A Bride of Honor

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  Lindsay looked down. She could not burden Damien with more than she’d given him already. How would she ever live up to the woman he deserved? “Pray for me,” she said to her cousin.

  Beatrice gave her hands a final pat. “I will, my dear, be assured of that. Now, go on in to that handsome young husband of yours and let me be on my way.”

  “Write to me,” Lindsay said as her cousin leaned out the carriage window.

  “I will. And I want to hear all about the doings here at the parsonage.”

  Lindsay waved until the carriage disappeared in the dust of the road. When would she ever see a familiar face again? She turned and looked southward toward Hyde Park. Mayfair and the world she had known since birth were closed to her now. The reception her friends had shown her to news of her wedding made that clear.

  She slowly pivoted and faced the parsonage door. A new life awaited her. A world she’d forced herself into by way of deception. Would God ever forgive her for it and bless it?

  When she reentered the parsonage, it was so quiet she wanted to run back outside to the sunshine and sound of birdsong and carriage traffic. But she squared her shoulders and made her way down the corridor. No one was left in the dining room and all signs of the breakfast had been cleared away. She heard voices coming from behind the kitchen door. But she wanted to find Damien first. She needed to be reassured by his kindly face. She ascended the stairs and looked in the drawing room but it was empty. Back downstairs, she faced both his study and his workroom, but both doors were shut and she didn’t have the courage to knock. What would she say? Finally, with a sigh, she entered the kitchen.

  Florence, Mrs. Nichols and Betsy turned to look at her. They were drying the dishes and putting away the remaining food. “I w-wanted to see if you needed my help.”

  “Thank you, my dear, but I wouldn’t have you doing any chores today. It’s your wedding day.” Florence shooed her out the door when Lindsay hesitated, wanting to tell her she had nowhere to go and nothing else to do.

  Back in the silent corridor, she decided to take a walk. Yes, the fresh air might do her good. She went toward the coatrack to fetch her spencer and parasol.

  After an hour of exploring the back orchards and fields beyond, she returned, tired but feeling better for the walk. A quick search of the open rooms showed no one. Finally, with another sigh, she headed for her room. She would take a nap. Perhaps Damien would be about when she woke up.

  Lindsay woke with a start, her room dim, feeling disoriented. She put a hand to her disheveled locks, trying to place herself. The next second she looked down at her hand on the coverlet. The thin gold band glinted up at her. She was a married woman.

  After a few moments, thinking about all the events of the morning, she rose. She made her way to her dressing table and sat down. Her cheeks were rosy from sleep, her hair cascading down her shoulders, her eyes large and frightened. Slowly, she took out the remaining pins from her hair and brushed it. After coiling it back round again and arranging the locks about her face, she straightened her dress and rose.

  Once again, the house presented a daunting silence. This time, not even sounds from the kitchen could be heard. Finally, she settled down in the drawing room with a novel from the pile Beatrice had left her from the lending library.

  It seemed ages later—she’d finally been able to settle her thoughts on the story after plowing through the first few chapters with little understanding—that the door opened and she looked up startled. A deep feeling of relief engulfed her when she saw Damien standing in the doorway.

  He looked surprised. “Hello. I didn’t know you were here.”

  Had he wanted the room to himself? “Yes. I—I’ve been here some time now.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know if you were awake. Florence told me you had gone up for a nap.”

  She felt herself blushing. “Yes. Just for a little while, when I didn’t see you—anyone—around. I…I went out for a walk earlier.”

  He approached her chair in the bow window overlooking Hyde Park. “You went for a walk on your own?”

  “Yes. Is that all right? I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “It’s quite all right, and you needn’t have feared disturbing me. I was just tinkering with tomorrow’s sermon.” He seemed to blush, as well. “I went for a walk too, so you see, we could have walked together.”

  She felt her own cheeks redden and she looked down at her book.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Oh, just a book Beatrice left me…to while away the time.”

