Page 69 of Miss Devoted
He was following Twillinger out the door when one of the palace messengers stopped his progress.
“Mr. Ingram, you have callers.”
“You are grinning as if Danner’s mama has come by to inspect my fingernails.”
“Danner’s mama hasn’t a patch on these two. You will want to brush the crumbs from your cravat before you greet them, sir. They’reladies. They specifically asked for you and told me I wasn’t to mention to Mr. Helmsley that they were taking you away from your duties.”
Ingram sidled past him. “Half a cinnamon bun in it for you to keep your mouth shut, Smithers.”
“Give him a whole one,” Danner called. “They’re best when they’re fresh, and I’ve had all I care for.” He fired a bun at Smithers, who caught it one-handed.
“What passes for piety in these parts would shame the devil.” Smithers shook an admonitory bun at them. “Thank God.” He bit into his sweet and closed his eyes. “Bliss. This is bliss. When I go to heaven—”
“Study your Bible,” Ingram said, “and you, too, could number among the correspondence clerks. I might even put in a word for you.”
Smithers’s eyes popped open. “You would?”
Delancey had put in more than a word for Ingram and for his fellow clerks, and he’d expected nothing in return. Would probably have been embarrassed by even passing thanks.
“The job can be grueling,” Ingram said, “but the company is most agreeable, and we get a half day when we’re caught up. You learn a prodigious amount of Scripture and theological law despite yourself. I’ll see what I can do.”
Smithers tossed the remains of his bun in the air and whooped. “Thank you, Mr. Ingram. Thank you most kindly.”
Ingram was already moving down the corridor, curious to meet theladieswho’d call upon him at his place of work. Perhaps he’d answered a letter one of them had sent. Perhaps they were the advance party from his new congregation. He was to be billeted to a London neighborhood, not too wealthy, not too poor—and not too far from Helmsley should any thorny ecclesiastical law questions come up—and he already had plans for how he could advance the schemes Michael Delancey had put in place.
The palace was full of little sitting rooms and antechambers, and Smithers had at least stashed Ingram’s callers in a parlor with a fire. They rose as he entered, and it was clear from the first moment that these women were not here to thank him for some gracious bit of theological rubbish.
“I have come to say farewell.” Michael had been in his father’s study a thousand times, and on every previous occasion, the room had simply been Papa’s study. The modest retreat where Vicar Tom composed his sermons, dealt with his correspondence, and sneaked the occasional nap.
A small portrait of Michael’s late mother hung over the sideboard. A sketch of St. Mildred’s graced the space above the mantel. The two likenesses were of a piece—dignified, gracious, substantial. Psyche would have had more to say about them, and she would be particularly interested in the sketches of Michael as a boy and a youth that marched side by side with similar drawings of Dorcas.
Papa rose and came around his desk. “Are you decamping for the north again, my boy? I disapprove, if that’s the case. You did your time in the wilderness, and spring comes late to the Dales and moors.”
“I have taken you for granted,” Michael said, though he hadn’t planned to make that admission. “I’m sorry.”
Papa had at some point effected the transition from handsome to distinguished, and he was a genial flirt. The men liked him because he had a good and none too prissy sense of humor, the ladies liked him because he was gallant and charming.
Michael loved him for reasons too numerous for words.
Papa gave Michael one of those pastor-knows-all looks that had doubtless prompted many an unplanned confession.
“If you have taken for granted the only parent you have on this earth,” Papa said, “then I have executed my duties as assigned. A fellow ought to be able to rely on his old pater. Your mother expected that much of me. Shall we walk in the garden? The snow has stopped, and it might be the last of the year.”
“I would honestly like to get off my feet, if you don’t mind,” Michael said. “I can’t stay long, but…” But what? He’d wanted to come here one last time before he was cast into disgrace. He’d wanted to take a final temporary refuge in the vicarage that had been his boyhood home.
And he’d needed to warn his family of impending disaster.
“This sounds serious,” Papa said, taking Michael by the arm and turning him toward the sofa. “Shall I ring for the pot?”
“Please do not.” The housekeeper was a good soul with excellent hearing. The fewer witnesses, the better.
“Michael, if you’ve murdered the archbishop, I will pray for your soul. I will also invoke the privilege of the confessional, while I empty the strongbox and wish you Godspeed on a fast horse.”
How calm Papa sounded. How steady and assured of his course. “The situation isn’t quite that bad, but…nearly so.” Michael sank onto the sofa, which was as familiar to him as his favorite pair of boots. “I will soon be embroiled in scandal, Papa. Possibly charged with a crime, and I am guilty of the alleged transgression. I will likely be transported, if that’s the case, but I might well be hanged.”
Papa came down beside him. “Benefit of clergy ought to get you transportation rather than hanging.” The benefit of clergy in Michael’s case would be Tom Delancey’s good standing rather than any antiquated legal nicety for first-time offenders. “What is this great crime you’ve committed?”
“I stole a baby.”
