anyone ages ago.” Before she could reply, he turned back to Carlton. “I heard we’d a new voice in the congregation. Like that of an angel. Pure and sweet and good. What a blessing. What a blessing! Praise be.”
Disconcerted and embarrassed by the man’s effusive emotion, Morley pressed his cold hand to the back of his heating neck. It’d become concerningly evident to him that his marital status—or lack thereof—had been more disturbing to those in his sphere than he’d ever have guessed. And among those who claimed to care for him, they unanimously approved of his selection of spouse.
“We’d stay and visit…” he began uncomfortably.
“No, no, I’ve tea with the Brintons as soon as they call around to collect me, but you must visit soon. You must tell me everything.” He turned to Prudence, both hands reaching for her.
She took them in her gloved fingers, squeezing fondly as if they’d known each other for a lifetime.
“There always seems to be plenty of demons in this world of ours. And not enough angels. I’m glad our Cutter’s found his own.”
Morley excused them and hurried her to the main thoroughfare, hoping she’d not caught the old man’s slip of the tongue. He hired them a hackney, as he rarely brought his own carriage to this part of the city, and lifted her in, instructing the driver to deposit them at Angelo’s.
She swayed silently on the overwrought springs of the cab as she subjected him to a thorough study before saying, “My sisters and I were raised by borderline zealots, as evidenced by our virtuous names. However, I wouldn’t have thought you a religious man.”
He looked out of the window at their dismal surroundings, hardening his heart against every over-thin waif or shifty-eyed reprobate. “I don’t know that I am,” he said honestly. “But others believe with such confounding fervency, don’t they? I attend to observe them, I think. To learn what they love. Or what they fear. To watch the rapture on their faces and wonder what it must be like. To believe in something so vast. So absolute. To trust…” He broke off for a moment, returning his entire attentions on her. “To trust…in anything.”
He found no condemnation in her, but an infinite sadness. “You do not go there to find grace? To find God?”
He made a caustic noise. “I’ve never understood the words. But, I think, I go there in case He might find me. If I’m standing in the right place. Maybe an answer to all this madness will fall on my head.” He gestured to the city and the world beyond it.
To his surprise, a laugh bubbled from her, warming the moment. “Considering how much sinning we’ve been doing lately, you might do to fear a bolt of lightning instead.”
In spite of himself, he chuckled along with her. “I’m not familiar with all credences and commandments but I’m fairly certain we’ve not been sinning since we married.”
“I don’t know,” she said from beneath coy lashes. “It feels rather wicked to me.”
If this had been his coach, he’d have gathered her to him and shown her the meaning of the word wicked.
“St. Dismas.” She tested the name. “The penitent thief.”
He shifted in his seat.
Smoothing at her skirts, she smiled to herself. “I confess I’d initially assumed you took me to this church so no one would recognize us, but now…I think I understand.”
He shook his head, wishing he’d never taken her there at all. What had he been thinking? That he’d wanted to reveal the part of himself he blamed for her debauchment? Had he wanted to see if she’d hold a handkerchief to shield her nose against the stench of the wells and pumps he used to draw his drinking water from? If she’d shy away from the hard-working class and earnest people that lived in poverty alongside the criminal element?
If so, it was an unfair test. Although, one she’d passed with perfect marks.
“There’s nothing to understand,” he informed her with as much dispassion as he could. “I attend St. Dismas monthly. I’m their patron, you see. Applewhite shelters and tends to many of the hungry and naked children in this part of the city. One of the few true Christians I’ve ever known. I finance his mission to take some of Whitechapel’s unwanted boys and help them find a direction. A trade. A means of survival.”
“Because—”
“Because crime and violence are born of poverty and cruelty,” he explained. “The more means a man has to provide survival