on one of the new Leavers machines. A chinoiserie ivory fan and a beaded reticule dangled from her wrist. More surprising still, her dark hair was wrapped in an orange-and-gold-striped bandeau and gathered into an adorably careless bundle at the crown of her head. Solomon could have sworn he even caught a touch of rouge on her magnolia skin. She looked like an adorable young bourgeoise. It was only on a second, closer inspection that he saw the pinning of the bodice and her careful walk to hide that the dress wasn’t hers. It had been made for someone larger in the bust, and maybe a little taller.
Her silver eyes glinted at his slack-jawed expression. “Oh, good, you’re wearing something middle-class. Come along, we’re going to St. Andrew of the Cross.” She held out her left hand and Solomon saw a little pearl ring on the third finger. “You’re my fiancé now. I hope you don’t mind.”
Chapter 8
The church was an old, drafty place with a few beautiful stained-glass windows and a large number of boarded-up holes that presumably had once been beautiful stained-glass windows. On the threshold, Solomon offered Serena his arm. He expected a rebuff, but she breathed in deep, whipped open her fan, and took it.
A man Solomon assumed to be the rector was replacing candle stubs in one corner. Serena headed straight for him, tugging Solomon along in her wake. “Oh, sir,” she called prettily, “do you think you could do me a very great favor?” Her accent had gone South London and middle-class.
The rector looked up. He was a tall, thin man in his middle sixties, with an extremely incompetent tailor. “For a pretty young lady like yourself? Certainly.” He gave an avuncular chuckle.
Serena giggled behind her fan. Solomon looked at her in surprise. She was dimpling and ducking her head, so he couldn’t see her eyes. “Well, you see, sir, I want to get my sister an anniversary gift, but I can’t remember what day she was married, and I do so want it to be a surprise. She was married here last year, so I thought if I could just see the register—”
The rector smiled. “Of course. I’m sure your sister will be very pleased.”
“I hope so. Oh, but I’m being rude! My name is Elizabeth Jeeves, and this is my fiancé, David Burbank.”
The rector bowed over her proffered hand. “Charles Waddell.” He led them to a small back room, where an oak lectern held a slim leather book with “St. Andrew of the Cross Register” inked across the front. On the shelf below, older registers were stacked in an untidy pile.
“Oh, good!” Serena walked toward the lectern. Halfway there, she stopped and put a hand on her stomach. “Oh,” she said in a very different tone of voice. “Mr. Burbank—” Her other hand fluttered toward him and she swayed.
“Miss Jeeves!” Solomon rushed forward and put his arm around her waist.
She leaned into him and gripped his lapel. She still smelled like almonds, just as she had all those years ago.
“Are you all right?” he asked, remembering at the last second to broaden the Shropshire in his own voice.
She smiled weakly up at him. “It’s nothing. Not even as bad as yesterday. I don’t think I shall”—she glanced down in embarrassment—“I don’t think I shall be sick. I’d just like to sit down for a bit, if I may.” She grimaced queasily.
Solomon turned to Mr. Waddell. “Is there a chair you could bring in here?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The rector bustled out. He was soon back again with a hard wooden bench.
Solomon helped Serena sit. She clung to his sleeve in a way that made him swallow rather hard. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m so sorry. It’s very silly of me to be always—”
“Not at all,” Solomon said firmly. “I’ll just stay here with you for a while, and when you feel better, we can look at the register and find your sister.”
Serena threw him a look of adoration. “You’re so good to me! But I won’t hear of it. This is a lovely old church and there’s no reason you can’t see some more of it. I shall just rest here for a while and you shall come back and find me when you’ve taken a look at those delightful windows. You can show Mr. Burbank the stained glass, can’t you, Mr. Waddell?”
The rector frowned. “Of course I can, Miss Jeeves. But are you sure you’ll be all right alone?”