By the door stood the votive candle stand, the spent ones and stubs; dribbles of wax in the sand, mute testimony to hopes and prayers and memories. Sleek fresh candles lay in a box on the side, ranging from the slenderest wisp of a taper to thick columns of wax, waiting to be chosen and lit with a prayer.
When Faith was a little girl in Italy, Concetta had explained the candles to the Merridew girls. She lit them regularly for the soul of her dead husband. The children knew the ritual well.
Faith had not been inside a Catholic church since she was seven. Grandpapa said Papists were devils. Years later and all grown up now, Faith understood the comfort the candles could bring. She suddenly had an overwhelming desire to light a candle for her mother and father. She looked at them longingly. But she had no money.
She slipped into a pew on the side, knelt, and prayed. Mama and Papa had been dead for so long—more than twelve years—and yet tonight she missed them so very much. She remembered the way Mama used to hold her, all soft and pretty and smelling wonderful. And Papa so strong and big and smelling of cigars. And when she rode on his shoulders, she was safe from everything and on top of the world.
“I’ve made a terrible mess of things, Mama,” she whispered. “I thought I was doing what you and Papa did, thought I’d found a love like yours. But I was wrong, so terribly wrong.” Mama would forgive her, she knew, but she would be very disappointed. She’d promised all her girls love and laughter and sunshine and happiness. Faith had let her down badly.
“I’m going to be married tomorrow, Papa. He’s a good man, I know. He’s doing it for me, to help me, even though he knows nothing about me. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do or not…” She felt her face crumple. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks.
She didn’t know how long she knelt there in the dark, but finally, feeling a little more peaceful, she rose to leave. She hesitated again at the tray of votive candles, picked up a candle, and sent a small, silent message to Mama. She kissed the candle and gently replaced it in the box, unlit. The next person who lit a candle would send Mama’s message to her.
A shadow moved in the darkness. Faith jumped. “Wh-who’s there?”
The shadow moved into the light. It was Marthe. “I thought you were an Anglaise?” she said in French. “I didn’t know there were members of the True Faith in England.”
“There are some,” Faith responded in the same language, “but I am English, and not Catholic.”
“You know our ways, though.” Marthe jerked her chin toward the votive candles. “You wanted to light a candle.”
Emotion filled her throat so that Faith could not speak. She nodded.
“I did not think the English Protestants lit candles.”
Faith shrugged. “I was born in Italy. Our nurse lit candles in church. She showed us what to do. It seemed to bring her comfort.”
“Oui, it does,” Marthe said after a minute. “So…you need comfort, do you?”
Faith bit her lip.
“Why did you not burn a candle then?”
“I had no money.”
“But you thought you were alone. Nobody would have seen you, nobody would have known.”
Faith just looked at her.
Marthe nodded slowly. “So…who did you want the candle for?”
Faith hesitated. She didn’t want this sour, critical old woman to know any part of her story, but the silence built, and eventually she muttered, “My mother and father.”
“They are dead? Both of them?”
Faith nodded, battling with tears again. She would look a fool if she said they’d died when she was seven. How could a grown woman of nineteen possibly miss her parents when she only had a few scattered memories of them in the first place? But right now she did miss them, terribly.
Marthe said nothing more, just came forward, dropped some coins in the box, selected two thick candles, and shoved them brusquely into Faith’s hands. “Light them, then. I will await you outside.”
When Faith returned to the priest’s house, Monsieur le Curé regarded her with a severe expression. “Marthe told me you went into the church and prayed,” he said in French. It sounded like an accusation.
Faith nodded.
“She said you wanted to light some candles, but you didn’t because you had no money.”
Again, Faith nodded.
He addressed her in Italian. “She said you are knowledgeable about our Church. And that you were born in Italy, and I see you understand me, so it must be true that you lived there for some time. So explain to me, if you please, where were you baptized?”
She shrugged and answered in Italian, “In the local church. There was no other alternative.”
“The local Catholic church in Italy?”
At her nod, he jumped up, suddenly wreathed in grins. “Aha! Did I not say it, Marthe?” He switched to English and addressed Nicholas Blacklock, who had been trying to follow the conversation with little success.
