Chapter 13: The Empty Pew
The cathedral was a cage of light and incense, its vaulted ceilings soaring heavenward like the ribs of some great white beast. Candles flickered in their dozens, their flames dancing in the drafts that crept through the ancient stone, and the stained-glass windows cast fractured rainbows across the marble floor in pools of crimson and sapphire and gold. The nobility of three counties had crowded into the pews, a sea of silk and velvet and feathers, their jewels glittering in the half-light like the eyes of hungry birds. They had come to witness a union, to celebrate the joining of two great houses, to whisper and judge and feast upon the spectacle of it all.
And Jennie, standing at the threshold of the great doors, wished only that the earth might open and swallow her whole.
"Breathe, my darling," her mother murmured beside her, fussing with the train of the gown, smoothing a thread that had already been smoothed a dozen times. "You look positively radiant. Your father is waiting."
Jennie's father stood a few paces ahead, resplendent in his formal attire, his posture impeccable despite the years that had begun to weigh upon his shoulders. He turned to look at her, and his eyes softened with a tenderness that made her chest ache. He held out his arm, and she took it, her gloved hand trembling against his sleeve.
"Shall we?" he asked, and his voice was warm, proud.
She nodded, because her voice had deserted her, and the doors swung open.
The organ surged to life, a great wave of sound that crashed against the stone walls and rolled over the assembled guests, and the entire congregation rose as one, their heads turning, their eyes finding her. Jennie felt their gazes like a physical weight, pressing down upon her shoulders, her chest, her throat. She forced a smile, the smile she had practiced since childhood, the smile that had opened doors and softened hearts and hidden every truth she had ever needed to conceal.
Their gazes were like a physical weight, pressing down upon her shoulders, her chest, her throat. She forced a smile, the smile she had practiced since childhood, the smile that had opened doors and softened hearts and hidden every truth she had ever needed to conceal.
Her father began to walk, and she moved with him, her feet carrying her forward through the sea of faces. She recognized them all—Lady Ashworth with her feathered turban, Sir Reginald with his walrus mustache, the Duchess of Marlowe with her infamous pearl choker in which she wore a tiny cyanide capsule, "for emergencies." There was old Lord Pembroke, who had dozed off at her engagement dinner and snored through the toasts. There was Mrs. Featherington, whose daughters had all married well, a fact she had never allowed anyone to forget. They smiled and nodded and whispered behind their programs, their eyes glittering with curiosity and calculation.
Jennie's gaze swept the pews, searching, searching, searching.
Kai stood at the altar, resplendent in his wedding finery, his hair swept back, his smile brilliant. He looked like a prince from a fairy tale, golden and warm and utterly perfect. She saw his eyes find her, saw the admiration kindle there, saw the way his chest swelled with pride as she approached.
But her gaze did not linger. It swept past him, past the priest in his vestments, past the altar draped in white and gold, searching for a familiar head of dark curls, a familiar pair of watchful eyes.
The pews were full. Every seat was occupied, every cushion pressed by some titled posterior. Every seat, that is, save one.
The third pew from the front, on the groom's side. The seat that should have held the brother of the groom.
It was empty. And upon its velvet cushion lay a single white rose, its petals fresh, its stem cleanly cut, as if placed there moments ago.
Jennie's heart stopped.
Her father's step faltered, sensing her hesitation, and he glanced down at her with concern. "Jennie? Are you unwell?"
She opened her mouth to speak, but the words would not come. Her eyes were fixed on that empty seat, on that single white rose, on the absence that filled the cathedral more completely than any presence ever could.
He had not come.
Of course he had not come. What had she expected? That he would stand witness while she married his brother? That he would smile and applaud and pretend that the past weeks had not happened? That he would watch her pledge herself to another man while the memory of his hands on her skin still burned like a brand?
Her father squeezed her arm. "Jennie. The congregation is waiting."
She blinked, forcing herself back to the present. The organ had reached a crescendo. The guests were exchanging glances. Kai was looking at her with a faint furrow of concern between his brows.
She smiled. The smile she had practiced since childhood. The smile that had opened doors and softened hearts and hidden every truth she had ever needed to conceal.
"I am perfectly well, Father," she said, her voice steady, calm, serene. "Shall we continue?"
They walked. The aisle stretched before her, impossibly long, a gauntlet of silk and curiosity and well-wishes. She kept her eyes fixed on the altar, on Kai's glowing face, refusing to look again at the empty seat and the single white rose that rested upon it like a grave marker.
She reached the altar. Her father placed her hand in Kai's, and she felt the warmth of his fingers close around hers, steady and sure and utterly without complication.
"You look beautiful," Kai whispered, his eyes shining. "Your beauty outshines the sun itself."
He did not notice that her smile did not reach her eyes. He did not notice that her gaze kept drifting, against her will, to the empty pew and the flower that lay upon it. He saw only the bride in ivory, the woman he was about to make his wife, and he was content.
The priest began to speak, his voice a sonorous drone that filled the cathedral with words of duty and love and sacred union. Jennie listened with half an ear, her mind elsewhere, her heart a cold stone in her chest.
"Dearly beloved," the priest intoned, "we are gathered here today to witness the holy union of this man and this woman..."
