Page 44 of Miss Devoted
She did not take a chair, but rather, draped herself over Michael, arranged her skirts, and took a shawl from the back of the chaise. When she was thoroughly comfortable plastered to his chest, he settled his arms around her.
“You expect me to be coherent when we’re in such a posture?” he muttered, gathering her closer.
“I expect you to be enthralling. You start with ‘once upon a time,’ and I will close my eyes and see pictures to go with your words.”
Michael closed his eyes and reveled in the pleasures and torment of Psyche’s warmth and weight pressed intimately against him. Sexual longing came wandering out of long hibernation, but only to gild the sense of wonder filling Michael’s heart.
Psyche was so generous and so brave, and so lovely to hold.
“Once upon a time,” he said, “a very angry and ashamed young man went forth to the north, where his charge was to be an example of goodness to all who beheld him. That goal proved impossible, as did much about life in the vicarage…”
More words came, along with uncomfortable emotions—anger and frustration, but also a world of compassion for that angry, ashamed, achingly lonely young man. As Michael searched for ways to convey what had inspired those feelings, Psyche became a comfort, to his mind, to his heart, to his soul.
He’d promised he’d not become a nuisance, but had not the first notion how—having come this far with her—he’d ever let her go. How much more deeply would she lodge in his heart if they became lovers?
Michael Delancey shared with skilled actors and the best sermonizers the ability to enthrall with his voice. He didn’t rush this recitation, but rather, let it gain its own momentum while Psyche did indeed close her eyes and see pictures.
The bleak beauty of the Dales in winter, the heartsick young man working himself to exhaustion so far from home, the devil incarnate posing as his superior.
“Vicar Arbuckle looked the part,” Michael said, absently stroking Psyche’s back. “White hair, twinkling blue eyes, a ready smile—but for him, that was merely a role adopted to fool the bishops and wealthier congregants. With the widows and squires, he was joviality itself, but the scullery maid and boot-boy knew to remain at least arm’s length away from him.”
“What of his wife? Did he abuse her too?”
Michael arranged the shawl around Psyche’s shoulders. “His cruelty was more subtle. She was his spiritual beast of burden, visiting the sick and the elderly, attending all the lying-ins, until I arrived. My first inkling that something was amiss was when Mrs. Arbuckle attempted to walk to a farm out on the Dales despite a recent heavy snow. I realized she wouldn’t be averse to dying of exposure, though she’d deny the charge.”
“You were shocked.”
“I was appalled, but I knew better than to mention the matter to her husband. The cruelest thing he did, though, was force her to take foundlings to the poorhouse. She had no children—”
Psyche put her hand over Michael’s mouth. “Let me guess, the vicarage had ample room, the tithes were more than adequate, but Vicar condemned that child to the poorhouse simply because he could.”
Michael gently pried her hand free and kissed her fingers. “Arbuckle’s favorite aphorism was that one must submit to the will of God, though how exactly the Almighty conveyed to Arbuckle alone that a helpless baby was to starve to death when that child might have been raised in safety and comfort remains a mystery. Upon reflection, any child brought up in that vicarage would have had a hellish existence, for a time at least.”
Psyche settled back onto Michael’s chest. “You were not prepared for evil of that magnitude in the vicarage.”
“I was a lamb to slaughter. My father’s home was a place of refuge and comfort. Papa is not given to ebullience, but he’s kindly and has a ready sense of humor. Judge not, first cast the beam out of thine own eye, and so forth. He rebukes with silences and inspires by example. I was not at all prepared for the reality of Hannibal Arbuckle.”
“And I thought my drawing master was a paragon of enlightenment and artistic integrity, even if he did snore.”
A peaceful silence took root, while Psyche relished the rise and fall of Michael’s chest, the steadiness of his breathing and the steadiness of his resolve. He would be a considerate, relentless, passionate lover, and that thought pleased her.
She could be considerate, relentless, and passionate too—with him. The thought opened up vistas of hope and joy, though now was not the time to explore those possibilities.
“What did you do, Michael?”
His hand on her hair went still, and he hugged her close. “The next time a foundling turned up at the vicarage, I stole the baby. I was ordered to take the child to the poorhouse in York, though of course she wouldn’t last a week in that environment. Her parents were good folk, a young couple eking out life on a sheep farm, but flu got first the mother, who’d never really recovered from childbed, then the father. The harvest had been miserable, foot rot had decimated the herds, and the baby had no family.”
“So you became her family.”
Michael’s hold eased. “I found a place for her other than the poorhouse and helped support her for a time. I did this, even though her parents had left a will naming Arbuckle as the child’s guardian.”
Michael excelled at cuddling, or perhaps, like Psyche, he’d been too long uncuddled. “What sort of guardian commends his ward to certain death at the poorhouse, then sits down to his Sunday roast?”
“I don’t know. To this day, I don’t know, and to this day, Arbuckle presides over the major services while working his curate half to death and casually tormenting his aging wife.”
“That will is a problem, isn’t it?”
She felt him nod. “The child is legally Arbuckle’s ward. If he learns of her existence, then I am a kidnapper, and he will delight in seeing me hanged.”
