They shared a smile, and between one heartbeat and the next, Michael came to a conclusion, to a peace born of bowing to the inevitable, no matter how challenging. He’d known precisely what his course would be when Bea was brought to that drafty vicarage in Yorkshire, and he knew what his course was now.
He would fight for a future with Psyche and the children—a real future. He would not give up his late nights in poor parishes, and Psyche would not ask that of him. She would not set aside her plans for the art world, and he would never expect that of her.
Michael shifted the hamper to the grass, picked up the blanket, and gave it a good shake. “I love you,” he said as Psyche took the trailing corners. “I love you, Psyche Henderson Fremont.”
She brought the corners up to match the two Michael held. “And I love you, Michael Delancey.”
After a pause spent grinning like fools, they folded the blanket, the most prosaic of undertakings. Michael hefted the hamper, and Psyche took Bea by the hand. While Bea chattered and capered about, the sun slipped behind a cloud, and the first, most tempting sample of spring’s joys came to an end.
“And Miss Feathers said not to be foolish.” Bea swung Psyche’s hand with the exuberance of a child in charity with the world. “Miss Feathers is never foolish, and she’s never cross.”
“She does have a lot to say sometimes,” Psyche observed while Michael maintained a diplomatic silence. Miss Feathers’s opinions had pattered along without ceasing all the way from the park. Psyche had listened with half an ear and realized how often her own mother had paid her the same sort of tolerant, patient attention.
How often Mama had held Psyche’s hand with the same combination of companionability and protectiveness that holding Bea’s hand stirred in Psyche.
How often Mama had managed to withhold laughter at some childish pontification…
And to think that Michael’s spiritual superior had blithely consigned this beautiful, wonderful girl to certain death at the poorhouse…
“Miss Feathers is very patient,” Bea went on, “and she can speak French. Parlay-voo Frawnsay? Mrs. Fremont?”
“Oui, mais mon français est rouillé.”
“Rusty,” Michael said. “Her French is out of practice, though it likely has mine beat to flinders. Ours is the house with the potted heartsease on the stoop.”
Psyche heard both the pride and vulnerability Michael’s casual tone attempted to disguise. Halfway down the unassuming street, which had the peculiar name of Circle Lane, sat an unassuming house. The flowers distinguished No. 209 from its equally tidy and unprepossessing neighbors.
“Mrs. Harris bought the posies at market,” Bea said. “If I’d gone with her, I would have picked out a larger bunch.”
“A larger bunch,” said Psyche, “might not have lasted as well. Those blooms are the perfect size for that pot.” A man loitered near the little splash of flowers. Psyche marked him as well dressed clergy. The traditional black shirt peeked out beneath the open collar of his greatcoat, his cravat was tied in a simple mathematical, and his walking stick was sober mahogany.
White hair, prosperous proportions, and when his gaze landed on Beatrice, he stilled.
Psyche felt rather than saw Michael react to the stranger on his doorstep. “Not a friend, I take it?” she murmured, keeping her tone light for Bea’s sake.
“Un diable.”
“Miss Feathers is tired,” Bea said, gaze on the man. “She is ready for a nap.”
“Please take Bea inside,” Michael said. “I’ll deal with this.”
The white-haired devil had blue eyes, pink cheeks, and a genial smile that likely concealed a forked tongue.
“If it isn’t young Mr. Delancey,” he said, “larking about town with a pair of beauties. Michael, have you no greeting for an old friend?”
The door opened, and an older lady in a plain gray dress and white mobcap appeared. “Inside with you, miss. I’ve a plate of shortbread fresh from the oven.”
“Child, go with Mrs. Harris,” Michael said. “I’ll be along shortly.” His voice was the measured, reserved voice of the man Psyche had met at Mrs. MacKay’s table weeks ago, the careful fellow who kept himself to himself.
“Do you promise, Papa? You won’t just go back to Lambeth Palace far away?”
Michael did not flinch at Bea’s form of address, but Psyche nearly did.
“I promise forever,” he said, running his hand over Bea’s crown, “that I will not leave today without taking a proper farewell of you and Miss Feathers.”
When Bea was safely inside, Michael bowed to his visitor. “Mr. Arbuckle. Good day. A surprise to see you in London.”
“The day is just full of interesting developments,” Arbuckle replied. “Where are your manners, Delancey? Won’t you introduce me to your lady friend?”
His question skirted the edges of innuendo, or perhaps this creature thought himself a flirt. Michael had regaled Psyche with tales of Hannibal Arbuckle’s hypocrisy and meanness, which extended past shirking his duty to helpless babies to abusing his wife, curate, employees, and parishioners.
Hazel’s words came back to her—deal with the past—and here was Michael’s past, coiled and apparently ready to strike on his very doorstep.
Michael sent her a look, the plea all but veiled: Go, leave. Distance yourself from what’s happening here.
Psyche slipped her arm through his. “Please do introduce us, Mr. Delancey.”
“I would not want to keep you.”
Arbuckle put one foot on the bottom step and rested both hands on the top of his walking stick. The posture was informal and arrogant.
“Do as the lady says, Delancey.” An order, as if Arbuckle still held a place of authority in Michael’s life.
“We widows learn to do our own introducing. Saves time and bother,” Psyche said, bobbing a quarter of a curtsey. “Mrs. Psyche Fremont. And you would be?”
“Rev. Hannibal Arbuckle, late of Yorkshire, and Delancey’s superior until his recent move into exalted churchly circles. Delancey and I have matters to discuss, madam, that I’m certain you’d find of no interest. Perhaps you’d excuse us?”
He was presuming to dismiss her, albeit with another of those practiced smiles, and Michael might well prefer that she go. Psyche considered the situation as if she were preparing to sketch it: The holy bully had ambushed one of his favorite victims right on the street. Worse, Arbuckle had laid eyes on Bea, and Michael’s greatest fears involved exactly that nightmare.
What did it mean to fight for a future together, if not to stand side by side in the face of tribulations?
“I consider Mr. Delancey and his family my friends,” Psyche said, smiling back at Arbuckle. “If your business with him can be discussed on the very street, it can be discussed in front of me.”
Had she not been such a keen observer, she might have missed the flash of malevolence in Arbuckle’s eyes. There and gone, but breathtaking for its intensity. Arbuckle clearly lived to exert the power of his status, and Michael’s post on the Lambeth staff likely galled him unbearably.
“Very well,” Arbuckle said. “I’ll be brief. I’ve conferred with the authorities responsible for York’s poor relief, Delancey, and they keep meticulous records. You were gravely disobedient in the execution of your duties while serving as my curate, and I am prepared to see you held accountable.”