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
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
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