dear! Why had she looked down like that?
But in the next instant he extended his hand to Beatrice. “Good afternoon, Miss Yates, how nice of you to visit us here at the parsonage.” He had a low, well-modulated voice that immediately put a person at ease.
Her cousin smiled. “The gratitude is all ours for your gracious invitation.”
Lindsay bit her lip, waiting quietly as he exchanged pleasantries with her cousin. She hadn’t even noticed the wooden leg during the service, but he’d been gowned and standing behind the pulpit. Many young men had lost limbs in the war, but this man was a clergyman. How had the injury come about? At least it was only below the knee. The loss was all the more poignant because he had such an athletic build, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow, his good leg well shaped and muscular beneath the stocking.
And then he turned to her. “I’m so glad you could join us.”
“Thank you.” To her chagrin her voice came out as little more than a whisper. She couldn’t help responding to the kindly look in his blue eyes. They were such a beautiful shade, like a cloudless sky on a summer’s day. His light brown hair, though cut short, had a slight curl to it.
Before she could think of anything more to say, his sister spoke. “Why don’t we sit down and I’ll ring for some tea?”
Lindsay followed her cousin to the settee Miss Hathaway indicated. Trying not to look too anxious, she watched the curate to see where he would sit. Alas, he waited until all the others were seated. Mr. Quinn took one of the armchairs opposite and Miss Hathaway the other. There were no other chairs within range of the settee. The curate went to an alcove facing the street and took a seat.
Miss Hathaway cleared her throat. “We were very gratified to have you in the chapel today.”
Thankfully, Beatrice was not at all nervous. “Oh, we were delighted to be there.” Unmindful of the distance between them, she turned to Reverend Hathaway with her customary warm smile. “We so enjoyed your sermon. Did we not, my dear?”
“Oh, yes.” She tried to inject all the feeling possible into her words, wishing she could ask the curate more about the scriptures. She’d even brought her small New Testament, given to her by her mother, along with a notebook and pencil in her reticule.
Miss Hathaway smoothed down her skirt. “Where do you usually attend services?”
Once again, Beatrice took the initiative to reply. “At your mother church, St. George’s Hanover. We live close by on Grosvenor Square.”
“Oh, yes, the rector’s church.” Miss Hathaway fiddled with the white fichu at her throat. “How is Reverend Doyle?”
“He’s very well, thank you. He is the one who first told us of your services here at the chapel.”
A brief look clouded Miss Hathaway’s features, and Lindsay wondered at it. She glanced at the curate and caught him looking at her. Before she could smile, his gaze flickered away.
“I see,” was all Miss Hathaway said.
Beatrice folded her hands on her lap. “We decided at last to come hear for ourselves. And we were not disappointed.”
As the stilted conversation progressed between Miss Hathaway and Beatrice, Lindsay fretted, wishing she knew how to draw the curate in. Would this be the last time she ever spoke to him? Would he think them awfully tiresome visitors?
He remained silent, and she wondered what he was thinking. She stole another look at him, but he appeared as serene as he had in church, giving nothing away.
Mr. Quinn was also quiet, and Lindsay glanced at him, amazed afresh at his story. She caught his gaze as well, but instead of looking away as the curate had, Mr. Quinn grinned at her, and she found herself smiling back. There was something engaging in his countenance.
The tea tray arrived at that moment and Miss Hathaway busied herself with pouring. Mr. Quinn didn’t wait for his cup to be brought to him but rose and wandered over to Miss Hathaway. He took the cup offered him, then approached Lindsay. “See here, since you’ve probably visited the good parson to discuss this morning’s sermon, why don’t you sit here in his corner and ask him whatever you like. The reverend knows more about scripture than I’ll ever know in two lifetimes.”
It was as if he’d read her mind. Before she could think what to say, Mr. Quinn turned to Beatrice. “In the meanwhile, I’d be glad to regale Miss Yates with tales from Newgate if you’d care to hear them.” He smiled and winked at her cousin.
To her credit, Beatrice took it in stride. She replied with enthusiasm, “I would love to hear about Newgate.” She looked across at Miss Hathaway. “Reverend Doyle has told me something of your work among the inmates. I would dearly like to know more of it.”
Mr. Quinn quirked an eyebrow at Lindsay and held out his arm as if he were escorting her to an assembly at the exclusive Almack’s. “Shall I take you to Hathaway?”
She stood at once, her heartbeat quickening. Two armchairs and a small round table formed a cozy nook before the bow window. Reverend Hathaway stood as she approached and waited until she was seated before he resumed his seat opposite.
“Well, Reverend, are you ready for a catechism lesson?” Mr. Quinn asked in a jocular tone.
Instead of replying, he glanced toward his sister, but she was already engaged in an animated conversation with Beatrice. Lindsay heard her saying, “The inmates are kept in atrocious conditions….” Then, almost as if reluctant, the curate turned back to Lindsay. “Of course. What is it you wish to know?”
After Mr. Quinn went to rejoin the women, Lindsay cast about for how to begin. Reverend Hathaway was so much younger than Reverend Doyle, yet so unlike the young gentlemen of the ton she’d met during her coming out.
“I—you—” he began, then brought a clenched hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “You had some questions?”
“Yes.” Lindsay pulled open the drawstring of her reticule, relieved to have something else to focus on besides the awful moment he’d caught her looking at his peg leg. She removed the small Bible and laid it atop the tapestry covering the table. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not. Were you reading a particular passage?” he asked.
“I was trying to find the scriptures you spoke of this morning, but I must confess, I did not write them down.” To her chagrin, she felt herself stammering. “I—I shall be more diligent next Sunday.”
“I can help you there,” he said, taking the Bible from her and opening it, easing her nerves somewhat. “I began with a verse in the Book of Acts, in chapter thirteen.” He ruffled the thin pages. He had beautiful hands, his fingers long and slim, the nails cut short and straight across. When he came to the passage, he handed the book to her. “Here.” He pointed with his forefinger. “Verse twenty-two.”
She tore her attention from his hand and bent her head over the scripture, trying to concentrate on the words.
When she’d finished, she lifted her face and caught her breath when she found him looking at her. This close, he looked even more handsome. His face was slim, the lines firm and well proportioned. She was reminded of the sculpted busts and statues of
