A Bride Of Honor. Ruth Axtell Morren

would not see it in that light.”

      “How would they see it?”

      “They would see me rather as a fraud. A man dressed up like a gentleman, pretending to be something he is not.”

      “Oh, no!” Such an accusation angered her. “You are a man of God, whose life reflects what he preaches from the pulpit.”

      His cheeks deepened in color, and she hoped her words had brought pleasure and not embarrassment to him. She meant them with all her heart. A thin line appeared between his eyebrows. “Have you asked advice from the rector? He is, after all, your spiritual advisor.”

      She shook her head, looking down. “I don’t feel I know him well enough. You see, I’ve been away at school some years, so I really have not seen him much.” She fell silent. There was no rational way to explain that in the short time she’d known him, Reverend Hathaway was the only person whose counsel she trusted in this matter.

      “Reverend Doyle is a man of great wisdom. I would advise you to talk to him.”

      “He must be very proud of you for helping Mr. Quinn when he was in so much trouble.”

      A shadow crossed his eyes, and he hesitated. “He did not approve of what my sister and I did.” He hastened to add, “He was right to object. We were aiding and abetting a fugitive. We broke the law in doing so.”

      She felt a tremor at the gravity of his tone. “Is that why he is displeased with you?”

      The reverend nodded. “I don’t regret having taken Mr. Quinn into our keeping. However, I would not counsel anyone lightly to do what we did. One must be very sure what one is doing is absolutely right in God’s eyes before taking such a step.”

      Did he think she was on the brink of making a wrong decision? Was he warning her?

      She lifted her chin. “In that case, I think it was all the more brave of you to help Mr. Quinn.”

      The reverend’s blue eyes seemed to lighten. “Thank you, Miss Phillips. Your good opinion means a lot to me.”

      Before she had a chance to feel the pleasure his words gave her, he continued. “Sometimes it is not easy to make the right decision. Sometimes what seems the right choice—that determined by the rules laid out—is, in fact, not the right way.”

      Did his words spell hope or doom for her? Was there a way to disobey her father without losing his love and esteem? “How does one know in such a case?” she asked in a whisper, her eyes intent on his.

      “By much prayer. In the end, the answer must come from here.” He tapped his chest. “A person must follow his—or her—conscience, whatever the risks involved.”

      She nodded slowly, her gaze lifting from his slim hand back up to his face.

      When the time came, would she have the courage to follow the dictates of her conscience?

      Damien held up the slate toward the group of boys sitting on the floor at his feet in the cell given them to use for the lesson. “Let us review what we learned yesterday. Who can tell me what this says?”

      Several arms shot up like arrows.

      Damien smiled at one eager face, pale skin shining through the smudges. “Yes, Sam?”

      “The Lord is my sh-shepherd!” He finished with a triumphant smile.

      “Very good. Let us try another sentence.” He wiped off the slate with his rag and wrote again.

      As he held it up, his glance went to a dim corner of the prison cell. A group of older boys was whispering and sniggering among themselves. In a second, Jonah squatted beside them. “You’d rather end up on the gallows or the transport ship than learn yer letters, is that it?”

      “Tell us about the gallows,” a black-haired youth with a chipped tooth replied.

      With a quick wink Damien’s way, Jonah sat down cross-legged among them. Damien continued with his lesson. He knew it was impossible to reach them all, so he appreciated Jonah’s help in keeping the unruly ones occupied while he taught those who wanted to learn.

      He turned back to the young pupil. “Sam?”

      The underfed lad screwed up his face in preparation to read. “Th-the t-t-time of—”

      Damien prompted him gently until he managed the whole sentence. When they finished the lesson, he and Jonah parceled out the food and provisions they had brought with them. Before they left, he told them a Bible story.

      On their way out of Newgate, Jonah shuddered as they passed through the arched entrance. “Always glad to leave that hole.”

      Damien glanced at him. “I do appreciate your accompanying me. I know it’s not easy to go back each time.”

      “It’s truly a dark pit in there.”

      “All the more reason we must bring the light.”

      Jonah nodded as they made their way past the Old Bailey. “I’ll never forget the day I was sentenced to be hanged.” He shook his head. “To think Florence was sitting there, praying for me even then.” At the corner, he asked, “You want me to hail a cab?”

      “No. Let’s walk.”

      “You certain? Florence wanted me to get her some things at Covent Garden Market.”

      “That’s fine.” Damien shook off the slight irritation he felt whenever Jonah seemed overly protective of him. He knew it was only thoughtfulness on the man’s part. But by now, he’d hoped Jonah would realize Damien was capable of walking the distance of any normal man.

      They sauntered down Ludgate Hill and headed west on Fleet Street, jostled by the thick throng of pedestrians. It only worsened as they approached the Strand, where they veered off at Drury Lane toward the market.

      “How’s the pretty Miss Phillips?”

      Damien glanced sharply at Jonah. He’d told no one of his meeting with Miss Phillips the day before. “You should know as well as I, since you see her at the house as often as I do.”

      Jonah shrugged. “She’s a fair young lady, who seems to admire you quite a bit.”

      Damien made his way around a large woman who stood shouting to a hansom cab driver from the curb. “If she seems to admire me, it is only because I am a clergyman.”

      “Is that all you think it is?”

      Damien gave him a sharp look at the sly tone. The street noises grew louder as they approached the stalls and sheds occupying Covent Garden. Damien followed Jonah to a vendor’s table filled with a colorful display of fruits and vegetables. Jonah poked at a pile of green cabbages. “What do you want for these sorry-looking things?”

      The woman behind the table glared at him, her hefty arms akimbo. “Those be as crispy as anything you could grow yourself. A shillin’ for the pound.”

      He grabbed up one from the top of the pyramid. “Here, weigh that one for me, be a good lass.”

      When he’d paid for the cabbage, they walked on.

      “Oranges from Valencia!” the rough voice of a hawker called out.

      “I’ll take a half-dozen o’ those.”

      “Here, let me carry them,” Damien offered as they started on again.

      “That’s all right, I’ve got ’em.”

      Damien clamped his lips down and said no more.

      “So, you’re not interested in Miss Phillips as a young lady of marriageable age?”

      Damien refused to be drawn. “I repeat, Miss Phillips only sees me as a clergyman.”

      Jonah stopped before a fish vendor’s cart, and Damien stood silent while Jonah haggled