  “I’m sorry if you were bored.”

  “Oh, no, that is, your sister insisted I could do nothing to help today, so I—” She splayed her fingers in a shrug. “I felt a little at loose ends is all. Where is everyone, anyway?”

  His eyes didn’t meet hers. “Jonah and Florence have left.”

  “Left?” Her voice rose in surprise.

  “Yes. Jonah decided to move into their new farmhouse. It took me quite by surprise as well, since I didn’t expect them to move until next week or the following.” He began fiddling with his watch chain as if nervous. “But Jonah decided this afternoon—at least that’s when he told me—that he and Flo would go there temporarily. But Florence will be back tomorrow morning. She wants to continue helping you settle in.” He coughed, his discomfort apparent. “You don’t mind, do you? You needn’t do anything you don’t wish to. My sister just wants to be helpful, but she can be a little direct at times. If she makes you feel uncomfortable, just say the word, and I’ll talk to her.”

  “Oh, no!” She almost reached out to grab his arm in alarm. “No, please don’t,” she said more calmly. “I appreciate all the time and patience she is taking with me.” She smoothed down her skirt over her knees, feeling exceedingly awkward now that she was actually alone with him. It was the first time since the night she’d come to him, and since that awful interview with him the next morning. Her eyes widened in sudden concern. “They haven’t moved out because of me, have they?”

  “No, of course not,” he hastened, but then his eyes slid away from her again. “I mean, Jonah’s notion of a newly married couple needing some time alone together probably had something to do with it. Please don’t take it amiss—he meant no harm by it. We both tried to dissuade him, my sister and I, but he can be a stubborn fellow sometimes.”

  “I see.” Dear Jonah, trying to help out. She dared not look at Damien now. So, both he and his sister had not wanted her to be left alone with him. The thought lowered her spirits even more. Of course her wedding was a sham. She had done nothing but incommode poor Damien.

  She’d taken vows today, which were unwanted.

  His voice interrupted her. “Are you hungry?”

  Her gaze flew up to him. “What? Oh, I…don’t know.” It had been hours since the little she’d eaten.

  “I had just been looking for you to see if you cared for some supper. Mrs. Nichols laid some out before she left. There’s tea if you’d care for a cup.”

  She stood immediately. “Oh, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

  His hand came up to touch her arm. “You didn’t. I had just now come to look for you, and I’m sorry I kept you by yourself so long.”

  She swallowed, looking at his hand, feeling its light touch, longing to be held by him, to be reassured that all was truly going to work out. But instead, he let her arm go and continued talking, unaware of her thoughts. “We usually eat a light supper, as you’ve seen. I had nothing planned for this evening. I shall probably just sit here and read. If you’d like, we can pray together and read the scriptures afterward.”

  “Yes, I should like that very much,” she said softly, the beginnings of a smile forming on her lips. Maybe, if nothing else, she could still turn to him as to the man of God who had so drawn her since the first day she’d heard him preach.

  He returned her smile.

  Damien unfolded his napkin, feeling decidedly uncomfortable in the large dining roo
m. Lindsay—he felt unworthy to be calling her by her Christian name—was at the far end of the table. The arrangement had never bothered him with Florence, but now he felt it would be awkward enough to carry on a conversation without feeling he’d have to raise his voice. Her tone was often so soft he had to strain to catch her few words.

  He bowed his head and began his accustomed blessing. He barely heard her “amen” echoing his own when he finished. No, this wouldn’t do. He cleared his throat. “Would you like to—that is, when we’re alone together at table, would you prefer to sit closer? I don’t mean to rob you of your rightful place…”

  Relief showed on her face. “I would much prefer to sit closer.” She began to rise as she spoke and carried her plate to the place at his right.

  When she was settled beside him, he passed her a plate of cold chicken. “Mrs. Nichols is a fine cook, as you’ve been able to see since you came here.” Then he remembered where Lindsay came from. “Though I’m sure she cannot rival your father’s cook.”

