The Perfect Stranger (11 page)

T
HE WOMAN INTRODUCED HERSELF AS
M
ARTHE AND USHERED
them into the parlor. Monsieur le Curé jumped out of his chair to greet them. He was spare and elderly, with a bald pate and shrewd brown eyes.

When they were all seated, he regarded Faith with a solemn expression. She braced herself.
Sticks and stones.

“
Eh bien
, mademoiselle, you are to marry this fine fellow in the morning, yes?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“He has told me a little of your story. A lucky coincidence that you met, no?”

“Very lucky, monsieur.” She had no intention of justifying herself.

Marthe arrived with a pot of tea and a plate of small cats’ tongues biscuits. “Ah,
bon
,” said Monsieur le Curé as she set down the tray. “
Le thé
. The English are fond of
le thé
, are you not? Mademoiselle, would you care to pour, please?”

Faith obediently poured and handed cups and biscuits around, aware of the critical gaze of both Marthe and Monsieur le Curé. She did her best to ignore them. The sooner the tea was drunk, the sooner she could escape to the anonymity of the inn. She stirred two lumps of sugar into Mr. Blacklock’s tea—she’d seen on the beach he had a sweet tooth—and handed it to him.

When she sat down again there was a slight frown on the priest’s face. She drank her tea.

“So, mademoiselle, you are from England, yes? And Monsieur Blacklock tells me you will return there after this marriage? To stay with your
belle-mère
, yes?”

“My mother, yes, that’s correct,” agreed Nicholas.

Faith glanced briefly at him but didn’t comment.

The priest steepled his fingers and tapped them thoughtfully against his chin. He regarded Faith with an unwavering stare, meant, she decided, to disconcert her.

She put up her chin, refusing to be disconcerted.

“So, mademoiselle, you told Monsieur Blacklock here you were married before in a sham wedding.”

Faith did not like his tone. “That’s because I
was
married before in a sham wedding.” Mr. Blacklock placed his hand over hers. She wasn’t sure whether he meant it as reassurance or as a silent signal to keep calm. She shook it off crossly. He’d got her into this.

“Where did this wedding take place?”

“In Paris. At Saint Marie-Madeleine’s church.”

“Ah, the church of Ste. Marie-Madeleine. And who is the priest there, if you please?”

She answered with composure, “Which priest do you mean? The false one who married me—he called himself Father Jean—or the real one who was bribed to allow it to happen? He called himself
Père
Germaine.” She gave him a look that said she had no opinion of French priests, real or false.

The priest nodded affably. “Ah,
oui
,
Père
Germaine of the church of Ste. Marie-Madeleine, I know him. A short, fat, jolly fellow with white hair,
non
?”

“Non.”
Faith said bluntly. “The
Père
Germaine I met was tall, thin, stooped, and with a large red nose. He was completely bald.”

Monsieur le Curé frowned. “And this
Père
Germaine, he did not perform the ceremony?”

“No, the false one did.”

“And were the banns called beforehand?”

Faith shook her head. “I don’t know. The first time I visited Ste. Marie-Madeleine’s was on my wedding day. My false wedding day.”

He pursed his lips. “And that day you did not sign
Père
Germaine’s register? A big black book, about so big?” He gestured with his hands.

Faith shook her head. “No, I signed nothing.”

The elderly priest nodded thoughtfully. “Then, mademoiselle, I think perhaps you are indeed free to marry Mr. Blacklock. You have described the real
Père
Germaine exactly. Veritably, his nose is of a profound redness; he drinks, that one. Always he has. A bad business, a very bad business. I shall report it to the bishop.”

He gave her a straight look. “And now, you wed this man willingly?” He gestured to Nicholas Blacklock.

“Yes.”

“He has not coerced you in any way?”

Faith shook her head. “No.”

The priest leaned forward and took her chin in gentle fingers, tipping her bruised cheek to the light. “He is not responsible for this, I hope?” His honest old eyes bored into hers, and she knew he was offering refuge if she wanted it.

“No, Father, he is not responsible for it,” she said softly. “He saved me from men who would have hurt me much worse than this.”

“
Eh bien
, it is good.” The elderly priest sat back.

Faith looked at him uncertainly. The priest began to discuss tomorrow’s arrangements with Mr. Blacklock. Faith found her body shaking with relief. She was not to be reviled as a whore after all. She’d been braced for a moral harangue, but he just wanted to be certain she was not committing bigamy. And was choosing freely, uncoerced.

She drained her cup and stood on legs that felt a bit wobbly. “Monsieur, I am feeling a little hot from the fire. I shall step outside for some fresh air, if I may.”

Monsieur le Curé frowned, glanced at Nicholas Blacklock, and when he said nothing, replied, “As you wish, mademoiselle. Marthe will show you the way.”

“Thank you, but I can find it myself,” said Faith hurriedly. She had no wish to have Marthe’s prying and disapproving eyes on her. She needed a little peace, and she knew just where to find it.

She slipped out of the house and entered the church from the side, through a heavy, dark, oaken door. It was cool inside, and dark, with two large candles burning by the altar. The familiar scent of incense, brass polish, and beeswax washed over her, and she was taken back in time to when she was a little girl, and Mama and Papa and sometimes Concetta, their nurse, took her inside the village church in Italy. Mama used to go in there to pray, though she was not a Catholic. God was everywhere, Mama said, but she felt closer to Him in a church.

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 soldier 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.