A Lily Among Thorns

Chapter 8


The church was an old, drafty place with a few beautiful stained-glass windows and a large number of boarded-up holes that presumably had once been beautiful stained-glass windows. On the threshold, Solomon offered Serena his arm. He expected a rebuff, but she breathed in deep, whipped open her fan, and took it.

A man Solomon assumed to be the rector was replacing candle stubs in one corner. Serena headed straight for him, tugging Solomon along in her wake. “Oh, sir,” she called prettily, “do you think you could do me a very great favor?” Her accent had gone South London and middle-class.

The rector looked up. He was a tall, thin man in his middle sixties, with an extremely incompetent tailor. “For a pretty young lady like yourself? Certainly.” He gave an avuncular chuckle.

Serena giggled behind her fan. Solomon looked at her in surprise. She was dimpling and ducking her head, so he couldn’t see her eyes. “Well, you see, sir, I want to get my sister an anniversary gift, but I can’t remember what day she was married, and I do so want it to be a surprise. She was married here last year, so I thought if I could just see the register—”

The rector smiled. “Of course. I’m sure your sister will be very pleased.”

“I hope so. Oh, but I’m being rude! My name is Elizabeth Jeeves, and this is my fiancé, David Burbank.”

The rector bowed over her proffered hand. “Charles Waddell.” He led them to a small back room, where an oak lectern held a slim leather book with “St. Andrew of the Cross Register” inked across the front. On the shelf below, older registers were stacked in an untidy pile.

“Oh, good!” Serena walked toward the lectern. Halfway there, she stopped and put a hand on her stomach. “Oh,” she said in a very different tone of voice. “Mr. Burbank—” Her other hand fluttered toward him and she swayed.

“Miss Jeeves!” Solomon rushed forward and put his arm around her waist.

She leaned into him and gripped his lapel. She still smelled like almonds, just as she had all those years ago.

“Are you all right?” he asked, remembering at the last second to broaden the Shropshire in his own voice.

She smiled weakly up at him. “It’s nothing. Not even as bad as yesterday. I don’t think I shall”—she glanced down in embarrassment—“I don’t think I shall be sick. I’d just like to sit down for a bit, if I may.” She grimaced queasily.

Solomon turned to Mr. Waddell. “Is there a chair you could bring in here?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” The rector bustled out. He was soon back again with a hard wooden bench.

Solomon helped Serena sit. She clung to his sleeve in a way that made him swallow rather hard. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m so sorry. It’s very silly of me to be always—”

“Not at all,” Solomon said firmly. “I’ll just stay here with you for a while, and when you feel better, we can look at the register and find your sister.”

Serena threw him a look of adoration. “You’re so good to me! But I won’t hear of it. This is a lovely old church and there’s no reason you can’t see some more of it. I shall just rest here for a while and you shall come back and find me when you’ve taken a look at those delightful windows. You can show Mr. Burbank the stained glass, can’t you, Mr. Waddell?”

The rector frowned. “Of course I can, Miss Jeeves. But are you sure you’ll be all right alone?”

Serena nodded. “I just feel ill some days. It’s nothing, really.”

Mr. Waddell’s eyes narrowed. Solomon wondered yet again why they hadn’t simply pretended to be married. With considerably less enthusiasm than he had shown before, the rector gestured to Solomon to precede him out of the room.

“Oh, Mr. Burbank, won’t you give me a kiss before you go?”

Solomon stared at Serena. She tilted up her head invitingly, and her gray eyes shimmered. It would serve her right if he shoved his tongue in her mouth. Instead he leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Don’t forget to talk as loudly as possible,” she whispered in his ear.

Solomon smiled insincerely. She hadn’t needed to remind him yet again. He already had a plan. He had formed it the moment they walked through the door. “Here, my dear,” he said solicitously, pulling a small Bible off a nearby shelf and handing it to her. “I wouldn’t want you to be bored. Why don’t you occupy yourself in reading Scripture while you wait for the reverend and me to return? May I recommend Proverbs Thirty-one to your attention? It speaks most eloquently of the duties of a virtuous wife.”

Well, she needed something to pass the time until she was sure they were out of earshot. Idly, Serena opened the little Bible and turned to Proverbs. A number of them sounded familiar. She pictured Solomon as a little boy, memorizing the words of his namesake, and smiled.

From the front of the church, the organist began to practice. Good. That would nicely cover any sound she had to make.

Solomon had looked so put-upon when the rector decided they had been anticipating their vows. Pretending morning sickness had been the easiest way to convince him there was no need for a doctor. She knew it would have made more sense—and offended Solomon’s sensibilities less—to simply pretend to be married, but somehow she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. She was close enough to married as it was.

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.

The rector saw her coming. “Why, there you are, Miss Jeeves!”