  “Mrs. Nichols is indeed a fine cook,” she said immediately. “Papa has a French chef, but I find Mrs. Nichols’s cooking both savory and wholesome. It reminds me of being at Chillingsworth. Our country seat,” she replied to his raised eyebrow.

  “Of course. Did you spend much time there as a child?” How much he didn’t know of her. How would she possibly adjust to life in a small parsonage after the life she’d known? His spirits fell as her face lightened, looking happier than it had all day.

  “Oh, yes! Before I went off to school, I spent much more time there with Mama than in London. It was a lovely place, up in Derbyshire. I could roam about the grounds much more freely than here in London. Of course, I haven’t spent that much time at our house in Mayfair. I was away at Miss Pinkard’s most of the year.”

  “Tell me more about your time in the country.” He listened as he took an occasional bite of food, more entranced by her words than the food before him. For the first time since coming to the parsonage, she was showing some animation. Had the presence of the others, particularly Florence, constrained her natural enthusiasm so much? He felt suddenly glad Jonah had insisted they leave for the evening.

  His sister meant well, but she couldn’t help showing her disapproval and worry over his decision to carry through with the marriage.

  It was done now. He’d promised to love and cherish Lindsay until death parted them. He intended to honor that vow, even after Lindsay returned someday to her father’s house.

  By the time supper was over, they had regained the companionableness of those times she’d sat in his Bible study. They retired to the drawing room and opened their Bibles, reading a passage together and discussing it. She had marvelous insight for one who hadn’t read the scriptures much before.

  Betsy brought a tray of tea up later in the evening. “You may leave it,” he told her.

  Lindsay poured the tea. As she handed him his cup with a smile, suddenly Damien couldn’t believe it was his wife doing the honors in his drawing room. He felt a wave of gratitude wash over him. Even if she were never his true wife—and she wouldn’t be, he repeated to himself—he was more thankful than he could ever say to have her sitting across from him, taking on the role.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “How early will you be going over to the chapel tomorrow morning?”

  It would be her first official Sunday with them. “I generally go over about half an hour before the service. You needn’t go over so early. Florence usually sees to everything the evening before—that the flowers are at the altar and the communion elements in place—but she will probably arrive early tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s quite all right. I can go with her and see what needs to be done.” She looked down at her cup. Her tawny eyelashes brushed her translucent skin. “I want to be able to do everything a curate’s wife is expected to do. I should visit the members of your congregation, shouldn’t I…and act as your hostess here when you have gatherings…and I don’t know…play the organ?” She looked up, concern shadowing her large brown eyes. “I don’t play the organ, but I do play the pianoforte.”

  He laughed. “It’s very nice of you to want to do everything possible, and there will be some duties, as that of hostess, that I would appreciate your help with, but I won’t overburden you with chores. You can continue your life—the one you are more accustomed to—as much as you’d like. I don’t want you to be overwhelmed by this new role.”

  “It would be no burden for me, I assure you.”

  He cleared his throat, not wanting to curb her enthusiasm or good intentions, but understanding better than she what the job entailed. “Being a curate or curate’s wife involves never-ending tasks that few people see or acknowledge. Florence and I have been doing this for many years and have become accustomed to the demands of the life.” Seeing her expression, he said, “I don’t mean to discourage you. I want you to feel free to do as much or as little as you feel inclined to do. I just want you to break into it slowly until you see how much you truly care to take on. I shall never reproach you for anything you do or don’t choose to do.”

  He didn’t feel he had her full agreement but didn’t know how else to make her understand how quickly she could be weighed down by the obligations of the office if she tried to do everything at once.

  As they drank their tea, he felt the camaraderie they’d achieved was broken. The night stretched ahead of them, like a specter hovering in their midst. Before the wedding, Lindsay had retired to her room when Florence and Jonah went up. Now, it was just the two of them.

