He speared a bite of ham, then put down his fork, the meat untasted. “I will instead,” he went on, “emphasize that committees are the province of individual congregations, and we must allow women to make whatever contributions they can, the better to shelter their weaker natures in the citadel of theological… I write tripe. Utter, reeking tripe, and I am praised and even paid for it.”
Steam curled up from their plates, and beyond the window, a pigeon strutted about on the sunny balustrade of a balcony otherwise draped in snow. The bright sunshine made the day look warm, while the air outside remained frigid.
“This is what went wrong in Yorkshire, isn’t it?” Psyche asked. “You grasped that the church your father had served his whole life was not a church you could respect.”
A bleakness came into Michael’s eyes, or rather, the bleakness that always lurked in his gaze became more apparent.
“I studied for ordination because it was expected of me, and the whole time, I might have been apprenticing to a tailor for all the spiritual significance the curriculum held for me. I don’t regard honor as a spiritual matter, but simply a moral compulsion. To be decent, kind, honest… One doesn’t need years of Latin or reams of Scripture to aspire to those goals.”
She patted his hand. “You are a heretic. I like them even more than I like radicals.”
“Suffice it to say, I was at the very least unsuited to my post in Yorkshire. Had I not spent those years in the north, I might have slipped into the vicar’s role at St. Mildred’s, or another congregation like it, part social club, part propaganda mill for the crown, but capable of much good too. St. Mildred’s is full of kind people who mean well. Nonetheless, I gained a wider perspective on church leadership in the north, and I cannot ignore what I learned there.”
He had taken vows that had not gone at all according to plan, in other words. Not a simple or pleasant fate. “Can you find other employment?”
He lifted the spoon from the honeypot and let a golden skein of sweetness catch the morning light.
“I am well compensated clerking at Lambeth,” he said, “and my father is proud of me, though he shouldn’t be. Maybe once Papa is gone, I can turn my back on the Church, but for now, I honestly need the money. I spent my time in Yorkshire paying off debts incurred in arrogance and ignorance, and that has set me back compared to other young men. Failed priests are not easily employed outside the Church, so I bide my time and count my blessings.”
His tone had turned ironic. He ceased playing with the honey and resumed eating.
In a sense, Michael was admitting that he, too, could not have children. He could not afford offspring or the wife who’d bear them. For him, the problem was more theoretical, if it was a problem, but he was still held back, limited, frustrated, and soldiering on as best he could.
“I would be delighted to join you for dinner at your sister’s, Mr. Delancey.”
“Would you?”
“Very, and I might even pat your arm, but only the once.”
His perfectly symmetrical brows knit. “Should I be worried or flattered?”
“For God’s sake, we both worry more than enough. Let us agree that we will not be a source of worry for each other.”
He studied her for a long moment, as if deciding the best manner to begin a sketch. “That much, I have to give. We will not cause each other worry, and I will look forward to seeing you at Dorcas’s tomorrow evening.”
They finished their meal in silence, then dealt with the business of greatcoat, scarf, gloves, and coin. The leftover gingerbread from the previous evening sat in a sack by the studio door. Psyche insisted Michael take it.
“I’ll share this bounty with the other clerks,” he said. “We are like locusts when it comes to sweets. Thank you.” He kissed Psyche’s cheek, gathered up his half loaf, and slipped out the door.
Psyche returned to the parlor, poured herself the last cup of tea in the pot, and sat in the morning sun until John leaped into her lap and demanded to be scratched.
“Michael has a lovely way with a friendly kiss,” Psyche murmured. But not entirely friendly. He’d lingered near for a moment, too, as if he’d wanted to whisper something in her ear but hadn’t known what to say.
The mind boggled—again—and the heart yearned.
Chapter Eight
“Where in blazes did you get off to last night?” Ignatius Ingram took the only other chair in Michael’s office and shoved the door closed with his foot. “Didn’t see the light in your window for even fifteen minutes, and I was up quite late.”
Reading the maunderings of long-dead bishops, no doubt. Michael set aside the letter upon which he’d made no progress in the last forty-five minutes. He was distracted by the memory of Psyche Fremont, slumbering peacefully beneath her covers.
And Psyche Fremont, a loose braid over her shoulder, the wrath of Boudicca in her eyes at the thought of Michael missing his breakfast.
“Have you nothing better to do than spy on me, Ingram?”
“No, and then you arrive this morning bearing gingerbread and butter. One worries that you’ve gone astray, Delancey. If you must go astray, please do so with a baker’s daughter.”
“How’s Danner?” Only a dire worry would tempt Natty away from guarding the remains of the gingerbread.
“Suffering the torments of the besotted. Mama Danner wants him to take the curate’s post with his uncle’s congregation in Nottingham, while Danner cannot think of abandoning his goose girl, or whatever she is. I cannot think of life here at the palace without Mama Danner’s generous offerings. She’s widowed. Perhaps she’d look with favor on a younger husband.”
Ingram plucked at his cuffs, which were not quite long enough to cover his bony wrists.
“Natty, what’s amiss?”
“Amiss? How could anything be amiss when we’re doing the Lord’s work and glad of it?”
“Even the Lord’s most devoted minions are merely human. Out with it.”
The chair was an old castoff much in need of reupholstering. Ingram shifted uneasily on the thin cushion. “I watched your window for a reason.”
Unease blighted the glow in Michael’s heart. “You are inquisitive by nature.”
Ingram scrubbed a hand over his face. “Nosy, you mean. Yes, I am, but you should know Helmsley has asked me to keep an eye on you. Says he fears the fleshpots of Southwark might cause you to stumble.”
“And Danner’s regular traffic with those same fleshpots is of no interest to him?”
“He asked Danner to keep an eye on you too. We aren’t sure about Twillinger, but Twilly is a good sort. If you’re out fleshpotting, he’ll keep mum. Do be careful, though. The French pox is more than a passing inconvenience.”
Michael set aside the letter he’d been trying to draft. Something about a curate being overly attentive to one of the old maids in a rural parish.
“I’m not out fleshpotting,” he said. “I learned that lesson before I turned eighteen.”
Ingram peered at him. “Did you get somebody with child? My brother did. Mama never lets him forget it, though I quite like my sister-in-law.”