It could hardly be imagined that the Catholics would storm these doors when they had the magnificent Notre Dame to worship in, but Svetlana did not bother to correct him. She simply bowed her head in quiet respect as she sought to delicately defend her fiancé. “I believe Anglican is considered a righteous faith in England.”
The priest snorted. “They would.”
The heavy door creaked open to the inner sanctum. Hundreds of candles gleamed from their ornate brass chandeliers and altar stands, while mid-morning sun poured through the windows set high in the cupola and bounced off the golden icons painted on the panels of rich wood.
Dressed in a black-and-gray morning suit, Wynn stood waiting for her. His hair shone like gold under the shaft of sunlight, the glowing aura of a knight to the rescue. While she the maiden led a dragon to his door. Her regret cut deeper at involving him in her woes. If he thought anything of regret, he didn’t show it. Together they traversed the short walk down the aisle and stopped before the iconostasis.
He grasped her elbow and leaned close to her ear. “You’re lovely.”
She mumbled a thank-you, or at least she thought she did. The proceedings turned to a haze as the Orthodox priest read the Epistle, repeated in English by the Anglican priest Wynn had asked to come on his behalf. Then the sacred wedding loaf, the blessing with icons, and the placing of the wedding crowns on their heads.
The cup of warm, red wine was then offered with another blessing. Wynn took a sip and passed the cup to her. As she took the cup, her fingers brushed his. He was trembling. The haze rolled back as she realized he was as nervous as she was. Unflappable Wynn who had calmed her distress time and again. Her own nerves stilled and she smiled. He smiled back. Taking the cup, she raised it to her lips.
The front door banged open. Svetlana jumped, sloshing tiny drops of red down the front of her blue silk dress. A shadowy figure inched along the back wall. Too small to be Sheremetev, but no. He would never come himself. He was a man who sent others to do his dirty work.
Wynn tugged on her hand, and she allowed him to lead her around the lectern behind the priest as the final words were spoken and they were consecrated as man and wife.
“Who is that?” Not the most romantic words a bride had first spoken to her groom, but then again most brides probably weren’t being hunted by political radicals or jilted club owners.
Wynn peered at the shadows in which the figure hovered. “A guest?”
“Everyone we invited is here.” Everyone being her mother and Wynn’s friend Gerard from the hospital. Even Mrs. Varjensky’s cheerful presence was missing as she had volunteered to stay with Marina.
“An inquisitive parishioner?”
“I don’t think so.”
Taking both of her hands, he stepped close. Behind him Mama clutched her cross at the impropriety in a church. “You’re safe. He can never harm you again. As Marchioness of Tarltan you are a British citizen now and answer only to British law.” He pressed a kiss to her fingers. “I will keep you safe.”
She nodded numbly, desperately wanting to believe him, but fear lurked deep in her heart. British or not, the Bolsheviks would never respect such laws. They were the enemy of law.
The figure moved into the flicker of candlelight. Tatya. With a breath of relief, Svetlana hurried toward her with Wynn right behind her.
“What are you doing here?”
Tatya looked her up and down before pressing a hand over her own rumpled dress. “Apology no dress up. No fine duchess like
you.” She winked at Wynn. “Hello, sir knight.
“
Tatya laughed, startling the priests who were talking to Mama and Gerard. “I no lady. If were, no hearing things. Bad things.”
Cold swept through Svetlana. “What things?”
“I come warn. Sheremetev. He know. Get out while can.” Tatya brushed past her.
“Wait!” Svetlana hurried after her and unbuckled the sapphire brooch at her throat, pressing it into Tatya’s gloveless hand. Her fingers were little more than bird claws, frozen from the November wind. “Take this.”
Tatya shoved it back at her. “I no charity.”
“It’s not charity.” Svetlana closed Tatya’s fingers around the expensive piece. The last jewel she owned. “Take it. Get out while you can.”
* * *