Page 59 of Miss Devoted
“Un diable.”
“Miss Feathers is tired,” Bea said, gaze on the man. “She is ready for a nap.”
“Please take Bea inside,” Michael said. “I’ll deal with this.”
The white-haired devil had blue eyes, pink cheeks, and a genial smile that likely concealed a forked tongue.
“If it isn’t young Mr. Delancey,” he said, “larking about town with a pair of beauties. Michael, have you no greeting for an old friend?”
The door opened, and an older lady in a plain gray dress and white mobcap appeared. “Inside with you, miss. I’ve a plate of shortbread fresh from the oven.”
“Child, go with Mrs. Harris,” Michael said. “I’ll be along shortly.” His voice was the measured, reserved voice of the man Psyche had met at Mrs. MacKay’s table weeks ago, the careful fellow who kept himself to himself.
“Do youpromise, Papa? You won’t just go back to Lambeth Palace far away?”
Michael did not flinch at Bea’s form of address, but Psyche nearly did.
“I promise forever,” he said, running his hand over Bea’s crown, “that I will not leave today without taking a proper farewell of you and Miss Feathers.”
When Bea was safely inside, Michael bowed to his visitor. “Mr. Arbuckle. Good day. A surprise to see you in London.”
“The day is just full of interesting developments,” Arbuckle replied. “Where are your manners, Delancey? Won’t you introduce me to your lady friend?”
His question skirted the edges of innuendo, or perhaps this creature thought himself a flirt. Michael had regaled Psyche with tales of Hannibal Arbuckle’s hypocrisy and meanness, which extended past shirking his duty to helpless babies to abusing his wife, curate, employees, and parishioners.
Hazel’s words came back to her—deal with the past—and here was Michael’s past, coiled and apparently ready to strike on his very doorstep.
Michael sent her a look, the plea all but veiled:Go, leave. Distance yourself from what’s happening here.
Psyche slipped her arm through his. “Please do introduce us, Mr. Delancey.”
“I would not want to keep you.”
Arbuckle put one foot on the bottom step and rested both hands on the top of his walking stick. The posture was informal and arrogant.
“Do as the lady says, Delancey.” An order, as if Arbuckle still held a place of authority in Michael’s life.
“We widows learn to do our own introducing. Saves time and bother,” Psyche said, bobbing a quarter of a curtsey. “Mrs. Psyche Fremont. And you would be?”
“Rev. Hannibal Arbuckle, late of Yorkshire, and Delancey’s superior until his recent move into exalted churchly circles. Delancey and I have matters to discuss, madam, that I’m certain you’d find of no interest. Perhaps you’d excuse us?”
He was presuming to dismiss her, albeit with another of those practiced smiles, and Michael might well prefer that she go. Psyche considered the situation as if she were preparing to sketch it: The holy bully had ambushed one of his favorite victims right on the street. Worse, Arbuckle had laid eyes on Bea, and Michael’s greatest fears involved exactly that nightmare.
What did it mean to fight for a future together, if not to stand side by side in the face of tribulations?
“I consider Mr. Delancey and his family my friends,” Psyche said, smiling back at Arbuckle. “If your business with him can be discussed on the very street, it can be discussed in front of me.”
Had she not been such a keen observer, she might have missed the flash of malevolence in Arbuckle’s eyes. There and gone, but breathtaking for its intensity. Arbuckle clearly lived to exert the power of his status, and Michael’s post on the Lambeth staff likely galled him unbearably.
“Very well,” Arbuckle said. “I’ll be brief. I’ve conferred with the authorities responsible for York’s poor relief, Delancey, and they keep meticulous records. You were gravely disobedient in the execution of your duties while serving as my curate, and I am prepared to see you held accountable.”
Michael laid his hand over Psyche’s. “I erred as any human will, but I am not ashamed of my work in York. Please give my regards to Mrs. Arbuckle and convey my wishes for her continued good health.”
Arbuckle blinked as if civility required translation. “My wife will testify against you. Half the congregation will condemn your actions if I tell them to. I gave you a charge, and you failed to carry it out.”
“What charge was that?” Psyche asked.
“This man was given the sacred duty of seeing a foundling safely into the care of those best situated to care for her, and he failed in that duty. He took matters into his own hands, and I suspect—I am convinced—the evidence of his perfidy just skipped up these steps after referring to the self-appointed authority in her life aspapa.”
