the windows that lined the length of the building near the ceiling. The slanting columns of light
pierced the mist of incense as though through treetops in a wood, breaking the darkness of the canopy’s shade. It was an effect the artist in her longed to capture; she wished she had a
pencil and paper in her hand, for she knew that memory would not be enough to capture its beauty. Had he not been sitting behind her, she would have glanced at Mr Benedict, to see if the artist was
watching it, the contrast of light and smoke, the sudden piercing of shadow. If so, she knew he must be tempted to take out his sketchpad, to make some recording of the event – unless, she
thought with envy, he held it all in his mind.
Delphine and Julia had paid for places in pew 18, sharing with an amenable family down from London, only just recently arrived. It was the mother of the family – a fine,
strong-looking woman – who had fainted the moment the incense had reached her, so that she descended with a clatter and a thump onto the floor and had to be scooped up by her husband, who
muttered something about popery as he raised her up. They were gently ushered out into the fresh air, their children, white-faced but silent, tiptoeing behind. Delphine honoured Mr Hallam’s
composure; he had not ceased, only continued to sing the psalm, his voice soaring. There was nothing showy about the voice, though it was beautiful; it was pure, without any affectation,
note-perfect, so that it seemed to meld with, and belong completely to, the beams of light falling through the incense.
Delphine closed her eyes. She thought that, surely, if she was to feel any revelation, it would be at a moment like this. As a child she had stared at the colours in stained-glass windows; had
repeated the words of a single prayer, to find something like peace. Much as she knew that revelation could not be forced, still she tried to force it. She had not felt it in years, not since
before she had left New York. She could go for months without even seeking it, imagining that she was reconciled to the fact that her heart had hardened. Now she opened her eyes, and found Julia
looking at her sadly.
She did not, in truth, listen to the sermon. She concentrated on looking at the details of the church, with its sense of cautious, provincial lavishness. It was a strange thing, this church; it
seemed to have a mixed sense of its identity. For all the incense and the stained glass, there were vast stretches of plain, light wall, as though it was trying to play two parts at once.
Protestant and Catholic; plain and ornamented; uncomplicated and mysterious. Delphine looked around at the other worshippers, some local, some clearly visitors.
Then, someone turned and looked at her.
It was a young woman; Delphine thought she could not have been more than eighteen years old. The girl caught Delphine’s gaze and held it, with no discernible emotion, neither curiosity,
hostility nor warmth. Her beauty contracted Delphine’s heart as the sunlight had done. Her skin was luminous and dewy, like that of a baby; even from this distance, her eyes were a deep,
piercing violet, and her face was surrounded by a silky mass of coppery-gold hair. But there was something else in her; something beyond her features. In that open gaze, there was innocence –
and the protectiveness that had sprung up in Delphine as she had looked at the girl on the beach transferred itself to the beautiful face, as easily as releasing a breath. As the girl turned back
to listen to the sermon, Delphine found that her gloved hands were clutching the prayer book tightly.
It was then that she glanced over her shoulder, and immediately caught the eye of Mr Benedict, sitting two pews behind her. His eyes were bright, and she was sure that he, too, had seen the
girl. He raised his eyebrows, as though he thought himself in silent communion with her thoughts, and with a slight smile curling on his lips,
pierced the mist of incense as though through treetops in a wood, breaking the darkness of the canopy’s shade. It was an effect the artist in her longed to capture; she wished she had a
pencil and paper in her hand, for she knew that memory would not be enough to capture its beauty. Had he not been sitting behind her, she would have glanced at Mr Benedict, to see if the artist was
watching it, the contrast of light and smoke, the sudden piercing of shadow. If so, she knew he must be tempted to take out his sketchpad, to make some recording of the event – unless, she
thought with envy, he held it all in his mind.
Delphine and Julia had paid for places in pew 18, sharing with an amenable family down from London, only just recently arrived. It was the mother of the family – a fine,
strong-looking woman – who had fainted the moment the incense had reached her, so that she descended with a clatter and a thump onto the floor and had to be scooped up by her husband, who
muttered something about popery as he raised her up. They were gently ushered out into the fresh air, their children, white-faced but silent, tiptoeing behind. Delphine honoured Mr Hallam’s
composure; he had not ceased, only continued to sing the psalm, his voice soaring. There was nothing showy about the voice, though it was beautiful; it was pure, without any affectation,
note-perfect, so that it seemed to meld with, and belong completely to, the beams of light falling through the incense.
Delphine closed her eyes. She thought that, surely, if she was to feel any revelation, it would be at a moment like this. As a child she had stared at the colours in stained-glass windows; had
repeated the words of a single prayer, to find something like peace. Much as she knew that revelation could not be forced, still she tried to force it. She had not felt it in years, not since
before she had left New York. She could go for months without even seeking it, imagining that she was reconciled to the fact that her heart had hardened. Now she opened her eyes, and found Julia
looking at her sadly.
She did not, in truth, listen to the sermon. She concentrated on looking at the details of the church, with its sense of cautious, provincial lavishness. It was a strange thing, this church; it
seemed to have a mixed sense of its identity. For all the incense and the stained glass, there were vast stretches of plain, light wall, as though it was trying to play two parts at once.
Protestant and Catholic; plain and ornamented; uncomplicated and mysterious. Delphine looked around at the other worshippers, some local, some clearly visitors.
Then, someone turned and looked at her.
It was a young woman; Delphine thought she could not have been more than eighteen years old. The girl caught Delphine’s gaze and held it, with no discernible emotion, neither curiosity,
hostility nor warmth. Her beauty contracted Delphine’s heart as the sunlight had done. Her skin was luminous and dewy, like that of a baby; even from this distance, her eyes were a deep,
piercing violet, and her face was surrounded by a silky mass of coppery-gold hair. But there was something else in her; something beyond her features. In that open gaze, there was innocence –
and the protectiveness that had sprung up in Delphine as she had looked at the girl on the beach transferred itself to the beautiful face, as easily as releasing a breath. As the girl turned back
to listen to the sermon, Delphine found that her gloved hands were clutching the prayer book tightly.
It was then that she glanced over her shoulder, and immediately caught the eye of Mr Benedict, sitting two pews behind her. His eyes were bright, and she was sure that he, too, had seen the
girl. He raised his eyebrows, as though he thought himself in silent communion with her thoughts, and with a slight smile curling on his lips,
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