“Monsieur, I can marry you and your young lady after all. You must let the mayor do his civic duty, but afterward come to me, and I will marry you in God’s eyes. Your bride was baptized in The True Church; I can marry you!”
Mr. Blacklock’s eyebrow rose. “Is this what you want, Miss Merrit?”
Faith looked around, as if an answer would come to her. If it came right down to it, she’d prefer not to get married at all—not an obligatory marriage of convenience to a man she hardly knew—but since she had no real choice…
She’d felt peace in the church. She’d lit candles for Mama and Papa. She’d wanted them with her; perhaps this was the closest she could come to it. “I would prefer to be wed in a church. But it is your decision, too. Do you have any objection?”
He shrugged. “Makes no difference to me.” He turned to the priest. “Will ten o’clock suit you? The civic ceremony is at nine.”
As the elderly priest bowed in assent, the knocker was heard. As Marthe went to answer it, Nicholas stood. “That will be Stevens. Come along, Miss Merrit, we shall escort you to the inn.”
“The inn?” Monsieur le Curé looked affronted. “She cannot stay at the inn. It is not fitting. She shall stay here. Marthe will chaperone her,” he added with dignity.
“Oh, but—” began Faith. She had no desire to spend the night under Marthe’s gimlet eye. The woman may have been momentarily kind about the candles, but she still seemed cold and disapproving of Faith.
“The matter is settled,” said the old man firmly.
“Very well. I admit, it is preferable to the inn. My man Stevens would have stayed with her, but she will be safer here. And a woman needs the company of another woman on the eve of her wedding.”
Perhaps, but not the company of an old woman who still disapproved of her, thought Faith, but she did not argue. The thought of staying at a public inn was a little frightening, given her experiences of the last week or so. No one would bother her here.
Mr. Blacklock took her hand and bowed over it, planting a light kiss on her fingers. “We will come at half past eight to collect you, Miss Merrit.” He held her hand a long moment and added softly, “Sleep well, my dear.”
His kindness and gallantry brought tears to her eyes. She just nodded.
“Never fear, monsieur, we shall take good care of her for you.”
Nick plunged naked into the sea. The cold brine scoured him; it was freezing, bracing. He swam away from the shore, breasting each wave, swimming out as far as he could. He always did this, swimming blindly out to sea, without thought, without care. There were times the thought crossed his mind that he should just keep going, keep swimming until he was too exhausted to swim back, let the sea take him.
But it was not in him to give up. A wave broke over his head, and he shook his head like a dog, laughing, exhilarated. He loved swimming; sometimes imagined he was part seal, like the Scottish legends of selkies. In the water he was free. He could do anything, go anywhere, be anyone.
When he was a young sold
ier and facing death every day, he and his friends would sometimes talk about what they wished to do before they died. They were often silly things, dreams of greatness, Matt wanted to bed a hundred beautiful women before he died. George wanted to taste every wine in France. Albert to read all the works of Shakespeare.
Nicholas never could decide. Yes, it would be fun to bed a lot of women, but really, a hundred was too many. After the first dozen, surely it would stop being special. And he didn’t want to taste all the wines in France—just the best ones. He’d seen a couple of Shakespeare’s plays, but he’d enjoyed the comedies before them more. In their group he was the only one without a burning ambition to achieve before he died. The only burning ambition he had was one he was too ashamed to admit to them: he wanted to live. He didn’t want to die.
He’d worried that it made him a coward. Surely a soldier shouldn’t mind about dying. Nicholas threw himself into battle to hide his cowardice from the others. Always at the front, always in the thick of the battle. Fighting not for king and country, but for his life.
He’d gotten his wish. His friends had died around him, died like flies, cut down in their youth and their prime, their ambitions unfulfilled. Only Nicholas lived.
He swam until his arms ached and his eyes stung with the salt. He floated there for a while, letting the waves wash over him, drifting aimlessly, a piece of human flotsam. He thought of that other piece of flotsam, Miss Faith Merrit. She would no doubt be in that bath now, warm and flushed, all curves and soft, clean skin…
His bride to be. But not to be his wife.
