Chapter 16
Sixteen
“I had a very interesting case today, in which an older widow—quite into her middle age—came to me in an agony of indecision. She’d been offered the protection of remarriage by a very respectable man of good means, but having promised before God to love only her first husband, she felt an uncommon degree of hesitation in accepting the man’s offer, her worry being, can it ever be right, having made the marriage vows, to promise yourself again? ”
Reverend Moore was forced to address this to Madelaine’s aunt, Madelaine herself having drifted out of his eyeline, towards the window, where she sat, rather rudely, on the shallow window seat and looked up at the sky.
It was the chalky white of unglazed pottery today, a great bowl of it above their heads, over all London, though the pressing rooftops clustered and cluttered its edges. The roofs would take over the sky if they could, claw their way up to heaven and build offices and taverns there.
Dimly, from the corner of her eye, she saw the reverend turn his head and glance her way, checking for any reaction to his words. It was hardly the first time he’d raised such a topic with her, always under the guise of some ecclesiastical pondering, but he was not normally quite so direct.
“To be sure,” said her aunt, polite, but not much more fond of the topic than Madelaine herself, their histories being so similar, “where there has been deep attachment…” She trailed off.
Memory glazed the white pottery dome of sky with colour, with the swirl of satin skirts in a dance.
They could be painted all around the rim, the colourful dresses, the white muslins, and the black punctuation marks of the men in their evening wear…
a line of dancers all the way around, flecks of gold for the candlelight shining on jewels and gilt and eyes.
She must be tired—she’d arrived home at three in the morning—she was dreaming awake.
The reverend had called, as he so often did, just as she and her aunt were getting ready to go out.
The Duchess of Cumbria had invited them to make a morning call, apologising for having to give them a set time, a meeting of mere minutes, but she was busy—apologising, wincing—so busy it made her dizzy, and she was leaving London again that evening, but she would so dearly love to hear more of their cause…
And after that… Well. She planned to stop at Lord Cotereigh’s house on the way home.
Oh, be still, stupid heart! It was only to see the boy.
But he might be there, of course, tall and dark, and every time she thought of it a great drop of something squeezed from her chest to splash into a shimmering pool in her belly…
and that wasn’t wise. That wasn’t wise at all.
He’d led her to the dance, her hand resting lightly, decorously, atop his. She’d glanced up, once, twice, and there had been no smirk on his jaw. It had been hard and set and very satisfied, his plan clearly going exactly as he intended, as she supposed they usually did.
It ought to have irritated her—it always had previously, his domineering certainty—but all the skittish multitude of things in her breast had settled into a tight, burning ball during that dance, held pinned by his sure step and his height and his intent.
How womanish, to enjoy being led, just for a moment; to not fight, but to acquiesce; to let her shoulders drop, and to draw a full breath, and to lift her chin and meet his eyes across the dance…
and to step forward, into the press of his hand and the warm shield of his body, and to feel, just for those minutes, very much like a woman…
The expression in his dark eyes made her feel that.
The touch of his gloved hand against hers, somehow a caress, when every other man she met in the dance had been nothing but an empty press…
Strains of music wove themselves into the porcelain sky, the dancers turned…
“Yes, of course,” said the reverend, “where there is great delicacy of feeling coupled with great faith—where the marriage vows have been made in the full solemnity that they ought and daily given the depth of reflection that is their due—then it is not surprising to find confusion.”
He glanced her way once more. She turned from the sky and blinked away the dance.
“Marriage is a sacred contract,” he continued, “and only broken by death—‘til death do us part’ is what is promised.”
“And when your husband waits in the afterlife?” asked Madelaine. “Some people feel even death does not part them. Some people promise to love one person, always, and mean it.”
Why was she angry? It crept into her voice, curt and clipped. She looked back at the sky, but it was white as bone—fine china was bone; all that delicate beauty made of death.
With a neatening twitch of her skirts, she got up and took a few steps across the room as though to check the time on the mantelpiece clock, though she’d been able to see it perfectly from her window seat.
If they wanted to be on time for the duchess, they needed to leave now.
