The palace was full of little sitting rooms and antechambers, and Smithers had at least stashed Ingram’s callers in a parlor with a fire. They rose as he entered, and it was clear from the first moment that these women were not here to thank him for some gracious bit of theological rubbish.
“I have come to say farewell.” Michael had been in his father’s study a thousand times, and on every previous occasion, the room had simply been Papa’s study. The modest retreat where Vicar Tom composed his sermons, dealt with his correspondence, and sneaked the occasional nap.
A small portrait of Michael’s late mother hung over the sideboard. A sketch of St. Mildred’s graced the space above the mantel. The two likenesses were of a piece—dignified, gracious, substantial. Psyche would have had more to say about them, and she would be particularly interested in the sketches of Michael as a boy and a youth that marched side by side with similar drawings of Dorcas.
Papa rose and came around his desk. “Are you decamping for the north again, my boy? I disapprove, if that’s the case. You did your time in the wilderness, and spring comes late to the Dales and moors.”
“I have taken you for granted,” Michael said, though he hadn’t planned to make that admission. “I’m sorry.”
Papa had at some point effected the transition from handsome to distinguished, and he was a genial flirt. The men liked him because he had a good and none too prissy sense of humor, the ladies liked him because he was gallant and charming.
Michael loved him for reasons too numerous for words.
Papa gave Michael one of those pastor-knows-all looks that had doubtless prompted many an unplanned confession.
“If you have taken for granted the only parent you have on this earth,” Papa said, “then I have executed my duties as assigned. A fellow ought to be able to rely on his old pater. Your mother expected that much of me. Shall we walk in the garden? The snow has stopped, and it might be the last of the year.”
“I would honestly like to get off my feet, if you don’t mind,” Michael said. “I can’t stay long, but…” But what? He’d wanted to come here one last time before he was cast into disgrace. He’d wanted to take a final temporary refuge in the vicarage that had been his boyhood home.
And he’d needed to warn his family of impending disaster.
“This sounds serious,” Papa said, taking Michael by the arm and turning him toward the sofa. “Shall I ring for the pot?”
“Please do not.” The housekeeper was a good soul with excellent hearing. The fewer witnesses, the better.
“Michael, if you’ve murdered the archbishop, I will pray for your soul. I will also invoke the privilege of the confessional, while I empty the strongbox and wish you Godspeed on a fast horse.”
How calm Papa sounded. How steady and assured of his course. “The situation isn’t quite that bad, but…nearly so.” Michael sank onto the sofa, which was as familiar to him as his favorite pair of boots. “I will soon be embroiled in scandal, Papa. Possibly charged with a crime, and I am guilty of the alleged transgression. I will likely be transported, if that’s the case, but I might well be hanged.”
Papa came down beside him. “Benefit of clergy ought to get you transportation rather than hanging.” The benefit of clergy in Michael’s case would be Tom Delancey’s good standing rather than any antiquated legal nicety for first-time offenders. “What is this great crime you’ve committed?”
“I stole a baby.”
Papa situated himself more comfortably on the cushions. “Most people take the opposite course, avoiding any unnecessary dealing with squalling infants. What prompted you to dabble in kidnapping?”
That Papa could be calm, and even slightly humorous, was balm to Michael’s soul. “My spiritual superior in Yorkshire had been named as the child’s guardian in a valid will. He directed me to take the infant to the poorhouse and present her as a foundling without means. He will swear on a stack of pristine Bibles that he told me to take the child to a respectable wet nurse, but, Papa… He sentenced that baby to death, and I was to serve as the executioner.”
Soft clicking commenced against the study’s windows. The snow hadn’t stopped, but rather, changed to sleet.
“But you have no proof,” Papa said. “You saved the child’s life and have no proof of the errand Arbuckle sent you on. He will have proof in the form of documents and witnesses and convincing histrionics such as only an old pulpiteer can muster. He is not much liked, but he is respected.”
“You know Hannibal Arbuckle?”
“When you took your curate’s post, I made inquiries. I said a lot of prayers, too, sir, and nobody was more relieved when you quit the north.”
“I was relieved to come back to London, but I was also… Papa, he’s a monster, and those good folk who work hard their whole lives and mean harm to no one don’t deserve the burdens Arbuckle tries to saddle them with.”
“If they’re sensible,” Papa said, sitting back and crossing his legs at the knee, “they reject the burden and enjoy the churchyard gossip. You know, I doubted your calling. I worried that you were simply following in my footsteps because a gentleman without means has few good options. My doubt was misplaced.”
“No, it was not. I will likely be defrocked, Papa, at a minimum.” Though the longer Michael sat in this cozy, cluttered, familiar study, the less he felt like a criminal. “I was stupid. Arbuckle bitterly resents that I landed a post at Lambeth—I should have anticipated that—and he long suspected I had not taken the baby to the poorhouse. Lambeth sent inquiries north about my suitability for leading a congregation, and Arbuckle decided to take a hand in matters.”
“To stir up trouble for another, despite every scriptural admonition to the contrary.”
“I stole the child, Papa.”
“You saved that child’s life. Does she yet thrive?”
Some part of Michael had been waiting for a paternal explosion, a harangue along the lines of how could you be so foolish with a few muttered asides about trusting in the will of God. Papa wasn’t exploding. He was asking after Bea.
“She thrives. Bea has a brother, Thaddeus, acquired in the same manner, but Arbuckle was never named as Thad’s guardian, so the boy is safe. If anything were to happen to me…” Michael hadn’t rehearsed this part, but this request was what made the call doubly imperative.
“You daft boy. If Thaddeus is your son, he’s my grandchild, and so is Bea. You call her Bea, for Beatrice?”
“Bea and Thad. I put their ages at sixish and rising four. They are so sweet and dear, and Papa… I am not sorry for what I have done, but there’s more.”
Papa rose and went to the sideboard. “Is this when you tell me of your adventures in the slums?” He poured two servings of brandy and saluted Mama’s portrait with one. “A tot to ward off the chill. Your mother would insist.”
“A truth potion,” Michael said, accepting the drink, “though it appears you already know of my more recent activities.”
“Half the London pastors have heard of you, though you are a figure cloaked in mystery and holy zeal. There’s talk of expanding your basic approach so that every house of worship more nearly resembles a house of refuge. We are careful to keep those conversations from the bishop for now. To your health.” Papa tossed back half his brandy. “MacKay’s streetwalkers, Goddard’s urchins, and Tremont’s soldiers all sing your praises, though they solemnly claim not to know your identity. Quite dashing of you.”