Page 89 of Miss Devoted
When his lordship had paused to pour himself a second cup—never let it be said Shreve stood on ceremony—Michael realized that he was interested in what was on offer.
“The position is what I make of it, then?”
“Within reason. I’ll not have you deluging the less fortunate with hymns and hellfire, Mr. Delancey. If foundlings were left on your doorstep, and you could find no families to take them all in, how would you design the alternative? I don’t want to merely house the children until they can be indentured as climbing boys or scullery maids.”
“You mean well,” Michael said slowly, “and the goal is worthy.”
“Spare me a polite rejection, Mr. Delancey. At least consider what I’m offering. I cannot pluck children from church steps—not and survive to repeat the experience—but you could, and you did. I can capitalize on your initiative, and London will be the better for it.”
“The children must be the better for it.” They would be, if Michael had any say in the matter, and Shreve was offering him a say. “I am flattered by your offer, my lord, but I must take time to consider my terms.”
“Delightful!” Shreve banged a fist on the arm of his chair and shot to his feet. “I love a good, fierce negotiation, though you mustn’t tell Mrs. Buckthorn I said that. Shall I call again next week? Better still, drop around at my house.” He stared hard at the tea tray. “Today is Thursday. Come see me next Friday, and we’ll have luncheon.”
“Not at your club, my lord.”
Shreve beamed at him. “Right. One doesn’t negotiate most fiercely at some stuffy old club. Shame on me for making the attempt. We’ll dine in, and mind you don’t send me some polite little note crying off, Delancey. I have plans for you. Ophelia Oldbach speaks of you highly, and she doesn’t like anybody, save her cat and your father.”
Michael saw his guest out, and it was as if a domestic tornado departed from the premises.
“A lord?” Mrs. Harris said as she came to collect the tray. “You’re entertaining milords unaware these days?”
“He’s very aware of his consequence,” Michael said, “but he has a conscience too.”
“Has a good set of pipes on him. Miss Bea asked if somebody was scolding her papa. She meant to sort his lordship out, if that was the case.”
“I believe Mrs. Buckthorn has taken on that thankless task. If the children ask for me, please tell them I will be home in time for supper.”
“Too nice a day to spend indoors,” Mrs. Harris said, stacking cups and saucers on the tray. “Probably be snowing again by tonight, and we’ll all come down with the ague again.”
Michael snitched a piece of shortbread and held the door for his housekeeper. “I believe spring is here to stay, finally, but I have some thinking to do. I don’t suppose we’ve received an answer to my earlier note?”
“Not yet, sir.”
Shreve had held forth long enough that Psyche would have had time to answer Michael’s request, if she’d been of a mind to—which, of course, assumed she’d been at home to receive his note.
Perhaps she’d been out, and perhaps she’d had second thoughts about fighting for a future that included an out-of-work clergyman who’d never really had much of a church vocation to start with.
The day grew warmish as Psyche sat on the bench and waited. Crocuses along the bank sloping to the water added a dash of color to the greening grass, and overhead, the trees were sporting a gauzy canopy that did little to impede the bright sun. Twenty yards off, a nursemaid was trying to aid her charges to get a kite aloft, though the occasion was provoking more hilarity than kite flying.
Psyche had assumed Michael was still in London, but perhaps…
She could envision a dozen different perhapses. Michael had taken another pulpit in the north. Children needed shoes and a safe place to sleep and regular meals, among many other things.
Perhaps he had gone to Vicar Tom’s cottage in Berkshire to escape the penny press. Ricardo was wasting no time turning Preacher’s exploits into a series of satirical adventures.
Perhaps he would take his family up on the offer of a fresh start in Scotland. Moving households was a complicated, tiring business, even in the planning phase.
And perhaps, having shuffled off the burden of a poorly fitting vocation, Michael simply had no need of illicit comforts. If time with Psyche had become some sort of rebellion for him, the despot had been overthrown, and Michael was free to do as he pleased.
Michael Delancey had earned the right to do as he pleased.
“I have never seen you so at peace.” Michael came down beside her on the bench, not a decorous foot away, but comfortably close. “And wearing such plumage. Mrs. Fremont, you look lovely.”
“Mr. Delancey. You got my note?” And why was she suddenly shy with the man who knew her intimately?
“I have been walking for some time. Your note must have missed me, but I sent you an invitation to take the air with me. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too.” Had ached for him, prayed for him, and even started a few letters to him. “How are the children?”
