“But your mother…” Jamie glanced helplessly at me for reinforcement. I shrugged, equally helpless. The task of trying either to explain Father Fogden to Jamie or to dissuade Marsali was well beyond me.
“He likely won’t do it, though.” Jamie came up with this objection with a palpable air of relief. “The crew have been trifling with one of his parishioners named Arabella. He willna want anything to do wi’ us, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, he will! He’ll do it for me—he likes me!” Marsali was almost dancing on her toes with eagerness.
Jamie looked at her for a long moment, eyes fixed on hers, reading her face. She was very young.
“You’re sure, then, lassie?” he said at last, very gently. “Ye want this?”
She took a deep breath, a glow spreading over her face.
“I am, Da. I truly am. I want Fergus! I love him!”
Jamie hesitated a moment, then rubbed a hand through his hair and nodded.
“Aye, then. Go and send Mr. Stern to me, then fetch Fergus and tell him to make ready.”
“Oh, Da! Thank you, thank you!” Marsali flung herself at him and kissed him. He held her with one arm, clutching the shirt about his middle with the other. Then he kissed her on the forehead and pushed her gently away.
“Take care,” he said, smiling. “Ye dinna want to go to your bridal covered wi’ lice.”
“Oh!” This seemed to remind her of something. She glanced at me and blushed, putting up a hand to her own pale locks, which were matted with sweat and straggling down her neck from a careless knot.
“Mother Claire,” she said shyly, “I wonder—would ye—could ye lend me a bit of the special soap ye make wi’ the chamomile? I—if there’s time—” she added, with a hasty glance at Jamie, “I should like to wash my hair.”
“Of course,” I said, and smiled at her. “Come along and we’ll make you pretty for your wedding.” I looked her over appraisingly, from glowing round face to dirty bare feet. The crumpled muslin of her sea-shrunk gown stretched tight over her bosom, slight as it was, and the grubby hem hovered several inches above her sandy ankles.
A thought struck me, and I turned to Jamie. “She should have a nice dress to be married in,” I said.
“Sassenach,” he said, with obviously waning patience, “we havena—”
“No, but the priest does,” I interrupted. “Tell Lawrence to ask Father Fogden whether we might borrow one of his gowns; Ermenegilda’s, I mean. I think they’re almost the right size.”
Jamie’s face went blank with surprise above his beard.
“Ermenegilda?” he said. “Arabella? Gowns?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “What sort of priest
I paused in the doorway, Marsali hovering impatiently in the passage beyond.
“Well,” I said, “he drinks a bit. And he’s rather fond of sheep. But he might remember the words to the wedding ceremony.”
It was one of the more unusual weddings I had attended. The sun had long since sunk into the sea by the time all arrangements were made. To the disgruntlement of Mr. Warren, the ship’s master, Jamie had declared that we would not leave until the next day, so as to allow the newlyweds one night of privacy ashore.
“Damned if I’d care to consummate a marriage in one of those godforsaken pesthole berths,” he told me privately. “If they got coupled in there to start wi’, we’d never pry them out. And the thought of takin’ a maidenhead in a hammock—”
“Quite,” I said. I poured more vinegar on his head, smiling to myself. “Very thoughtful of you.”
Now Jamie stood by me on the beach, smelling rather strongly of vinegar, but handsome and dignified in blue coat, clean stock and linen, and gray serge breeks, with his hair clubbed back and ribboned. The wild red beard was a bit incongruous above his otherwise sober garb, but it had been neatly trimmed and fine-combed with vinegar, and stockinged feet notwithstanding, he made a fine picture as father of the bride.
Murphy, as one chief witness, and Maitland, as the other, were somewhat less prepossessing, though Murphy had washed his hands and Maitland his face. Fergus would have preferred Lawrence Stern as a witness, and Marsali had asked for me, but both were dissuaded; first on grounds that Stern was not a Christian, let alone a Catholic, and then, by consideration that while I was religiously qualified, that fact was unlikely to weigh heavily with Laoghaire, once she found out about it.
“I’ve told Marsali she must write to her mother to say she’s wed,” Jamie murmured to me as we watched the preparations on the beach go forward. “But perhaps I shall suggest she doesna say much more about it than that.”
I saw his point; Laoghaire was not going to be pleased at hearing that her eldest daughter had eloped with a one-handed ex-pickpocket twice her age. Her maternal feelings were unlikely to be assuaged by hearing that the marriage had been performed in the middle of the night on a West Indian beach by a disgraced—if not actually defrocked—priest, witnessed by twenty-five seamen, ten French horses, a small flock of sheep—all gaily beribboned in honor of the occasion—and a King Charles spaniel, who added to the generally festive feeling by attempting to copulate with Murphy’s wooden leg at every opportunity. The only thing that could make things worse, in Laoghaire’s view, would be to hear that I had participated in the ceremony.
Several torches were lit, bound to stakes pounded into the sand, and the flames streamed seaward in tails of red and orange, bright against the black velvet night. The brilliant stars of the Caribbean shone overhead like the lights of heaven. While it was not a church, few brides had had a more beautiful setting for their nuptials.
I didn’t know what prodigies of persuasion had been required on Lawrence’s part, but Father Fogden was there, frail and insubstantial as a ghost, the blue sparks of his eyes the only real signs of life. His skin was gray as his robe, and his hands trembled on the worn leather of his prayer book.
Jamie glanced sharply at him, and appeared to be about to say something, but then merely muttered under his breath in Gaelic and pressed his lips tightly together. The spicy scent of sangria wafted from Father Fogden’s vicinity, but at least he had reached the beach under his own power. He stood swaying between two torches, laboriously trying to turn the pages of his book as the light offshore wind jerked them fluttering from his fingers.
