Lady in the Mist - Laurie Alice Eakes [135]
“The parson doesn’t know how many people I’ve hurt. I need to make up for it.”
“You can’t.” Letty slammed the lid onto the kettle. “There’s nothing you can do to make up for any sin you commit. Making yourself suffer won’t take away anyone else’s suffering.”
“But it reminds me not to do it again.”
Yet there he was, knowing he was going to hurt Tabitha if he left for England once he obtained his freedom. England and the family that hadn’t contacted him once in six months. England and the family that didn’t understand that his faith in God had prevented him from serving in the kind of vicar’s position his father wanted—one who would preach according to what the marquess wanted the people to believe, not what the Bible said to believe. England and a family that could give him entrée into a world he knew, a world in which he felt comfortable and welcome.
Welcome once. Yet who had contacted him other than his one Oxford tutor? Dominick had accomplished what few gentlemen had—taken the tests to obtain his degree—and only his tutors had congratulated him.
“I’m English, Letty,” he said at last. “There’s no place for me here.”
“And what place is there for you there?” Letty asked.
“I . . . don’t know.” Dominick slid from his chair and began to pace again. “Gentlemen’s work. A steward. A secretary. Perhaps a position in the government, if my family will sponsor me.”
“Lots of maybes and ifs.” Letty took flour and lard from the pantry. “Here, at least, you have people who love you for certain.”
“Then that’s the easy road and I can’t take it. It costs me too little.”
“Oh, lad . . .” Letty sighed. “Go on with you. As long as you’re back in time to serve supper, there’s no sense in your fretting over the lady.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be back.” He reached behind him to tighten the ribbon holding his hair in place, then darted out the door before Letty changed her mind.
Odd he’d told her staying would be no sacrifice. Surely it was. He would have Tabitha, yes, but he had nothing else, no prospects but more servitude, no standing in society, no name that would open doors once he was vindicated. In truth, he would have no security to offer a wife.
Or was it security he sought for himself?
Dominick slid to a halt beside the church. The doors stood open, and the hard-edged notes of a harpsichord being hammered with more exuberance than skill drifted into the square. He climbed the steps and slipped into one of the pews, closing the door with a click so the musician couldn’t hear. In the cool dimness, he slipped to his knees and leaned his brow on the immovable back of the pew in front of him.
The position felt strange, uncomfortable despite the padded bench beneath his knees. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d knelt in a church. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed. He had so much to say, he didn’t know where to start.
The music banged off of his ears. His conscience created havoc in his chest. Words crowded into his throat, tasted bitter on his lips.
“I do remember, God. The last time I prayed was the night before I wrote my first letter. I asked for success in convincing my father I shouldn’t go into the church.”
He hadn’t waited for God’s help. He’d begun his campaign of destruction. Perhaps he’d meant it only for himself, but he’d learned that he was hurting others soon enough to stop.
“But I didn’t stop. I went my own way. I was so determined to reject serving the church, I didn’t think that—that . . .”
That God might want him serving his Lord and Savior?
The thought slammed into his head on a discordant collection of notes from the harpsichord, and he caught his breath. Surely God didn’t want him in the ministry. The idea was too horrendous, standing in the pulpit on Sundays while spending weekdays listening to instructions from one of Bruton’s minions or Bruton himself. That wasn’t serving God. And the church wouldn’t have him now.
Unless he accomplished his mission and his father took him back. And if he succeeded, then he would have to