A Lily Among Thorns(35)

Serena told herself she ought to wait a minute or two more, to be certain the rector wouldn’t return for something he had forgotten, or bring her a glass of water, or the like. But in truth, she was putting off looking for what she was afraid to find.

She glanced back down at Proverbs. She wondered if he liked the Song of Solomon, too. As a child she’d thought it rather peculiar, too many goats and odd metaphors, but when she flipped to it now and began reading, the words had a power she didn’t expect.

As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters. As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons.

She read it again. It was a perfect description of Solomon. An apple tree among the trees of the wood. She shut the book firmly. Enough maundering.

She rose from the hard bench and went to the lectern. Opening the register, she flipped backward until she came to Saturday, April 6, 1813. Surely she wouldn’t find anything—

Christ, there it was. There it really was, neatly written in black ink.

René du Sacreval of Paris and Serena Ravenshaw of Ravenscroft both of this Parish were Married in this Church by Banns this sixth Day of April, one-thousand, eight hundreds and thirteen by me Charles Waddell Curate. This Marriage was Solemnized between us René du Sacreval and Serena Ravenshaw now du Sacreval, in the Presence of John Richardson & John Stephenson.

She gripped the edge of the lectern until her knuckles were white. How long had he been planning this, then? She looked at the preceding Sunday.

Sunday, March 31st. The Banns of Marriage were duly Published the third time between René du Sacreval and Serena Ravenshaw, both of this Parish by me Charles Waddell, Curate.

She turned the page feverishly.

Sunday, March 24th. The Banns of Marriage were duly Published the second time between René du Sacreval and Serena Ravenshaw, both of this Parish.

Sunday, March 17th. The Banns of Marriage were duly Published the first time between René du Sacreval and Serena Ravenshaw, both of this Parish.

Dear God. He had really done it. But how?

She looked closer. The handwriting didn’t match, but the signatures—the signatures were all perfect. She examined the book more closely: it was loosely bound in groups of folded-in-half sheets. If she ripped out both halves, she would leave no telltale ragged edge. She looked at the page from the other side. There was a note in the margin, half-hidden by her forefinger. She took away her hand and read it.

Now she really did feel queasy. Extracts made so far. April 21st, 1813.

Bishop’s transcripts. She had completely forgotten about them. Maybe Mr. Waddell wasn’t in on the plan—René had said he wasn’t—but his was the most unkindest cut of all. He had copied out the false entries with the true and sent them all to the bishop.

Serena closed the register quietly and sat down. Organ music swelled in the background like a cheap melodrama. She couldn’t quite get enough air. She was married.

René could do anything he liked to her. And he owned the Arms.

For the next ten minutes Serena sat on the hard wooden bench, trying to breathe and wishing she could loosen her corset. Then she stood, waiting patiently for the dizzying rush to subside, and made her way back to the nave. She moved stiffly, like an old woman.

Solomon and the rector were nowhere in sight. She looked up at the windows that fronted the church. On the left was St. Margaret, stepping whole from inside a dragon—and if anyone believed a woman could do that, perhaps Serena could interest them in purchasing London Bridge. A woman could do exactly what men allowed her to do and no more.

Of course, God was a man. Perhaps it had pleased Him to let Margaret live to fight her dragon. But one day He might change His mind, and what then? Serena had escaped her dragon, too, and now first her father and then René waved their hands, and she could feel its throat tight around her and its teeth at her neck as if the intervening years had been a dream.

The organist played a complex harmony, and Serena glanced at him for a moment, impressed in spite of herself. She blinked, then looked again. It was Solomon.

All Serena could see was the back of his blond head, but she was sure. The rector stood at his elbow, nodding along to the music. She walked slowly down the nave, the music rising and falling around her, and thought about snapping all the panels of her charming little fan, one by one. She would have done it if it weren’t Sophy’s.

Step by careful step, she climbed the carved wooden stairs to the organ loft. Solomon came into view, his stained fingers moving over the keys, masterful and sure and tender like—like they would move over her body. He looked confident and happy. He made a few adjustments to the knobs, and it sounded as if a flute began to play.