She thought of the sewing room, of the sunlight streaming through the windows, of Leonid's hands hovering at her waist, asking her a question she had been too afraid to answer.
"...to join together in holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate, instituted by God..."
She thought of the bath, of the steam rising from the water, of the look in his eyes when he had promised to teach her cards, of the taste of brandy on his lips.
"...and therefore, if any man can show just cause why these two may not be lawfully joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace..."
The words echoed through the cathedral, and the congregation stilled. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant. Jennie's heart pounded in her chest, so loud she was certain everyone could hear it. She felt her gaze drawn, against her will, to the doorway at the back of the cathedral.
The doors were closed. The bar was in place. No one entered.
The priest smiled, satisfied, and continued. "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"
Her father stepped forward, his voice clear and proud. "I do."
Kai took her hand, and she felt the cold band of the ring as he slid it onto her finger. It was a beautiful ring, a flawless sapphire surrounded by diamonds, chosen by his mother to match the Manoban crest. It was heavy on her hand, unfamiliar, a weight she had never asked to bear.
"I, Kai Manoban, take thee, Jennie Kim, to be my wedded wife..."
His voice was warm, earnest, filled with love. She looked at his face, at his kind eyes and his gentle smile, and she felt a pang of something that might have been guilt, or might have been grief for the life she should have wanted.
"...to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part..."
She opened her mouth to speak her vows, and somewhere in the distance, she heard the sound of hooves on gravel, fading into silence.
By the time the priest pronounced them man and wife, the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the candles had burned low in their sconces. The congregation applauded, a polite patter of gloved hands, and Kai kissed her — a chaste, proper kiss that tasted of wine and mint and nothing at all.
They turned to walk back down the aisle, and her eyes found the empty pew one last time. The white rose was gone. In its place, a single silk ribbon lay upon the velvet cushion, pale blue, the color of forget-me-nots.
She did not know when it had been taken. She did not know who had taken it. But as she walked out of the cathedral on her new husband's arm, the ribbon burned in her memory like a brand, a silent message from a man who had chosen absence over witness.
The doors swung open, and the cool evening air washed over her, carrying the scent of roses and damp earth. The guests spilled out behind them, laughing and chattering, their voices bright with celebration.
Kai squeezed her hand. "We are married," he said, his voice filled with wonder. "We are truly married."
"Yes," she said, and her voice was calm, serene, perfect. "We are."
She did not look back at the cathedral. She did not look at the empty pew, or the ribbon, or the ghost of a man who had ridden away from everything he could not have.
But as she climbed into the carriage that would carry them to the wedding feast, she reached up and touched her bodice, where a piece of pale blue silk lay hidden against her heart. She had taken it from the pew as she passed. She did not know why. She only knew that she could not leave it behind.
The carriage lurched into motion, and Kai took her hand, and she smiled, and she was a wife, and she was a liar, and she was more alone than she had ever been in her life.
The feast was a blur of light and noise and too much wine. The toasts went on for hours, each one more elaborate than the last. Lady Ashworth praised her beauty. Sir Reginald praised her breeding. The Duchess of Marlowe, in a rare moment of generosity, praised her luck in securing such a match.
Jennie smiled and nodded and drank champagne until her cheeks ached and her head swam. Kai stayed close, his hand always on her arm, her back, her waist, anchoring her to the celebration. He was attentive and warm and utterly oblivious to the fact that his bride was drowning in plain sight.
The music began, and Kai led her to the dance floor, and they spun through the waltz in a haze of silk and candlelight. His hand was sure at her waist, his steps flawless, his smile radiant. The guests watched and applauded and declared them the handsomest couple of the season.
She danced until her feet ached, until her smile felt like a permanent feature of her face, and when the clock struck midnight, she pleaded exhaustion and escaped to the bridal chamber.
The room was a bower of white roses and shimmering gauze. Candles flickered on every surface, their flames reflected in the mirrors that lined the walls. The bed was a great white confection, heaped with silk and lace, and upon the pillows lay a single blue ribbon.
Jennie stood in the doorway, staring at it, and felt the world tilt beneath her feet.
"What is it, my love?" Kai appeared behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders. "Are you not pleased with the room? I had it decorated to your taste, with the roses you favored at your engagement ball."
"The roses," she repeated, her voice faint. "Yes. They are lovely."
She crossed the room, her steps careful, measured, and lifted the ribbon from the pillow. It was the same ribbon she had seen in the cathedral. Pale blue silk, soft as a whisper, with a single word embroidered along its length.
Remember.
She did not know how he had gotten into the room. She did not know how he had known. But as she held the ribbon in her trembling hands, she felt his presence like a ghost in the air, a silent promise that would not be broken.
Kai came up behind her, peering over her shoulder. "What is that?"
"A ribbon," she said, and her voice was steady. "A favor from my mother. She tucked it into my bouquet."
Kai smiled, satisfied, and turned away to undo his cravat. "Your mother is a sweet woman. You shall have to thank her in the morning."
"I shall," she said, and she tucked the ribbon into her sleeve, where it lay against her skin like a burning coal.
The candles flickered. The night deepened. And somewhere beyond the walls of the mansion, a lone rider sat astride his horse, watching the lights of the celebration through the darkness, the taste of brandy and regret sharp on his tongue.