∞∞∞
A few days later, Charity settled into a vacant chair within the cramped quarters of Mr. Fortescue’s office at half past one in the afternoon. He made a valiant effort, as he handed her a cup of tea, to restrain the glower that tugged at the corners of his eyes behind the lenses of his spectacles, conscious of the other occupant of his office—the estimable Bishop Fitzwilliam.
“I’m sorry,” she said, wincing over her tea cup. “I really ought to have told you.” But she had never quite gotten around to it. She had, in point of fact, expected a representative of the Church to call upon her directly, but it appeared that they had been directed to her solicitor instead.
“You really should have done,” Mr. Fortescue said. “I’ve had little enough time to prepare.”
“I don’t believe any preparation on your part is required,” Charity said. “I assume the bishop is here to conduct some sort of interview involving the dissolution of my marriage?”
“Youdorealize I cannot, in good conscience, recommend that you pursue an annulment from a duke,” Mr. Fortescue said. “Any reasonable woman—”
“Better an annulment than a divorce. For His Grace, of course,” she added, for the benefit of the bishop, who stared at her as if she were some manner of creature which he had never before encountered. Which she supposed she might well be. “Really, it would be to his benefit if a quiet annulment might be obtained—to have the chance to put this inconvenient marriage well into the past and move on with his life as he ought.”
With a supercilious sniff, the bishop intoned, “Perhaps, given the nature of your vocation, Miss Nightingale, you were unaware that marriage is a sacrament. It is not to be undertaken lightly.”
“Given my vocation,” Charity repeated, with a serene smile, “perhaps I understand the sacrament of it better than most. In my experience, you see, men are wont to treat their vows with rather more flexibility than the nature of vows would suggest.” A slow,thoughtful sip of tea. “Is it not curious, then, that a woman may find herself divorced on grounds of adultery alone, while a man is free to violate his vows with impunity, secure in the knowledge thathisinfidelity will not be judged deserving of a petition of divorce?”
Mr. Fortescue cleared his throat; a subtle warning that it would be wisest not offend the man whose assistance she wished to secure. “I’m certain Miss Nightingale means only to say,” he cut in, “that marriage vows well ought to be held in the sanctity that they deserve, but that her marriage to the duke was never a true one, and ought not to be held to the same standard.”
“Yes, so the duke’s solicitor has informed us,” the bishop said. “You’ll understand, however, why I find that a difficult thing to believe.”
Given hervocationagain, she supposed he meant to imply. Men, particularly those who felt themselves charged with some sort of moral authority, too often seemed to think it their place to put her in hers. Too bad for him, then, that she simply did not care what he thought of her.
“Bishop Fitzwilliam,” she said, “We were—in a nominal sense—husband and wife for at most a few hours before we were separated, and neither of us in any condition or of any disposition to consummate our marriage. That was sixteen years ago, and until just recently, I had no reason to think myself anything other than a widow.”
“Non-consummation is not, strictly speaking, grounds alone for the dissolution of a marriage,” the bishop said, in a near-perfect echo of that same bad news she had first gotten from Mr. Fortescue some weeks ago now. “There are other factors that must be considered—”
“Yes,” she said, “such as the fact that if the Church will not grant an annulment, you will be putting a duke and a war hero through the embarrassment of a very public divorce. I have weathered scandals enough myself, but that does not mean I wish to sully His Grace’s good name with one.”
Grudgingly, the bishop admitted, “I suppose that is decent of you.”
“Even I may lay claim to common decency from time to time, Your Excellency,” she said, and Mr. Fortescue stifled a sigh at the faint inflection of mockery within her voice.
“Miss Nightingale wishes only to do what is right,” Mr. Fortescue said, though he clearly thought she would be better served to retain her husband—and his title. “Surely the Church can find its way toward invalidating this marriage, as it has never been a true one in any sense of the word.”
“The decision is not mine alone to make,” the bishop said. “It is in the interests of the Church to safeguard the sacrament of marriage, though I suppose certain allowances may be made, upon occasion, for such an obviousmismatch.”
If he tilted his nose any higher, Charity thought as she bit back a laugh, she would soon have a perfect view directly up his nostrils.
“Rarely have I seen in all my years,” the bishop continued, utterly oblivious to Charity’s amusement with his unearned superiority, “so unequal a marriage. I suppose there is an argument to be made that to be so unevenly yoked may prove a stumbling block to His Grace.”
“Call it a lapse in judgment,” Charity suggested with affected sweetness. “Made in a particularly fraught moment. Had we any inkling that there were the least need of it, we would have applied for an annulment much sooner.”
“Hmph,” the bishop said. “And you do swear before God that you have never shared a bed with His Grace?” he inquired, the doubtful tenor of his voice suggesting she could not be relied upon to answer honestly.
Abed, no. Several other surfaces of varying degrees of comfort and recline, most certainly. But that hardly signified. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, what the man had asked. “Our marriage remains unconsummated, and I do swear to it,” she said, and at least that was the truth. But it would have been a lie to say she hadn’t any regrets about that fact. That she did not return to her home most nights aching for a sort of fulfillment that could not be satisfied by only the strokes of Anthony’s fingers, or the caress of his tongue.
Probably some of her irreverence had crept into her voice, for Mr. Fortescue interjected, “Do consider, Bishop Fitzwilliam, that Miss Nightingale is voluntarily surrendering, out of the fondness of friendship that she holds for the duke, both her right to the title that is hers by virtue of marriage and any consideration of the financial support which she would otherwise be due.” He straightened in his chair, clasped his hands before him. “I would have advised her against it, had I known the whole truth of the matter. But she is determined that she should do right by the duke whatever the cost to herself, and that is deserving of consideration, I should think.”
“Yes, well, it remains to be seen if the duke’s version of events aligns with Miss Nightingale’s,” the bishop said. “At any rate, the Church’s opinion on the validity of the marriage is not yet made. When it is, you shall be so informed.”
Well, at least that was not an outright denial. As the bishop rose to his feet, ostensibly to conclude the interview, Charity hastened to say, “It is my understanding that the duke hopes to secure a wife, a proper one, once he is out of mourning. If the Church might see fit to render its decision quickly—”
The bishop shot her a quellingglance, and this time shedidsee straight up his nose as he lifted it. “These things take time, Miss Nightingale. I would suggest that you accustom yourself to waiting.” He gave a nod—to Mr. Fortescue alone—as he quit the room.
Charity waited until at last she heard the sounds of the street outside and then the silence that followed. And then she issued a sigh and uttered, “Well. What an utter arse!”
Mr. Fortescue smothered a laugh in his hand. “God,” he said. “Thank you, at least, for waiting until he had left. He might’ve denied you an annulment out of sheer spite.”
