Page 70 of Miss Devoted
Papa situated himself more comfortably on the cushions. “Most people take the opposite course, avoiding any unnecessary dealing with squalling infants. What prompted you to dabble in kidnapping?”
That Papa could be calm, and even slightly humorous, was balm to Michael’s soul. “My spiritual superior in Yorkshire had been named as the child’s guardian in a valid will. He directed me to take the infant to the poorhouse and present her as a foundling without means. He will swear on a stack of pristine Bibles that he told me to take the child to a respectable wet nurse, but, Papa… He sentenced that baby to death, and I was to serve as the executioner.”
Soft clicking commenced against the study’s windows. The snow hadn’t stopped, but rather, changed to sleet.
“But you have no proof,” Papa said. “You saved the child’s life and have no proof of the errand Arbuckle sent you on. He will have proof in the form of documents and witnesses and convincing histrionics such as only an old pulpiteer can muster. He is not much liked, but he is respected.”
“You know Hannibal Arbuckle?”
“When you took your curate’s post, I made inquiries. I said a lot of prayers, too, sir, and nobody was more relieved when you quit the north.”
“I was relieved to come back to London, but I was also… Papa, he’s a monster, and those good folk who work hard their whole lives and mean harm to no one don’t deserve the burdens Arbuckle tries to saddle them with.”
“If they’re sensible,” Papa said, sitting back and crossing his legs at the knee, “they reject the burden and enjoy the churchyard gossip. You know, I doubted your calling. I worried that you were simply following in my footsteps because a gentleman without means has few good options. My doubt was misplaced.”
“No, it was not. I will likely be defrocked, Papa, at a minimum.” Though the longer Michael sat in this cozy, cluttered, familiar study, the less he felt like a criminal. “I was stupid. Arbuckle bitterly resents that I landed a post at Lambeth—I should have anticipated that—and he long suspected I had not taken the baby to the poorhouse. Lambeth sent inquiries north about my suitability for leading a congregation, and Arbuckle decided to take a hand in matters.”
“To stir up trouble for another, despite every scriptural admonition to the contrary.”
“I stole the child, Papa.”
“You saved that child’s life. Does she yet thrive?”
Some part of Michael had been waiting for a paternal explosion, a harangue along the lines ofhow could you be so foolishwith a few muttered asides about trusting in the will of God. Papa wasn’t exploding. He was asking after Bea.
“She thrives. Bea has a brother, Thaddeus, acquired in the same manner, but Arbuckle was never named as Thad’s guardian, so the boy is safe. If anything were to happen to me…” Michael hadn’t rehearsed this part, but this request was what made the call doubly imperative.
“You daft boy. If Thaddeus is your son, he’s my grandchild, and so is Bea. You call her Bea, for Beatrice?”
“Bea and Thad. I put their ages at sixish and rising four. They are so sweet and dear, and Papa… I am not sorry for what I have done, but there’s more.”
Papa rose and went to the sideboard. “Is this when you tell me of your adventures in the slums?” He poured two servings of brandy and saluted Mama’s portrait with one. “A tot to ward off the chill. Your mother would insist.”
“A truth potion,” Michael said, accepting the drink, “though it appears you already know of my more recent activities.”
“Half the London pastors have heard of you, though you are a figure cloaked in mystery and holy zeal. There’s talk of expanding your basic approach so that every house of worship more nearly resembles a house of refuge. We are careful to keep those conversations from the bishop for now. To your health.” Papa tossed back half his brandy. “MacKay’s streetwalkers, Goddard’s urchins, and Tremont’s soldiers all sing your praises, though they solemnly claim not to know your identity. Quite dashing of you.”
“I’m not dashing. Babies should not die of exposure when London boasts ten thousand fires. I’m also concerned that a desperate beggar might steal the infants and use them for illicit sympathy.”
“Until the child starves to death. Some of us take that business about being lower than the angels to the extreme.”
And Papa did not judge anybody for resorting to desperate measures, though he clearly judged Arbuckle. “Some angels dwell in hell,” Michael said, the brandy warming his insides. “The arrogant ones.”
“Lambeth has been a predictably dreary influence on your theology. Where do matters stand between you and Arbuckle?”
Michael summarized the situation as best he could. “He expects me to turn Bea over to him the day after tomorrow.”
“I dearly hope that was a lie, Michael.”
“I hope it was too.”
Papa finished his drink and returned the glass to the sideboard. “Your mother insisted that she and I have our own residence, a safe harbor against the day when vicaring exceeded my energies. I’ve rented the place out all these years. A mere cottage in Berkshire. You are welcome to bide there with the children. In the alternative, I can bide there with the children should you take a notion to travel—the good ladies of St. Mildred’s can run this parish blindfolded without any help from me, God knows. Failing that, I’m sure MacKay would send you and your offspring to his relatives in Scotland, and that might be the wisest course.”
Michael wanted to linger on the old sofa, to have another brandy and bask in his father’s kindness. Instead, he rose and passed Papa his half-finished drink.
“Thank you. I came here prepared to be disowned. I would die for Bea and Thad, but I’m no good to them dead. I can’t trust Arbuckle to stop short of criminal charges, though.”
Papa took a spill from a jar on the mantel and began a circuit of the room, lighting sconces and tapers. “Wretched weather. We always pay for those early glimpses of spring. I doubt Arbuckle will embroil himself in the scandal of criminal charges. He’s a bad fit with the avenging-angel role, and like most creatures who survive on low cunning, he knows when to slink away.”
