Page 79 of Miss Devoted
“That child is my ward, Letitia Ann Crowley. Her parents perished of influenza, and her father’s will named me—me and no other—as the child’s guardian. I bid Delancey to take the infant to a wet nurse of good repute, and he instead secreted the girl someplace of his own choosing. I was subsequently told my Letitia had died, not yet a year old.”
Arbuckle rose and produced an embroidered handkerchief. “I grieved, Helmsley. My wife and I were not blessed with children, and we were so looking forward to doting on the girl. Mrs. Arbuckle was devastated, while I… Never have I prayed so hard for one blameless little soul.”
He turned away, and some manly sniffling ensued.
Helmsley had served for a few years as curate to an old curmudgeon whose gruff manners had nonetheless hidden a kind heart. Old Vicar Edwards had never owned an embroidered handkerchief, and he’d never put on performances such as Arbuckle was attempting now.
“Delancey has been in London for the better part of a year, but you wait until now to call him to account?” Then too, how could a vicar be hoodwinked into thinking one of his own parishioners, a child he’d likely baptized, had perished? Who had presided over the funeral?
Where exactly had the wet nurse of good repute lived? A successful administrator kept sight of the details.
“Why now?” Arbuckle gazed at the fire in the hearth as if gathering his composure. “You, Helmsley, inquired into Delancey’s fitness for a vicar’s post, and my conscience prompted me to investigate the situation more closely.” Arbuckle lowered himself back into his chair as wearily as if he’d trudged the whole distance down from York on foot. “I could find no record of a funeral, which for an infant isn’t unusual, but no coroner for fifty miles about had documented the child’s death. My wife begged me to come forth, and I know my duty to the truth, no matter what it might cost me.”
“And you’ve seen this child in London?”
Arbuckle folded his still pristine handkerchief so the ornate monogram showed and tucked it into a pocket.
“I have. The business required time and considerable coin, but I’ve had Delancey watched closely. He took the child to the park earlier this week, bold as you please, and my patience was rewarded. He has never denied my accusations.”
Helmsley knew himself to be fundamentally lazy, but smart enough for palace purposes. He bestirred himself to consult his reasoning powers and found Arbuckle’s tale a maddening blend of credible and ridiculous.
Curates, generally a youthful lot, were always getting up to nonsense, though they were also legendarily short of coin.
“Why would a clergyman of very limited means take on the support of a child who already had a comfortably situated provider?”
“Delancey is a bitter, angry fellow, Helmsley. He was all but forced into the Church by family tradition, despite his lack of a vocation. When he came down from university, he rebelled against authority to a shocking degree in London’s gaming hells and then had to leave Town in disgrace. He lied to his family about his circumstances and remained in the north only as long as necessary to escape the consequences of his stupidity. He was never a dutiful curate. I had to all but write his sermons for him, while he spent his days riding around the Dales like some London blade taking the air.”
“He was a tribulation sent to test your patience?” That characterization did not in any way fit with Helmsley’s experience of Michael Delancey.
“He was that, and far too good looking. The ladies of the congregation made utter fools of themselves over him.”
And Arbuckle, who might once have cut a dash himself, had hated that. “Then your theory is that Delancey, mad at the world, saw a way to bring suffering down on his unsuspecting superior. Though raising a child has likely cost Delancey every spare penny and no amount of sleepless nights, he has kept the girl from you and must be held accountable for stealing her.”
Arbuckle studied the rendering of Canterbury Cathedral hanging over the mantel. “Something like that. The least-worthy people can find themselves in the ranks of clergy. Delancey has a cold-heartedness to him, an aloofness, as if he’s better than the rest of us. ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.’”
Proverbs 16:18, which Helmsley knew only because he’d peeked at the clerks’ list of frequently cited passages.
“His fellow clerks are loyal to him,” Helmsley said, the realization dawning as he spoke. He’d asked them to keep an eye on Michael Delancey, and every report had been a bland recitation of routine behaviors. “Delancey isn’t charming, but he’s a hard worker, honest, and tolerant.” Delancey had suggested that Ingram be given a pulpit, a significant generosity of spirit when losing Ingram would increase the work of the remaining clerks.
The bishop had liked the idea of giving Ingram a tour of duty in a parish, so the archbishop would approve as well, provided Ingram remained available for the occasional ecclesiastical consultation.
“Young men always hang together as a pack,” Arbuckle observed. “They’ll turn on Delancey when they realize he’s a criminal in clerical clothing.”
“You want him arrested?” The palace would be in an uproar if one of its own was led away to Newgate. Benefit of clergy might get Delancey some lenience in sentencing, but how would a scholarly cleric fare in New South Wales?
“I want him arrested, tried, and held accountable,” Arbuckle said. “It pains me to level charges at any man, but we who are called to the Church must adhere to the highest standard of honesty. Delancey made his bed, and he’s had years to throw himself on my mercy and return the girl to me. He’s unrepentant, and I owe it to his immortal soul to see justice done.”
Justice in this case meant horrendous scandal, on Lambeth’s very doorstep, and that scandal would wash around Helmsley’s ankles as the party responsible for hiring Delancey in the first place.
The facts, such he could trust Arbuckle’s narrative at all, were ambiguous.
Arbuckle had seen this long-lost ward after years of suspicions and sorrow. He’d nonetheless been happy to wait several days, trusting Delancey’s honest—if criminal?—nature after all these years to simply hand the girl over to her rightful guardian.
Delancey himself had explained to Helmsley all about his youthful debts and the years he’d spent repaying them, though gambling obligations were unenforceable in any court of law.
Delancey worked hard. If a man was intent on keeping a criminal act out of sight, would he take employment at Lambeth, the better to cast himself as innocent, or would he hide away in some provincial parish, hoping to avoid discovery?
“You should know one other fact,” Arbuckle said, pushing to his feet. “Delancey did not stop at one kidnapping. He mentioned that he’s also raising a boy, whom he referred to as Letitia’s brother. That being a biological impossibility, Delancey has either engaged in intemperate behavior with a loose woman, or he’s stolen somebody else’s child. He truly is dangerous, Helmsley. I hope you see that. Dangerous to the Church at the very least.”
