Ruth Axtell Morren - A Bride Of Honor

“Yes, I imagine the Hathaways must have influenced Mr. Quinn greatly. Reverend Hathaway appears to have a true shepherd’s heart.”

After the last parishioner left, Damien, his sister and Jonah used the footpath behind the church to cut across the cemetery and apple orchard to the parsonage.

Damien glanced at his sister, wondering if she would say anything about Jonah’s unexpected invitation for this afternoon.

But Florence remained silent during the short walk home. He would just have to wait for her to speak. He took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet-scented air, trying to reconcile himself to the coming afternoon.

When they entered the kitchen, Mrs. Nichols, their cook and housekeeper, turned from the roast she was basting on a spit over the fire. “What a crowd this morning. I haven’t seen the like since I heard Wesley preach just beyond on Harper’s Field nigh on five-and-twenty years ago.”

“I don’t believe it was to hear my preaching that so many turned out,” Damien said with a chuckle, approaching the range. “My, but that roast smells succulent.”

“Oh, they might come to eye Jonah, but they stay to hear your words, my boy.” Jacob Nichols, their man-of-all-work at the parsonage who’d known Damien since he was a lad, clapped him on the back.

Jonah shut the door behind them with a bang. “I don’t want to claim any credit, but people do seem a curious lot. I don’t think I’ve had so many pairs of eyes on me since I stood on the gallows.”

Florence shuddered. “Don’t even joke about that awful day.”

He draped his arm around her slim shoulders and pulled her to him. “Easy there, lass. If it hadn’t been for that day, I’d never have met you.”

She looked up at him a second, her hand cupping his cheek. Damien marveled afresh at the love that had blossomed in so unlikely a pair—a rough laborer and a godly woman who had long since accepted her spinsterhood. A rush of something like envy shot through him. He rapidly dismissed the unworthy feeling.

Florence began untying the ribbons of her bonnet. “Enough of that. Let me help Elizabeth or we’ll never get dinner on the table—and we have company coming this afternoon.” She bit her lip, frowning up at her fiancé. “Whatever were you thinking to invite those two ladies to the parsonage?”

Jonah raised his eyebrows, a puzzled look in his green eyes. “What do you mean? I was being hospitable. Now that I’m a free man, it seems you’re always inviting someone from the parish over on Sunday.”

“Yes, I know, but these ladies are complete strangers. They don’t even belong to our parish.”

“What’s that to the point? Are we supposed to only hold out the hand of friendship to those within our borders?” His grin took the sting from his words.

Damien could see his sister was at a loss yet again.

She removed her apron from the hook and began to tie it behind her. Jonah immediately took over the task. “Thank you,” she murmured. “What I mean is, these women are ladies, undoubtedly from Mayfair. They probably only came to our chapel to ogle the ‘pardoned felon’ this morning.”

With a final tug on the bow, Jonah straightened. His heavy black eyebrows knit thoughtfully. “Did you think so? I confess I didn’t get any such impression. The older lady seemed quite amiable and the younger—” he looked across at Damien and winked “—why, she only had eyes for our good parson here.”

They turned to look at Damien, and he felt himself flush. He glanced down, closely examining the narrow brim of his low-crowned clergyman’s hat which he held in his hands.

“Nonsense,” Florence said, smoothing the front of her apron. “I admit, they were ladylike enough, but to have them here the first time you lay eyes on them?”

Jonah scrubbed his hands clean at the pump, took up a linen towel and leaned against the soapstone sink, eyeing Florence. “Don’t you think you’re good enough for the likes o’ them?”

Florence took his place at the pump. “That’s beside the point. They are obviously ladies of rank who accepted your unexpected invitation out of a sense of obligation. They would have found it impolite to do otherwise.”

Jonah crossed his burly arms across his wide chest. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. The young one was eating up the parson’s words, eh, Damien?” Jonah’s green eyes danced with mirth.

Damien hung up his hat. “I didn’t notice.”

Jonah chuckled. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t, being the godly man you are.”

Damien crossed the kitchen to the door opposite, hoping to escape everyone’s attention.

Florence sniffed. “Most of the congregation is usually held captive by Damien’s sermons, so that is nothing unusual. Besides, why should you be so interested in distracting Damien with some foolishness about a young lady’s attention?”

Once again, Jonah put his arm around his future wife. “I suppose, dear heart, since you’ve made me such a happy man, I only wish the same for the preacher.” He looked at Damien over Florence’s head. “The good book says it’s not good for man to be alone. Since I’ll be stealing his only kin from him, I feel an obligation of sorts to make up for his loss.”

Damien was touched by the sincerity of Jonah’s words beneath the lighthearted tone, even if the man’s concern was misplaced. Before he could think how to change the subject, Florence turned around, disengaging herself from Jonah’s hold.

“In any case, you really should think twice before inviting someone to tea.” She’d softened her tone, and Damien realized she was truly worried about the coming afternoon. “You tell him,” she said to Damien.

Damien put his hand on the doorknob. “I would never presume to curtail Jonah’s hospitable inclinations. That is what we are here for, whether those invited belong to our parish or not.” He smiled to ease his sister’s concern. “Don’t distress yourself about this afternoon. I’m sure everything will be fine if you behave with your usual amiability. Our guests will most likely be bored by our limited conversation and make their visit short. They’ll feel under no obligation to return the invitation, and we’ll not see them again.” He nodded at Jonah’s frown. “You did right in issuing the invitation.”

Before anyone could comment further on their impending guests, Damien exited the kitchen and headed to his study.

Once he’d entered the quiet of his private sanctuary, he could put aside his mask of serenity and contemplate the coming afternoon.

He hadn’t felt so nervous since the first time he’d had to stand in the pulpit and preach. He glanced down at his black cassock. That presented another problem. Would he wear it during the ladies’ visit, or remove it and appear in his dark jacket and knee breeches, the way he usually did for such social calls, the only sign of his office the two white, rectangular preaching bands hanging from his collar?

He removed the cassock now, unbuttoning the long row of buttons down the front, as his mind struggled with this new dilemma. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice about the matter. But now, dread of removing the ankle-length gown rose up in him.

In the church this morning, under the cassock and surplice, his wooden leg had not been so apparent. In his knee breeches, however, the dark peg strapped to his left leg called attention to itself like a lightning-scarred tree in a healthy forest.

He hung up the cassock, trying to ignore the thump of the wooden leg as he walked back to his desk. He sat down heavily, his fingers rubbing his left knee absently as he stared out the window to the garden beyond. Why did it matter now? He’d accepted the loss of his leg so many years ago that he hardly gave it any thought anymore. But on the brink of the impending visit by a lovely young lady who’d eyed him—if not the way Jonah described, at least with some measure of admiration—his peg leg loomed like a great, hulking deformity.