Solomon’s head snapped around to look at her. His playing faltered; he looked like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Somehow that smote Serena nearly as hard as those few lines in the St. Andrew of the Cross register. Was she such an ogre?

He sprang to his feet, knocking the little bench backward with a clatter. “Miss Jeeves! You look—you look ill. Would you like me to escort you home?”

She didn’t know what she would like, just that she didn’t want to go home yet.

“Your fiancé is truly talented,” the rector enthused. “You must be very proud.”

“I am,” Serena said softly. Solomon flushed and looked away, frowning in annoyance. Of course he thought she was shamming. She felt, if possible, worse. She wanted—suddenly she knew what she wanted.

“Play something for me.” She sat down on the floor of the dusty organ loft, hugging her knees and leaning her head against the wooden paneling. From here she couldn’t see over the wooden railing of the balcony. It made her feel small and invisible, and therefore safe.

Solomon sat. He laid his hand on her head for a brief moment, and then began playing something simple and elegiac that Serena soon recognized as “Angels We Have Heard on High.”

Leaning against the vibrating wood, she felt the notes thrum through her and rise to fill the grimy arched ceiling that was all she could still see of the church. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, dust tickling the back of her throat. The music shifted, soaring triumphantly. A tear slipped down her cheek; she hurriedly brushed it away.

Solomon squinted against the sunlight, stealing a glance at Serena as they stepped out of the church. When he had turned and seen her in the organ loft, she had looked positively woebegone, all the fight gone out of her for once. Now her eyes were unreadable again, and only a little subdued.

“I take it you found the record?” he asked gently.

She nodded. “It was sent to the bishop, too.”

He swore under his breath. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Neither had I.”

“Where does the bishop keep his records?”

Serena eyed him in faint amusement. “I feel a bad influence. But it’s no use. I’d have to hire someone to replace the entire sheet in the register, and I’d have to have someone break in twice to the archives, once to steal the page and once to replace it with another, and even if they don’t get caught, there’s still the chance that someone will remember making the copy, or they’ll have sent a copy to the archdeacon, or who knows what, and then it will look like I’m the forger.”

“So what are you going to do next?”

“Right now?” she asked, with an undercurrent in her voice that he couldn’t identify. “I’m going to do something more sensible with my hair.”

“Oh, don’t. I like it like that.”

But Serena ruthlessly pulled out pin after pin. “Here, hold these for me.” He held out his hand and a dozen pins fell into it. She unknotted the orange and gold bandeau. Her hair fell over her shoulders, black and untidy. The wind blew it into her eyes and she tried to blow it back as she shoved the bandeau into her reticule. He realized that this morning was the first time he’d seen her outside in daylight.

In the sun, her raven hair shone deep brown in places. He tried to imagine her at seventeen, wearing sprigged muslin and standing in the long rough grass of a Cornish cliff with the wind in her face—and found it was surprisingly easy.

She ran her fingers through her hair and twisted it expertly into its usual tight coil. Holding it in place with one hand, she stretched out the other for the pins. Solomon put his hand behind his back.

Serena rolled her eyes. “Oh, very amusing. Give them back.”

“Mm-mm.”

“This isn’t funny, Solomon.” Serena raised her eyebrows and shook her outstretched hand emphatically.

“Leave it down.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t, all right?” she said with a sort of concentrated hopeless resentment. Too late he recognized the undercurrent in her voice—hysteria. “I know this is how you want me to be. I saw how you were looking at me in that church. You want that laughing flower of a girl who clings to your arm, but I can’t be that. You think that if you just keep digging at me and trying to crack me open I’ll giggle and say, ‘Oh, la, Mr. Hathaway, what a tease you are!’ You think it’s somewhere underneath but it’s not. I am what I am and—and you can go to the devil! Oh God, I can’t breathe.”

Solomon held out the pins at once, aghast. Instead of taking one at a time, she snatched them all, as if she didn’t trust him not to change his mind.

“That’s not true, I—” He stopped. He had been charmed by the act. It had been a relief, just for a few moments, to have a Serena who laughed and spoke freely and smiled up at him without a trace of irony. Who didn’t see him as someone she needed to fight. “I’m sorry.”

She shoved pins into her hair and didn’t look at him.

He sighed. “Serena, let’s take the day off, shall we? I have to go to Hathaway’s Fine Tailoring to deliver a few things, but after that we can go on a picnic or something, visit the British Museum, I don’t know—” He trailed off. “Sorry. I guess that must sound awfully childish.”

The awkward silence was pierced by the shrill cry of the woman in the stall across the street. “Savoy cake and trifle, only tuppence! Naples biscuits, a farthing each!”

Serena smiled shakily. “I want a piece of tipsy cake.”