Reverend Keeper had counseled him to marry, urgently, to avoid another scorching lapse. ’Tis better to marry, Henry, than to burn.
He glanced at Alice again, to see if she had reacted to his strange admission, but she just stared out at the passing streets, like he’d said nothing. She no doubt had more pressing things on her mind than his bachelor status. He was being an oaf, babbling about himself. He offered her the only comfort he could think of.
“Alice, would you like to say a prayer? For your mother?”
She looked down at her lap, her face inscrutable. “If what my sister wrote is true, my mother is past the point of prayer.”
“Prayer is not merely to ask comfort for the ill, but also solace for the bereaved.”
“I don’t pray,” she said flatly.
How impossibly sad. “That need not stop you now,” he assured her. “It is never too late to seek a relationship with God. Or to re-sow the field, if it has fallen fallow, as it were.”
“With respect, Mr. Evesham,” she said curtly, “I am long past saving.”
His heart ached at so young a person believing she had consigned herself to Hell. The vehemence of her voice bespoke a history. People did not turn their backs on God without a reason, and sometimes that reason was in fact the way towards faith.
Was this part of the Lord’s plan? Had Alice been put in his path for a greater purpose than mere transportation? Was he meant to remind her of God’s love?
He hesitated, thinking of a delicate way to tell her no one was past saving. But suddenly she turned and looked him directly in the eye for the first time since they’d left Charlotte Street.
“But then, you know that already, don’t you, Lord Lieutenant? Your views on my character seemed clear enough last week.”
Her eyes held his, demanding he acknowledge her words.
Demanding he remember what he’d sworn to himself he would not think about again.
His cheeks went hot.
He had offended her by not acknowledging what had happened. A misjudgment, for of course it was better to make amends than sit in silent guilt, and to convince himself otherwise was intellectual dishonesty. He’d chosen his comfort over hers. He must make it right.
“Miss Hull, I worried it would be ungentlemanly of me to even speak of such a thing, so forgive my silence, but I am sorry for my unmannerly behavior last week. It weighs on me. You were only doing me a courtesy and I regret the disrespect I showed to you by leaving so suddenly.”
The resentment in her expression become something sharper, like amusement. “Quite a mouth you have on you, Lord Lieutenant. Right poetry.”
He was taken aback. “Well, I am a minister. We do sermonize.”
“And I keep order at a whipping house. You need not apologize to the likes of me. I’ve seen far worse behavior than a scandalized man running away in fear. But let’s not pretend you think I’m the type for prayers.”
Oh, bother and bog. He’d made it worse.
“I was not afraid,” he felt compelled to say, though his tone sounded fussy even to his own ears. “Not precisely.”
In truth, he had been terrified—not of her, but of himself. But he certainly could not explain the distinction, for her comfort on this journey would not improve if she knew what he’d been thinking, then and after, night after night.
“Ah. Ashamed, then?” she countered.
And then it was his turn to stare fixedly, determinedly ahead in silence.
For maybe she already knew what he’d truly been thinking as he’d fled.
And that would be far, far worse.
Chapter 4
Her accusation quieted the lord lieutenant.
Good.
Prayer was Alice’s least favorite topic, and she did not wish to discuss her low opinion of the Church with the likes of Henry Evesham. She preferred to spend her final moments in London taking in the crowds and shops and smells and sounds of life. She already mourned the barkers’ cries and the clattering of carts, the lopsided eaves and medieval walls and twisting alleys in which one could get lost half a mile from one’s doors.
She should be grieving for her mother, but what she grieved was London.
“Do you attend a church, Miss Hull?” Henry asked.
She tore her eyes away from the streets, begrudging his intrusion into her sadness. The man’s determination to engage her on religion was so relentless she would be impressed by his determination, were she disposed to credit him with any favorable quality aside from looks.
“No.”
“I saw you looking at that chapel—” he gestured at a church she’d scarcely noticed they were passing— “and I thought to mention that if you are looking for a congregation, I worship with many former members of your trade.”
Members of her trade? She knew what he implied, but she disliked that he would not say the words directly, like they would filthy up his mouth.
“You worship with other housekeepers?”
He furrowed his brow. “I meant…” He coughed. “Er, that is, prostitutes.”
“I’m not a whore, as it happens,” she drawled, not because she cared that he might think she was, but because it would be pleasant to embarrass him for making the wrong assumption. “My wicked nature extends to giving tours and polishing keys.”
Of course, she was training to do more. But the precise nature of her ambitions seemed irrelevant, now that she was doomed to be an organ maker’s wife in Fleetwend. A fate from which church, unfortunately, could not deliver her.
“My apologies,” he said quickly. “I only mentioned it because many of the girls I’ve met during my interviews feel they are estranged from God by the nature of their livelihood, and they needn’t be. You could attend a meeting, if you desire an accepting place to worship.”
“Lord Lieutenant, what women like myself are most commonly estranged from is a decent income. Whoredom is not caused by a lack of faith in God. It’s caused by the desire to eat. You’d do well to understand this, if you wish to improve our lot with your report.”
He straightened, clearly taking umbrage. “I do understand that the motive to sin is complicated. It always is. I did not mean to imply otherwise. I run a charity for prostitutes, and their welfare is important to me. I merely wanted to offer you—”
She held up a hand. “Sir, if your intention is to preach to me on this journey, I shall have to take my chances with the mail coach. I am grateful for your offer to drive me home, but my soul is not your concern.”
Her voice rose more than she liked. She knew she should be doing what Elena said, trying to make a friend of him, to influence his views. But the clergy had lost her good opinion long ago, and she lacked the patience in her current state of agitation to feign tolerance for foolish bluster.
Henry looked like he’d been slapped. “I see. Forgive the intrusion.”
He looked back out of the road, rearranging his face into a bland expression. She disliked how good he was at that—covering up his pique. She’d never had the skill of hiding her own feelings. She comforted herself that his face was not nearly so intriguing when he made it so unfeeling, and she was less inclined to steal glances at him and wonder who this ‘helpmeet’ was he wished to marry.