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
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
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