He turned and swam wearily back to shore. He waded out of the water, shivering as the cold night air bit into his warm, wet flesh. He whistled for Wulf, and he bounded up and butted his rough, damp head against him.
“You’ll catch your death one of these days, sir,” grumbled Stevens.
“No such luck, I’m afraid.”
The words hung in the air for a moment. Stevens thrust a towel into Nicholas’s hands. “Go up to the fire anyway. You don’t want to take a chill.”
Her bridal morning dawned fine and clear. Faith rose, washed swiftly, and dressed in her new clothes from the skin out. The evening before, to her surprise, Marthe had provided her with a small hip bath, several large cans of hot water, a small cake of fine, rose-scented soap, and a healing lotion to rub into her skin. Now, as she dressed, she relished the feeling of fresh new clothes on her clean body. The act was symbolic, she thought. She was beginning a new life. She would take only what she wanted of the old life.
She bundled up her old clothes and wrapped them in the ruined green silk dress. She would give them to Marthe to burn or to be used as rags.
Marthe knocked on the bedchamber door. “Are you awake, mademoiselle?”
Faith opened it. “Yes. Good morning, Marthe.”
Marthe’s beady black eyes ran over Faith critically. She sniffed. “That dress! You do not look like a bride.”
Faith shrugged. She didn’t feel like a bride either.
“Just because it is a hurried wedding does not mean you should not dress to be pretty for him,” said Marthe severely. “Did you use the soap I gave you?” She leaned forward and sniffed. “You did. Good.” She bustled into the room. Faith saw her eye the bundle of emerald silk, but she said nothing.
“You should be grateful to have such a man willing to marry you!”
“I am.”
“Then show your gratitude! It is your duty to make him happy, to please him in every way a woman can!”
Faith felt herself blushing. She didn’t know where to look. Was Marthe referring to what Faith thought she was? Marthe had to be well past sixty at least. She had the appearance of a dried-up, sour old woman. She was housekeeper to a celibate old priest, for heaven’s sake!
“A bride should be beautiful on her wedding day. You are well enough in yourself, but that dress!” She snorted. “The color is pretty enough, but the cut! It is an abomination!”
“I only had that thing left,” Faith gestured toward the green silk bundle. “All my baggage was stolen. Mr. Blacklock bought me this dress and another, in pink.” She smoothed the blue cotton dress. “I don’t mind it being plain.”
Marthe sniffed again. Without a word she stalked out of the room. Faith tidied her hair and gathered her few possessions together, but before she could leave, Marthe was back, bearing a small pot, a jar, a hare’s foot, a bunch of tiny pink roses fresh from the garden, and a white satin ribbon.
She caught Faith’s look and muttered, “Don’t look like that! ’Tis nothing. Just a few bits and pieces, flowers from the garden and an old piece of ribbon.”
She began with the pot, smoothing a cream over Faith’s bruised cheek, covering the purple and yellow marks. She dabbed some on the last of the midge bites, then dusted the whole of Faith’s complexion lightly with the hare’s foot dipped in some powder. When she showed her the looking glass, Faith gasped. It was a miracle. Her usual face looked back, her skin apparently clear and unmarked. So this was what it was like to be a painted hussy. Not at all the hideous thing she’d been led to believe. She grinned at Marthe’s reflection.
Marthe sniffed and, pushing Faith down on the bed, threaded the ribbon through Faith’s curls then tucked dozens of tiny roses into her hair. She frowned critically at her handiwork and nodded. “That’s better. You look more like a bride, now. Your maman would have wished it so.”
Faith could not speak. She put her arms around Marthe’s gaunt waist and hugged her. The woman stood stiff for a moment, then softened. She patted Faith on the shoulder and said gruffly, “Go downstairs now, mademoiselle, for your breakfast, and then it is off for your heathen ceremony. I shall see you again when you come to the church for your true marriage.”
At half past eight, Nicholas Blacklock arrived at Monsieur le Curé’s. “Ah, monsieur,” Father Anselm said, “Your bride is waiting. See, here she comes.”
