Page 48 of Miss Devoted
“Papa?” The child’s voice was little more than a whisper in the dark. “Papa, are you here?”
“I most assuredly am,” Michael said, shifting to sit at her hip.
She flipped back the covers and buried herself against his chest. “I dreamed you were gone away. Far away, and Thad and I couldn’t come with you. I was scared. Did you come because I was scared?”
He’d come because he’d been happy, and he was still happy, in the part of his heart that hadn’t ever thought to confide his burdens to another human being. Another part of his heart, that loved Bea and Thad, chided him for the risk a late-night visit might entail if Helmsley’s spies were vigilant.
“I came because I was passing by and thought to look in here without disturbing you. I’m sorry you were frightened. Finster was sitting by the fire when I arrived, keeping you safe for me.”
An unfair burden on Finster, and one Michael envied her.
A particularly strong draft gusted down the chimney and caused the fire in the hearth to flare. By the light of the flames, Michael saw a pale, worried little girl, trying to make sense of a confusing life.
“Why can’t you stay with us, Papa? All the other papas live with their children. You come only on Sunday. I want to go with you to Lambeth Palace, no matter how far away it is.”
“I live in a single room, Bea. No place for stuffed animals or toy soldiers. Barely any heat. I haven’t a cat, and all I do is work. I have one narrow cot, no books, no slates to draw on or chalk to draw with. You and Thad would not enjoy living with me. You’d hardly see any more of me than you already do.”
In another year or two, she’d have the mental wherewithal to offer the predictable retorts.Then why not live here with us? Why stay where it’s cold and cramped when we have plenty of coal and blankets here?
She burrowed closer. “Promise you will always come to visit, Papa. Visit as much as you can. Don’t go far away. Please.”
“Only as far as Lambeth, and only because I must.” He stopped short of promising that someday they would live together, and someday he would do as the other papas did: Take his daughter to the park regularly, sit beside her in church, read her stories every night at bedtime. Comfort her when the nightmares came, guide her when life’s questions proved too vexing.
He wished all of that for them, but could promise none of it. Not until Hannibal Arbuckle—a notably robust specimen—was playing chess with Old Scratch, and maybe not even then.
“Will you stay tonight?” Bea asked. “You never stay with us. You only visit.”
“I will stay for a time. Shall I sing to you?”
She let him go. “Yes, please, about the elfin knight and the clever lady. I like that one. She’s smarter than he is—she tells him to do impossible things, and he has to do them—and they get married forever.”
“Finster,” Michael said, “I have my orders. Thank you for keeping watch.”
“Aye, sir. Until Sunday.” She left without bothering to light a carrying candle.
“Tuck in the covers, Papa, then you can sing to me.”
Michael cocked his head. “I must be having trouble with my hearing. My dearest, sweetest, most darling daughter would never forget her please and thank-yous.” Unless her father wasn’t on hand to offer a thousand gentle reminders.
“Papa, would youpleasetuck in my covers?”
“Of course.” Michael complied, making a great production out of ensuring Bea’s covers were snugly anchored by the mattress. He’d been observing that ritual with her since she’d first slept in a trundle bed rather than a crib, and yet, someday soon, she’d be too grown-up for such fussing.
And I am missing years that we will never have back.
As he launched into the tale of the brash elfin knight and the ingenious lady who turned a schemer into a suitor by demanding that he do the impossible for her, he comforted himself with a familiar argument: Yes, he was an absent father, but Bea and Thad were alive, safe, and well cared for. One must count blessings rather than regrets.
He sang on, even after Bea’s breathing had fallen into the slow, rhythmic pattern of slumber, and another thought occurred to him: Psyche would tell him to count blessingsandregrets. Both mattered. Both were true.
As he drew the covers up around Thad’s bony little shoulders and kissed Bea’s forehead, Michael’s joy from his evening with Psyche dimmed.
He would not become a nuisance to her—he barely had time to spend one night a week with her—and he would become her lover. The invitation had been unspoken and unmistakable. For a time, they’d offer each other comfort, pleasure, and companionship of a limited sort.
But only for a time. Sooner or later, Psyche would remove to France or Italy, where women were taken seriously as artists. Germany and Russia were also possibilities. America doubtless had its share of wealthy families eager to immortalize themselves on canvas.
Michael could not go with Psyche, and she could not set aside her artistic ambitions merely to be the paramour of a penniless cleric. Clerics were not supposed to have paramours, in any case, though Danner at least honored that rule in the breach.
Michael let himself back out into the cold night, locked the door, pulled on his gloves, and began the trek to the river. Spring in all its glory was soon to arrive and then summer, of course, but inevitably, winter would return.
