Her younger sister Marinthe, lavender sash untied and dragging on the ground, ran up to us and pulled at my skirt. “These are the rings,” she beamed. They were plain gold bands with Effie’s and Michael’s initials and the date of the wedding engraved inside of each. As I tied her sash in a bow, she said, “Mama says I have to let the ring drop during the ceremony so evil spirits are shaken out.”
Oscar leaned in close and whispered, “I wonder what our friend Sherlock would think of that superstition.”
I wished he would stop bringing Sherlock up. I simply shrugged.
Elabourate arrangements of flowers decorated the church: potted palms and festoons of evergreens and blossoms of every colour. Once all the guests were seated, the ceremony began. I listened as Michael and Effie exchanged vows, holding hands and smiling so wide, I thought they would burst. It was only when the minister asked them to keep their vows “for so long as ye both shall live” that Effie hesitated. Her face turned dark, frighteningly dark, and she mumbled, “So long as ye both shall live.” Then she stuttered in a small voice, “I will. Yes. I will. As long as we both shall live.”
The expression on her face scared me.
As the minister recited psalms, I just stared at my brother and my best friend through a haze of tears. But Oscar made me laugh when the minister instructed Effie to be in subjection to her husband “even as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord.” I glanced at Oscar, who rolled his eyes. We had talked about this portion of the ceremony the day before. Oscar had said, “Michael better not expect Effie to obey and be submissive in all things. It’s simply not within her ken.”
After the ceremony, we went to Effie’s parents’ home. It came as no surprise that the house was also filled with a profusion of white and lavender flowers. They were everywhere, adorning doorways, balustrades, windows and fireplaces. A corner of the library was reserved for Effie and Michael to receive guests. Her parents stood nearby, I was to Effie’s left, and Michael’s best man, another young doctor from St. Bart’s named Jonathan Younger, stood to the right. Jonathan and Michael had known each other most of their lives; they had both attended the Harrow School. He had a very pleasant countenance and, according to Michael, a brilliant future in medicine.
After breakfast came the cakes, three of them. One was very elabourate, a dark, rich fruitcake scrolled in white frosting and orange blossoms. There were two small ones, a dark chocolate for Michael and a white cake for Effie. Hidden inside the cakes were charms for good luck, and Effie laughed when I threw tradition out the door and removed my gloves to fish for my favour. This rhyme went with the charms.
The ring for marriage within a year;
The penny for wealth, my dear;
The thimble for an old maid or bachelor born;
The button for sweethearts all forlorn.
I expected mine to contain the old maid’s thimble, but much to my surprise, I received a button instead. Sweethearts all forlorn... was this my fate? I’d never wanted a big wedding. I remembered telling Victor about the marriage of some friends of Uncle and Aunt Susan. They had a simple ceremony to commemorate the union of two people without all the pomp and circumstance. No rich white silk, no spray of flowers, no tulle, no bridesmaids parading in silly dresses with lace flounces, not even a bride’s cake. And no honeymoon, no wedding tour. They simply went to Richmond for dinner. Now, having taken part in the celebration of Effie’s and Michael’s love, the idea of having friends and family to share my commitment no longer seemed so foreign to me. Would I ever enjoy a day such as this? I doubted it.
The wedding cake was cut but not eaten. Traditionally, it was packed away for the 25th wedding anniversary, although I couldn’t fathom biting into it twenty-five years later. But according to the baker, the heavy fruitcake was doused with liquor to preserve it for that special day far in the future, a day that for Michael and Effie would never come.
Right after the cake-cutting, Effie and Michael changed into travel clothes for they were leaving immediately for a honeymoon in Paris. She wore a simple blue dress, but travel or not, she could not resist an ostentatious hat. It was made of blue silk, with ostrich and peacock feathers, antique lace, and a vintage cameo. I helped her change and she gave me a flower from her bouquet.
I tried hard not to cry when they left. As they drove off in their carriage, everyone threw satin slippers. According to legend, if a slipper landed in the carriage, it was considered good luck forever. If it was a left slipper, all the better. I swallowed hard when I realized that not a single slipper had landed in their carriage. I pushed down the thought that it might be a terrible omen.
I slammed the journal shut. I wanted to read more, but I could not. The memories rushed back at me like thunder rumbling through black clouds. I simply could not bear them.
I hurried to the British Museum to find Sherlock.
15
I found Sherlock sitting on the floor and staring into a display case in the Asian room of the museum. I quietly walked up behind him and looked over his shoulder. In the reflection of the glass case, I saw him blink and smile.
He didn’t say ‘hello.’ He greeted me by saying “I should have known.”
“Known what?”
Then he turned his head, looked closely at me, and said, “Poppy, you’ve been crying.”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, really. It’s nothing.”
Nothing you would understand, I thought. You weren’t even there.
“You were saying, Sherlock. You should have known what?”
“I should have known why