His men fell silent. Nick felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. She was beautiful. He stood stock-still, staring at her until Stevens nudged him. Nick stepped forward and raised her hand to kiss it.
Her skin was soft, and she tasted of roses. “You ta—smell of roses,” he blurted.
“Yes. I am wearing real roses in my hair,” she explained in a shy voice. “Marthe picked them from the garden and wove them into my hair.” She smoothed the fabric of her dress. “And I’m wearing blue, because my mama was married in blue.”
She’d dressed up for their wedding. Roses in her hair. And she was so damn beautiful his voice didn’t work. Her hair was gold, spun, shining pure gold, tumbling in artless curls around her face.
“You will have a lifetime to stare at each other, mes enfants,” the elderly priest broke into his thoughts. “The time it marches on, and the mayor will demand more money if you are late. I will see you back here when you are finished.”
Father Anselm refused to let them enter the church together. “Ma’m’selle”—despite their legal marriage, he insisted on calling Faith mademoiselle until she was married properly, in church—“Ma’m’selle will be escorted down the aisle by one of these two fine gentlemens…” He looked expectantly at Mac, who looked away.
“I’ll do it.” Stevens stepped forward.
“Bon! Now you two gentlemens…” The elderly priest led Nick and Mac around the side door and into the church.
Mac practically frog-marched Nick around the back of the church, growling in his ear, “I pray ye’ll no live tae regret this, Cap’n! There’s still time tae change yer mind, sir. We can just keep walking.”
“And abandon my wife at the church door?”
Mac snorted. “She’s no’ yer wife—not yet!”
“The mayor seemed to think it legal.”
Mac’s snort dismissed the seedy little mayor. “That mumbled bit o’ official lingo didna fool me, sir. I canna believe it was a wedding at all.”
“I can.”
Mac marched another six pac
es, then burst out, “Och, Cap’n, ye canna mean tae trust yon stray lass wi’ yer name and worldly goods, sir. Ye know nothing about her! Nothing!”
“My worldly goods are in England, Mac. I don’t need them.”
There was a short silence, broken only by the sound of their boots on the flagstones. “What about yer Mam?”
“My mother is well provided for. Miss Merridew—I knew the name she gave us first was a false one—Miss Merridew—no, she’s Mrs. Blacklock now, isn’t she? At any rate, she already has my name and is welcome to my worldly goods. As for my mother, I have no doubt she’ll be delighted to have a daughter-in-law at last!”
“’Twas an heir she wanted, no’ just a daughter-in-law.”
“One needs one before one can have the other. And half a loaf is better than no loaf at all.”
“But—”
“Enough!” Nicholas’s voice was sharp. “The deed is done. There will be no more discussion, Mac. And my wife will be treated with respect!”
It was an order, and Mac grunted in reluctant assent. But as he pulled open the side door of the church, he added in an undertone, “I still reckon ye’re crazed, Cap’n!”
Faith paused at the doorway of the old stone church. Logically she knew she was already married, but this—this felt like the real thing. Her hands were shaking. She laid one on Stevens’s proffered arm and gripped the folds of her skirts with the other.
“One moment, ma petite.” Marthe stepped forward and waved Stevens aside. “You will wear this, perhaps? If it pleases you, that is.” She gruffly offered Faith a small parcel folded in aged tissue. Faith opened it carefully. Faded rose petals floated to the ground as she unwrapped it. She bent to collect them, but Marthe stopped her with a hand.
“No, it is fitting. She gave it to me wrapped in tissue, the same as now, with dried rose petals from her garden in between. She grew beautiful roses, my maman. But these petals are from my own garden. One must change them every year, you know.”
Faith pulled back the last layer of tissue. In it lay a folded square of lace. She opened it out with trembling hands. The lace was creamy with age, yet still perfect and so delicate it resembled cobwebs as it spilled across Faith’s hands. The region was known for its fine lacework, Faith recalled, but this was the finest she’d ever seen.
Anne Gracie - [Merridew Sister 03] Page 9