hampshire?”
Helmsley smiled and moved to the seat behind his desk. “Oh, not yet. That will take at least until autumn. What am I do to with you, Mr. Delancey?”
Unease slithered through Michael’s gut. “I beg your pardon?”
“I doubt you’ve ever begged anybody for anything.” Helmsley regarded Michael across a leather blotter ornately tooled along the borders. The wax jack, pen tray, and standish were silver, and an elegant folding knife inlaid with nacre lay beside the white quills in the tray.
Mrs. Harris could teach Helmsley a great deal about economies.
“We’re preparing for the annual spring migration, Delancey. Curates looking to move up, the old guard ready to step aside. A younger son comes into an unexpected inheritance here, a parson goes astray there and must seek his fortune among the worldly. The bishops and the landed class call the tune to a significant extent, but Lambeth gets our oar in too. We know bailing against the tide of correspondence or delving into theological arcana isn’t everybody’s cup of tea, no matter how sincere his vocation.”
“I enjoy my work,” Michael said, which was somewhat true. Peace and quiet, warmth, the passing camaraderie of the other clerks were comforting. Then too, a regular pay packet made any amount of tedium worth bearing.
Helmsley sat back. “Your enthusiasm for hours of repetitive correspondence is a subtle thing, Delancey. Wouldn’t you rather be shepherding a flock, as your father has done so well for so long?”
The confiding tone of the question assumed an affirmative answer, and the allusion to following in Papa’s footsteps was calculated as well.
“No, actually,” Michael said. “I do not seek a congregation of my own at this time. I all but managed the parish in Yorkshire for five years, and I did so without a vicar’s authority or remuneration. The work is harder than the average congregant realizes, with irregular hours, much sorrow and sickness, and endless demands on one’s compassion and theological creativity. My vicar invariably disapproved of my sermons and instead forced me to read his tirades week after week while he tarried in York with his lady and claimed her health meant he could not leave her side.”
