Page 75 of Miss Devoted
“You are off to Scotland,” she said. “You are packing up the children and slipping away on the evening tide. That’s…”
Michael settled beside her. “Yes?”
“That’s good. That is what you must do to keep them safe, and I commend you for it.”
He looked a little pained. “Do you?”
Psyche lasted for two ticks of the mantel clock before she was straddling his lap, her arms lashed around him.
“I commend you for it,” she said, “but, Michael Delancey, I will miss you for the rest of my life.” She kissed him rather than lapse into begging.Don’t go. Please don’t go. Take me with you. I must go with you.
Arbuckle would set up a hue and cry when he realized he’d been duped, and Michael might soon have a price on his head. A fugitive from the law had no need of a widowed would-be portraitist in his entourage.
“Psyche, don’t cry. Please don’t cry.” Michael held her gently while she tried to master a breaking heart, and gradually, the tears subsided.
“I stopped by Circle Lane last night,” Michael, said, stroking her hair. “I slept there. I plan to sleep there again tonight. A father should have the right to tuck his children in from time to time, after all.”
“He should,” Psyche said, breathing in the lovely alpine scent she would always associate with Michael.“What have you said to the children?”
“As little as possible. I sent my written notice to Lambeth, citing pressing family obligations.”
Psyche levered up to study him. “That was harder than you thought it would be, wasn’t it?”
He brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “Yes. The other clerks are good fellows, and I hope our work did resolve a few problems for the faithful. Helmsley was relentlessly self-interested, but he wasn’t mean.”
“Back him into a corner, and the meanness might reveal itself. You cannot rely on his good offices to get you out of this scrape, Michael.”
“I promise I will not. How would you paint Helmsley?”
Psyche gave the question some thought, because Michael wasn’t asking out of mere artistic curiosity.
“From a distance, he’d present well enough. Up close, I’d render him with all manner of dissolute details. A stain on his cuff, a bit of snuff on his cravat, a scuff on his boot. The symbolism would be biblical and obvious—an apple with a bite out of it, scales weighted with gleaming sovereigns, vaguely ancient writingon the wall, that sort of thing.”
“I like the writing on the wall. Old Testament. Mrs. Oldbach would approve. I approve.”
Psyche would have resumed kissing Michael lest he barrel on to farewells and platitudes, but a knock on the parlor door had her rising instead. Michael was on his feet, too, as manners required.
“Come in,” Psyche said.
The footman wheeled in a tea cart laden with the full silver service as well as pastries, gingerbread, sliced pears, and—where had they come from?—French chocolates.
“Thank you, Peters. We’ll serve ourselves.”
Peters bowed with a punctilio uncharacteristic of him and withdrew. The staff was clearly among those allied with Michael Delancey, as they had better be.
“Shall I pour?” Psyche asked.
Michael popped a chocolate into his mouth. “This must be the condemned man’s last meal. Tea would be appreciated if we’re to wash down this bounty. I have a weakness for chocolates.”
I have a weakness for stubborn, saintly men. For one such man in particular.Psyche resumed her place on the sofa, dealt with the teapot, buttered two slices of gingerbread, and tried not to recall the pleasant, cheery meals she’d shared with Jacob.
After a certain point, they’d both known he was dying, and neither of them had spoken of it until the very end.
“Michael, what will you do?”
He settled beside her. “I won’t go down without a fight, Psyche, but I did inform Helmsley that I will bring Bea to St. Mildred’s tomorrow at two of the clock. I asked Helmsley to be present to ensure Arbuckle behaved civilly before the child.”
“Why St. Mildred’s?” She tried one of the chocolates but found it a shade too bitter.
