Call of the Kiwi by Sarah Lark

temptingly. “Come, Reverend,” she spoke the last word slowly and lasciviously, “my husband is already drinking to the health of the happy couple. The bishop is blessing all the village brats, and your Sarah is comforting that ugly little Gloria because she looks like a fat flamingo in that bridesmaid’s dress. No one will bother us.” She let her shawl fall.
    “Come, Christopher, one last time.”

    Sarah could not make up her mind. She looked so pretty—for the first time in her life. She could picture the light in Christopher’s eyes already as she walked down the aisle to him. He would hardly believe her transformation. He had to love her, now more than ever.
    “Behold, thou art fair, my beloved.” The Song of Songs would take on a whole new meaning for him and for Sarah too. Because she was fair. Love made her glow.
    If only it weren’t for her glasses. Sarah did not want to stumble blindly through her own wedding ceremony. But maybe there was a solution. Christopher should see her at least once without them, even if it brought bad luck. She would pop into the sacristy for a moment, tell him what a fabulous job Emily had done—and maybe he would even kiss her. Of course he would kiss her. Sarah gathered her dress and veil.
    “I’ll be right back, girls. Tell the bishop we can start in five minutes. But for now I need t o . . . ” She hurried around the church to the entrance to the sacristy.
    Breathless from her corset but also from excitement, Sarah took her glasses off and felt around the anteroom. The door to the sacristy stood open. Something was moving, a strangely compact body lying halfway over an armchair, something green and black, and pinkish. Naked skin?
    “Christopher?” Sarah felt in the folds of her dress for her glasses.
    “Sarah, no!” Christopher Bleachum tried to prevent the worst, but Sarah had already put on her glasses.
    The sight was not only disgraceful but disgusting.
    And suddenly the lovestruck Sarah Bleachum transformed back into the smart young woman unafraid of questioning the world.
    After staring, dazed, for a few seconds at the half-naked bodies in the room next to God’s house, her eyes flashed with rage.
    Pale, her mouth closed tight, she ripped the veil from her hair and flung it to the floor. Then she ran out.
    “You need to get dressed, the bisho p . . . ” Emily said, coming to her senses first. But it was too late.
    Christopher did not believe that Sarah would tell the bishop, but he must have seen her storming out of the sacristy.
    The reverend ducked his head instinctively and prepared himself. The wrath of God would soon break over him.

    “I’m sorry, Glory, I’m really sorry.”
    Sarah Bleachum cradled the sobbing girl in her arms. “But you have to understand that I can’t remain under these circumstances. How would people look at me?”
    “I don’t care. But if you go back to New Zealand no w . . . is my great-grandmum really sending you the money?”
    As soon as Sarah had run past the confused wedding guests, her thoughts began to flow again. She had to leave—as soon as possible. Otherwise she would go mad. When Sarah reached her room she ripped off her dress, undid that fatal corset, and pulled on the first clothes she found. Then she packed up her things and set off for Cambridge.
    She had seven miles to cover. At first she set off at nearly a run, but as her burning anger and shame dissipated, they gave way to exhaustion. She found a modest bed-and-breakfast and knocked at the door. And for the first time that awful day, she was in luck. The proprietress, a widow named Margaret Simpson, asked her no questions.
    “You can tell me what happened later if you want,” she said softly, placing a cup of tea in front of Sarah. “First you need to relax.”
    “I need to find a post office,” Sarah said. She had begun to tremble. “I need to send a telegram, to New Zealand. Could I do that from here?”
    Mrs. Simpson refilled her teacup