In Lisbon, they had taken a room at the top of a small hotel, overlooking the crenellated fa?ade of Santa Maria Maior. The ringing bells of the cathedral were like a constant reproof, and one morning, Sinclair, perhaps intuiting her thoughts, said, “Shall we marry there?”
Eleanor did not know how to answer. Already she felt damned in so many ways, and much as she would have liked to be properly wed, the very thought of entering a church, and taking holy vows in her present state, was too daunting. But Sinclair prevailed upon her, saying, “At least let’s go and look. From all accounts, it’s a very beautiful church.”
“But we cannot enlist a priest, not with all the lies we would have to tell.”
“Who said anything about a priest?” Sinclair scoffed. “They speak Portuguese, anyway. We can stand there, if you like, and make our own vows. God can hear them without the help of some Papist intermediary…provided, of course, that there’s a god to hear them at all.” He made it sound like a very dubious proposition.
And so she had put on her finest dress, and Sinclair his uniform, and arm in arm they had crossed the square to the cathedral. They had made a handsome couple, and she could see the impression they made in the eyes of passersby. The church itself had been built in the twelfth century, and though badly damaged by the earthquakes of 1344 and 1755, it had been repaired and rebuilt where necessary; its twin bell towers rose like a white fortress on either side of the high, nobly arched entranceway. Between the arches was a rounded window, through whose colored panes the sunlight lent a golden hue to the antique gilding and massive columns of the interior. Marble tombs, each with its coat of arms, were ensconced in private chapels behind iron gates. On one tomb, Eleanor saw the figure of a recumbent nobleman in armor, holding his sword and guarded by his dog; on another, a woman in classical dress, reading a Book of Hours. The cathedral was vast, and though there were worshippers in the pews, and visitors in the aisles, a hush prevailed over everything, and all Eleanor could really hear was the sound of their own footsteps echoing up the nave.
An elderly priest in a black robe, a white rope belted around his waist, was consulting with several well-dressed men and ladies at one end of the transept, and Eleanor instinctively moved in the other direction. Sinclair felt the tug on his arm and smiled.
“Are you afraid he’s picked up our scent?”
“Don’t make such jests.”
“Do you think he’ll chase us out?”
But she didn’t answer him at all this time.
“We don’t have to go through with it,” he said. “I was only doing it for you.”
“That’s not a very becoming sentiment,” she replied, pulling away, wondering what had possessed her to do this in the first place.
Sinclair came after her, clutching her sleeve. “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that.”
Eleanor felt several people observing them—they were creating a scene, the last thing in the world she wanted to do—and she ducked behind the column closest to the altar itself, raising a handkerchief to conceal her face.
“I would marry you anywhere,” he said, in a low but urgent voice. “You must know that. In Westminster Abbey, or in the middle of the forest with no one there to witness it but the birds in the trees.”
Eleanor did know it, but it wasn’t enough. Sinclair had lost his faith in everything, and he had profoundly shaken hers. What were they doing there? What had she hoped would come of it? It was a terrible mistake, and she’d known it the moment she crossed the threshold of the cathedral.
“Come,” he said earnestly, slipping a hand into the crook of her elbow. “Let’s stand in the open.”
She tried to resist, but he pulled her out of the shadows, and afraid of causing any more commotion, she let him prevail.
“We have nothing to hide,” he said.
He drew her first into the center aisle, then out in front of the ornate and glittering altar itself. The stained-glass window, in brilliant blues and reds and yellows, glowed like a kaleidoscope that Eleanor had once seen in a London optical shop, and it was so beautiful she could hardly take her eyes away.
Sinclair clasped both of her hands in his, and in a soft voice said, “I, Sinclair Archibald Copley, do take thee, Eleanor—” He stopped. “Isn’t that odd? I don’t know your middle name—do you have one?”
“Jane.”
“Do take thee, Eleanor Jane Ames,” he continued, “to be my lawfully wedded wife. To have and to hold, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”
Eleanor felt that they were being far too conspicuous, and she tried to lower her hands.
But Sinclair hung on. “I hope I remembered that correctly. If there’s anything I missed, please tell me.”
“No, I believe you had it right.”
“Good, then once you recite the vows yourself, we can go and have a toast at that noisy cantina on the square.”
“Sinclair,” she pleaded, “I can’t.”