Page 65 of Miss Devoted
By the time Arbuckle had recited his lies for Helmsley and the bishops, he’d believe himself Bea’s rescuer and the right hand of celestial justice.
He lied even to himself. Especially to himself.
The truth was, Michael knew not what to do. “I need help,” he said, wondering why the words produced an odd aching sensation in his chest. “I need help, badly, and I…”
“You have allies, Delancey. Believe that if you believe nothing else. You have allies, and you will not ride into battle alone.”
Michael did not sit so much as he collapsed into the cozy reading chair. He had the strangest urge to wrap himself in the shawl and weep. Instead, he folded the soft wool neatly over the arm of the chair and resumed talking.
“Michael will try to best Arbuckle with logic,” Psyche said. “With reason and honesty and integrity. He’s a lamb to slaughter, Hazel, and even if he isn’t criminally charged, his heart will still be broken. He won’t miss his calling—he doesn’t have a calling, not for the toadying and hypocrisy that passes for the Church in its present form—but he will die inside to know he failed his daughter.”
Psyche paced Hazel’s elegant parlor, obscenities and curses welling in several languages.
“You will die inside because his suffering is your suffering.” Hazel, resplendent in a dark green morning gown and gold shawl, had tucked herself in a corner of the sofa. “Please do stop pacing, Psyche. One grows dizzy watching you.”
Psyche took the other end of the sofa. “I never understood why men would purposely pummel each other at the boxing salons. Now, I feel as if I could plant every bishop in the realm a facer.”
“And be arrested for assault. The situation wants strategy, Psyche.” The situation apparently also wanted tea. Hazel poured out and passed Psyche a cup. “Do not smash my porcelain. This service is a recent gift from Shreve.”
Psyche took a sip, despite wanting to hurl the cup against the hearthstones. “Perceptive of him, to make you a present of something both pretty and useful.”How can I be useful to Michael?
“Delancey refused your invitation to flee to Rome?”
“He brushed it aside and cited—I wanted to cosh him with my reticule—my artistic ambitions.”
“Ironic. You have long sought to have those ambitions taken seriously, and now you find a man who does exactly that, and you want to wallop him.” Hazel placidly sipped her tea, the wretch.
“I love him, Hazel.”
“You could manage well enough if that were the extent of the problem, but a man who seeks to protect your good name and your dreams at his expense is a man who lovesyou, Psyche.”
“I know.” He’d said as much. Given her the words no other man had. Jacob had loved her, and she’d loved him, but not… not like this. Not remotely like this. “I’ve thought perhaps I could take Bea somewhere far from London, pretend she’s my daughter.”
“Delancey might allow that.”
“And he might not. Bea is not my daughter, and sooner or later, some gossip would recall that Mrs. Psyche Fremont had no children. That her husband hadn’t been likely to give her any. And if I’m not Psyche Fremont, then Bea is asked to live a lie—another lie—when her whole life is already the next thing to a lie. Michael doesn’t deal well with falsehoods.”
“Perhaps he’d rather cope with the loss of his daughter to this Arbuckle disgrace?”
Psyche rose, though she needed a moment to steady herself against the sofa back. “Michael will blame himself if he must surrender Bea to that diabolical creature. Michael was the only person to stand up to Arbuckle, and his repayment is to be heartache and scandal. He stood up to Lord Dermot for me, when another student sat by and let me be bullied. He’s stood up to his superior at Lambeth and done it so subtly the blighter doesn’t even know he’s been held to account.”
“Quite the warrior, which is fine for solo combat,” Hazel said, “but from what you say, Arbuckle has the law on his side, as well as the Church, means, and a black heart. How does one man, however virtuous, prevail against those massed armies?”
“Michael isn’t alone,” Psyche said, surveying her reflection in one of Hazel’s gilt-framed mirrors. “He has me, though I do look a fright.” Like a Fury who’d got the worse end of a battle with a Titan.
“You look as if you’ve spent the night fighting a painting that refused to surrender. For what it’s worth, Delancey has me, as well, and my charitable ladies.” Hazel rose, morning sun catching the gold of her shawl. “They know about his nocturnal activities, though they don’t know precisely who he is. He’s referred to in the slums as—”
“Preacher,” Psyche said, “because he doesnotpreach. Like Lady Jersey is Silence, because she chatters incessantly. What do your ladies say about him?”
“Ophelia Oldbach allows that if Preacher waited for committee meetings and minutes and a third reading of the bill, he’d save no babies.”
Psyche began unpinning her hair, which was a disaster in progress. “Ophelia Oldbach said that?”
“She is close to Mr. Delancey’s father and not a lady to keep her powder dry. I suspect she well knows who this Preacher fellow is. For all her starch, she’s kind.”
“Michael is kind. He hides even that. He’s very fond of his fellow clerks, he solves half their ecclesiastical problems, and I suspect they bring him their personal problems too. They have a half day because of him, but they think Helmsley is responsible.”
“John Helmsley?”