“As I said…” The reverend brought the thin fingers of hands together with a gracious gesture, like two garden rakes gently tangling, “Where there is great delicacy of feeling coupled with great faith, such doubts will naturally arise. And it does such a person credit. Marriage—any marriage—is no thing to be rushed into without deep reflection. But we are fortunate, as we so often are, that the Bible has teachings to help us through the confusion. You will know of course that in Romans, Paul says ‘A married woman is bound by law to her husband while he lives, but if her husband dies she is released from the law of marriage.’ And this sentiment is repeated in Corinthians. So I was perfectly able to satisfy my worried widow on that account. Indeed, in the common way of thinking, it is hardly a question at all. As I reassured my widow, so many women in her situation have remarried after the tragic loss of their spouse that public opinion can hold no censure. There is, dare I say it, a sort of pragmatism that guides the strongest, purest faith. A woman is made for family and for home; a woman needs protection and guidance.” He paused, smiling, while the clock chimed the hour, as though the bell rang purely to bring attention to his point.
Madelaine pushed down her temper, forcing herself to think of rational things, such as the likely degree of traffic on such and such a road at this hour, and not whether Reverend Moore was more arachnid than insectoid.
“Marriage,” he said, as the final bell stilled, “is of course the securest and most natural way of giving women such blessings. And if we need further proof, we can turn to Timothy, where we find remarriage, particularly in young widows of child-bearing age”—she wished she was not in his eyeline for that particular statement; his gaze clung like sticky cobwebs—“is openly encouraged. And as Corinthians says, it is better for a young widow to marry than to…burn with passion.”
Had she thought his gaze was cobwebs? It was snail slime.
“Oh dear,” she said brightly, turning to her aunt, “was that the hour bell? Surely we must leave or else keep the duchess waiting?”
Even her aunt, not one to ever see the bad in any person, was giving the reverend a faintly perturbed look.
She snapped out of it as Madelaine’s question drew his attention her way, and fixed the same bright smile to her face as Madelaine was wearing.
“Dear, dear! I am so sorry, Reverend! And to cut short such a…complicated topic. Please don’t think us rude—”
“Not at all, ladies, not at all. I’m as aware of the calls of duty as any man. One, alas, cannot spend all one’s time in contemplation, however worthy. Or apt.”
He stood up, as did Madelaine’s aunt. Madelaine herself had already taken a few irrepressible steps towards the door. Slowly—oh, so very slowly!—the reverend picked up his hat then began to pat around his pockets.
“Never fear, for I did take the time to copy out some of the lines of which I just mentioned.” He gave a sad smile, full of pity. “Knowing as I do, how this topic might bear upon the two of you.” He drew some neatly folded papers from his pocket.
It seemed he had gone to the effort of making two copies, one of which he handed to her aunt and one to herself, stepping over softly and murmuring as he pressed the papers into her hand, “You, I know, with your faith and your sensitivity…you suffer great pangs of conscience, but let those attributes be your saviour too—read these words and dwell on them with all the feeling in your tender breast, and I know you cannot fail to be moved.”
Wet, glittering eyes hung on hers for a moment, two snail shells in the rain. She fought to keep her face serene—it would do no good to alienate the reverend; he’d promised to recruit some fellow clergymen to their cause.
“Thank you, Reverend. I will make great use of this, I’m sure.”
After all, the back of the paper was blank, and spare paper was never to be sniffed at.
Her aunt said nothing but commonplace chatterings for the first few minutes of their journey. But then came a silence, and Madelaine knew what was coming, as though each turn of the wheel winched it up from some place where she’d far rather have left it.
“I don’t…I don’t suppose it was quite tactful,” began her aunt hesitantly, twisting the fingers of her gloves straight, “for the reverend to raise such a topic with us, but I suppose his intention was good.”
“I’m not blind as to his intentions, believe me.”
“Well…no.” Her aunt bobbed her head and took a look out of the carriage window. “But it is…it is hardly to be wondered at, you being so beautiful and him a young man, and so often at the house.”
“Aunt—”
“No, no, I know. I did wonder perhaps if…but yes, now I see that you would not quite suit. It is a little awkward, to be sure.”
“I can dissuade the man without hurting his feelings. I have done so before. As you know.”
“Yes…you always do it so very delicately, but…”