be interested in attending.”
Lindsay felt hope rise within her. Perhaps she would not only have the opportunity of seeing the reverend again, but to study the scriptures under his tutelage! She looked at Beatrice.
Her cousin smiled at the curate. “Why, we shall certainly consider it. Of course, I must talk to Miss Phillips’s father. As you know, Miss Phillips is in the middle of her coming out. Her engagement calendar is quite full.”
“Of course,” he said immediately. “Mr. Quinn only meant to suggest a possible—er—”
Mr. Quinn interrupted, addressing Lindsay directly. “Well, whenever you get bored with all the dances and parties, you’re welcome in our midst.”
She brought her hands together. “I should love to come. I have ever so many more questions.” She turned once again to Reverend Hathaway. “That is…if you don’t mind having someone so ignorant of scripture in your group.”
“Remember, God looks at the heart,” Reverend Hathaway replied. “You—both of you—” he turned to include her cousin “—are most welcome any evening you are not otherwise engaged.”
Beatrice smiled and held out her hand. “We thank you most graciously. Now, we really must be going.” She made her farewells to Miss Hathaway and Mr. Quinn.
Reverend Hathaway smiled at Lindsay and she couldn’t help but notice his deep blue eyes again. “Thank you for coming to visit us,” he said.
“Thank you for having us. I…I hope we can join you at your Bible study.” How she wished she could say more—how full her heart felt after having conversed with him.
He gave a small nod, his eyes never leaving hers. “I look forward to seeing you some evening.”
After they’d left, Damien sat back in a daze, only half listening to his sister commenting on the visit. His attention was caught by Jonah’s reply. “Beautiful child, she is. She certainly seemed riveted by our Damien’s conversation, but I always say he’s the wisest man I know.”
Florence looked up from her needlework. “She is a pretty child, indeed, but I’m sure this is the last we shall see of her. She belongs to an entirely different world from ours. You heard her cousin—her life at present is full of balls and concerts. A girl’s coming out has a sole purpose to it, and that is to make a good match.”
Damien said nothing though his sister’s words brought about a sense of desolation in him. Jonah’s regard came to rest on Damien as he replied to Florence. “And what better husband for a young girl such as she than our good curate?”
“Jonah! What foolishness will you say next?” Florence exclaimed. “Goodness, don’t even think such nonsense.”
Jonah’s eyes twinkled in response. “No more foolish than the notion of a lady falling in love with a Newgate prisoner.”
Florence turned a bright red and she busied herself with her square of linen. “Hush. You’ll only distress Damien.”
Jonah quirked an eyebrow at him, and he did his best to appear unruffled. “Why should Damien be distressed by the thought of a pretty young thing like Miss Phillips giving him a second look?”
“Jonah!” Florence’s countenance bespoke genuine distress.
Damien stood and straightened his waistcoat. “That’s all right, Florence. Jonah was just having sport. No harm done. If you’ll excuse me, I shall be in my workshop.”
As he shut the door behind him, he heard Florence’s sharp whisper. “Now see what you’ve done? Your teasing was cruel.”
“I didn’t mean to be cruel. I told you, I just want to see my future brother-in-law all set up with a good woman of his own.”
Damien didn’t hear any more. He walked rapidly away from the door and headed downstairs for the small room off the kitchen, which served as his workshop. His father had been a clockmaker and brought his son up to follow in his profession. Instead, Damien had felt the call of the church. But since returning to London from Oxford to take up the curacy at St. George’s, he’d continued repairing clocks as a hobby. Working on the precise inner workings of a timepiece helped settle his mind. Often an answer to a perplexing question in scripture or a difficult problem with a parishioner would come to him as he sat pondering the clockworks.
He entered the small room and was immediately soothed by the steady ticking of the various clocks sitting on shelves and mantels in the room. He bent over the fire and stirred up the smoldering embers in the grate, adding some fresh lumps of coal. His hand stilled on the tongs as he stared at the sizzling coals, unseeing or—more precisely—seeing a radiant young face. When the fire burned brightly once again, he went to the battered old table that served as his work surface. It overlooked the kitchen garden and orchards beyond, providing ample light in the afternoon.
He moved the lantern clock in the brass case closer. He had to convert it into a fusee clock, which would only have to be wound once a week instead of daily. He turned it around so its back was facing him and picked up a screwdriver. The shiny brass back was etched with fancy scrollwork.
He stared at the inner workings of the clock. What should have been a simple procedure turned into a chore. Snatches from the conversation he’d just had with Miss Phillips kept shifting his focus.
Had the Lord brought this young lady for him to disciple in some fashion? Her questions about the scriptures seemed genuine.
How would he be able to disregard the yearnings this young lady stirred in his heart and focus solely on her spiritual well-being? He pondered the brass cone-shaped gear in his hand.
Likely his sister was right. Miss Phillips would have no time for an evening Bible study. A girl’s coming out was a major event in her life. How could an evening studying scriptures at a modest parsonage compete with a ball at one of the great houses of Mayfair?
Yet the shimmer of tears that had glistened in her eyes had been genuine. How he’d longed in that moment to offer comfort.
His fingers tightened on the gear. He was a simple clergyman. This young lady was as far removed from his sphere as a French gilded clock was from the parsonage. He must banish such foolish thoughts of her immediately, before they caused him any trouble.
Crowded between the other young ladies, Lindsay could hardly breathe. Her fan did little but move the stifling air in front of her.
Had she only been at the Middletons’ ball three-quarters of an hour? The wall she stood against was jammed with similarly dressed young ladies, all in white or pale-colored high-waisted gowns, tiny reticules and silk fans clutched in their gloved hands. Hair was curled around faces shiny from the heat of the room. Wall sconces only added to the pressing warmth.
The music from the orchestra on the balcony above them reverberated through the long ballroom. Squares of four couples each along the center length of the ballroom carried out the steps of the quadrille. Lindsay had begged to be excused from this set. Her father had gone to get her some refreshment in the meantime.
“My, what a turnout.” Beatrice waved her own fan in front of her, her eyes on the guests promenading about the crowded room.
With a sigh of relief, Lindsay spotted her father making his way toward
