Page 61 of Miss Devoted
How quickly Michael grasped the expedient measure. “I know somebody—Ricardo—Henderson’s man of artistic business. Has a shop on Tallis Close, off Pickering Street near the Handsome Hog. He’s an engraver of no little talent and a friend of my late spouse’s. He’d oblige your request and keep his mouth shut.”
They walked along in silence as darkness began to fall, and winter’s chill returned.
“I’ve already committed one felony,” Michael said, “and probably a dozen mortal sins. I’m reluctant to rely on more felonies to best my enemy.”
“Well, prayer hasn’t yielded the desired result, has it?” At some point, Psyche had discarded her polite widow’s walk and begun striding along at Henderson’s more robust gait.
“If Arbuckle publicly involves the authorities, Bea will remain in his care,” Michael said, though he didn’t sound convinced of his own words. “He won’t create a scandal and then be seen to shuffle her aside. She’ll be miserable in his vicarage, but she’s canny. If I explain to her that obedience to Arbuckle is her only hope of a peaceful life, she’ll figure out a way to be obedient.”
“As you did?”
The neighborhood grew subtly finer, the streets wider, the carriages more fashionable, while Psyche felt as if she were escorting Michael into the underworld.
“Michael, you cannot hand the child over to a devil. Come to Rome with me.”
“You do not want to go to Rome, and Arbuckle is mean enough to pursue me even there. Running isn’t the answer. If I explain to Helmsley the evil Arbuckle would have committed…”
“Helmsley will think only of protecting the Church, and that means you hand Bea over and slink off to teach Latin to squirming little boys in some fourth-rate public school.”
“And in that case, I am to be grateful for even that much liberty.”
They turned onto Psyche’s street, and the lights of her home glowed warmly in the chilly gloom.
“Then don’t remove with me to Rome,” she said, “but go somewhere. Take the children and find a place Arbuckle can’t reach you.”
Michael trotted at her side up the steps. “You manage disguises well, Psyche. The biddable wife, the contented widow, the aspiring young fellow at the back of Berthold’s classes. I lack your talent for dissembling, and I don’t want Bea to have to learn that skill either.”
Not a skill, a necessity for survival, and one that had come at some cost, despite its benefits. “What will you do now, Michael?”
He took her hand and bowed politely. “I will not leave without taking a proper farewell from you, if that’s at all possible. Arbuckle has given me three days—biblical of him—and I will use that time to consult what oracles I can and to prepare for the worst if necessary.”
“Those are not fighting words, Michael.”
He kissed her cheek. “Nor are they words of surrender. I love you.” He was down the steps and onto the walkway before Psyche thought to call after him.
“And I love you!”
Her declaration echoed in the darkness until Michael was lost to her sight.
Michael walked through the gathering gloom and set aside the shock of finally having to deal with Arbuckle—time to reel with disbelief later. He focused on Psyche’s question: What to do now?
She’d invited him to go with her to Rome, but had not offered to go elsewhere with him. Michael grasped why: Bea’s welfare must come first, and while Psyche was willing to fight for a life with Michael, her commitment had not yet had time to extend to Bea, a life in hiding, and an end to all artistic aspirations.
Damn Arbuckle and his infernal skill with an ambush.
Psyche grasped the gravamen of the threat: Arbuckle would produce perjured testimony, false witnesses, forged letters hiring the fictitious wet nurse, and every other indicia of official truth, while Michael had…
All the love for Bea in the world, but no witnesses, no documents, no legal right to raise any child…
He paused on the walkway before a thronged intersection. Carriages, drays, phaetons, and pushcarts filled the streets, the mild day having roused London to greater activity.
“Be you Preacher?”
The boy had no scarf, no gloves, and a spectacularly dirty face. He exhibited the pallor of the London native and looked as if he hadn’t eaten for a week.
“I am known as Preacher in some surrounds.”
“Because you don’t preach, Ma says. You saved my sissy.” The boy hugged a too large, buttonless coat closer. “Ma lost her milk. Sissy were hungry. She cried all the time, then she stopped crying, and Ma said Sissy had to go to the church steps because Preacher would see to her.”