  Finally Damien, unsure what to do, picked up his book, a treatise on Hebrews, and began to read. When he looked up, he saw that Lindsay had also picked up the novel she’d been reading earlier.

  The only sounds were the ticking of the clock and the turning of a page. He was acutely conscious of Lindsay’s every move. He knew the second she closed her book. A few seconds later, she rose, laid the book on an end table and approached his chair. “Would you care for another cup of tea?”

  “Yes, I think I will.” Her slim hand held the china pot over the cup he held out. “Thank you,” he said as she retreated.

  The clatter of a saucer on the tray signaled she was putting her cup down. “I think I shall go up now.”

  He raised his eyes to meet hers. The moment of truth had arrived. He rose but kept his place in his book with his finger. “I think I shall remain here a little longer.”

  She merely nodded although she looked at him a few seconds longer without saying anything. “Very well, then. I…I shall bid you good night.”

  “It must have been a tiring day for you.”

  “No—yes. I suppose a little.” Still, she remained standing there without moving. He could feel his heart begin to thud, unsure what to do, willing himself to remain where he was, as if this was the way newlyweds were supposed to behave.

  The pulse thudding in his ears drowned out everything else when she began to walk toward him. What was she going to do?

  She stood about a foot from him, as if expecting something, but still he stood, unable to look away from her, not knowing what she wanted. He remembered the sweet feel of her lips against his those few seconds at the end of their wedding ceremony, a memory he’d shut from his mind. But now, it clamored for recognition. His gaze fell to her mouth and suddenly he ached to take her in his arms and feel her lips again.

  The next second she took another step toward him, so close she was almost touching him. She rose on her tiptoes, touching him lightly on the shoulders to retain her balance. Her face neared his and he thought she was going to kiss him on the lips, but then she moved her head. He smelled the sweet scent of her as her lips brushed his cheek.

  And then she was standing once more away from him. “Good night, Damien. Thank you again for everything.”

  He could only nod dumbly, too shaken by the feel of her against him, the flowery scent of her so close to him.

  He didn�
�t move until he heard the sound of the door close after her and then he fell back on his chair, the book in his hand forgotten.

  The full impact of his situation hit him. He was now a married man. He had a young, beautiful wife upstairs. In another world, she’d be waiting for him, and he would be eager to share this first night with her. His head fell in his hands as despair seized him. He could not give in to this pretty, storybook fantasy. How was he going to survive living under the same roof with her? Knowing she was only a door or two away from him? Every instinct, every fiber of his body commanded him to run after her and take her to himself.

  His eyes fell on the wooden leg stretched out before him and his spirits sank even further. She would soon see the awful mistake she’d made—or been forced into by her circumstances—and would come to despise him or, worse, be sickened every time she looked at his wooden leg.

  He must preserve her chastity if he ever hoped to return her to her father. He must!

  He picked up his worn Bible and flipped to the book of Job, to a familiar passage. His hands shook as he turned to the page. His eyes roamed down the passage until alighting upon the scripture he sought.

  I made a covenant with mine eyes; why then should I think upon a maid? He clenched his hand into a fist, repeating the words, making them a promise to himself. He would not harbor impure thoughts toward Lindsay. She was under his protection. He would honor his own vow of chastity to her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lindsay walked slowly up the stairs to her room. The full fatigue of the day descended on her like a weight. Why did she only feel it now? Was it because of the dismissal she’d just received from her new husband?

  She knew nothing of the ways of a man and woman. All she’d known, apart from her father’s anatomy textbooks, was gleaned from her novel reading. She passed Damien’s bedroom door and felt her face grow hot at the sudden longing in her to go and lie upon his bed so he’d find her when he retired.

  As she entered her solitary room, she felt a wave of desolation wash over her. She set down her candle, hardly necessary in the twilight, and went to stand in front of her mirror. Did Damien not like her in that way? Was she not attractive to him?