‘Utterly.’
In a few moments the Prose Portal reopened and Mycroft rushed inside, returning shortly afterwards clutching Polly by the hand; she was holding a bunch of daffodils and trying to explain something.
‘We were just talking, Crofty, my love! You don’t think I would be interested in a dead poet, do you?’
‘My turn,’ said Jack Schitt excitedly, waving his copy of The Plasma Rifle in War. He placed it with the bookworms and signalled to Mycroft to open the portal. As soon as the worms had done their work Mycroft did as he was bid. Schitt grinned and reached through the shimmering white doorway, feeling around for one of the plasma rifles that had been so well described in the book. Bowden had other ideas. He gave him a small shove and Jack Schitt disappeared through the doorway with a yell. Bowden nodded at Mycroft, who pulled the plug; the machine fell silent, the gateway to the book severed. It was bad timing on Jack Schitt’s behalf. In his eagerness to get his hands on the rifle he had not made sure his Goliath officers were with him. By the time the two guards had returned, Bowden was assisting Mycroft in smashing the Prose Portal after carefully transferring the bookworms and returning the original manuscript of Jane Eyre— the ending now slightly altered—to the Bronte Federation.
‘Where’s Colonel Schitt?’ asked the first officer.
Victor shrugged.
‘He went away. Something to do with plasma rifles.’
The Goliath officers would have asked more questions but the Welsh Foreign Secretary himself had arrived and announced that since the matter was now resolved we would be escorted from the Republic. The Goliath operatives started to argue but were soon ushered from the room by several members of the Welsh Republican Army, who were definitely not impressed by their threats.
We were driven in the presidential limousine out of Merthyr and dropped in Abertawe. The Bronte Federation representative was icily quiet during the entire trip—I sensed he wasn’t that happy about the new ending. When we got to the town I gave them the slip, ran to my car and hastily drove back to Swindon, Rochester’s words ringing in my ears. Landen’s marriage to Daisy was happening at three that afternoon and I was sure as hell going to be there.
35. Nearly the end of our book
‘I had disrupted Jane Eyre quite considerably; my cry of “Jane, Jane, Jane!” at her window had altered the book for good. It was against my training, against everything that I had sworn to uphold. I didn’t see it as anything more than a simple act of contrition for what I felt was my responsibility over Rochester’s wounds and the burning of Thornfield. I had acted out of compassion, not duty, and sometimes that is no bad thing.’
At five past three I screeched to a halt outside the Church of Our Blessed Lady of the Lobsters, much to the surprise of the photographer and the driver of a large Hispano-Suiza that was parked in readiness for the happy couple. I took a deep breath, paused to gather my thoughts and, shaking slightly, walked up the steps to the main doors. The organ music was playing loudly and my pace, which up to that point had been a run, suddenly slowed as my nerve abandoned me. What the hell was I playing at? Did I think I had any real chance of appearing from nowhere after a ten-year absence and then expecting the man I was once in love with just to drop everything and marry me?
‘Oh yes,’ said a woman to her companion as they walked past me, ‘Landen and Daisy are so much in love!’
My walk slowed to a snail’s pace as I found myself hoping to be too late and have the burden of decision taken from me. The church was full, and I slid unnoticed into the back, just next to the lobster-shaped font. I could see Landen and Daisy at the front, attended to by a small bevy of pages and bridesmaids. There were many uniformed guests in the small church, friends of Landen’s from the Crimea. I could see someone whom I took to be Daisy’s mother snivelling into her handkerchief and her father looking impatiently at his watch. On Landen’s side his mother was on her own.
‘I require and charge you both,’ the clergyman was saying, ‘that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it.’
He paused, and several guests shuffled. Mr Mutlar, whose lack of chin had been amply compensated by increased girth in his neck, seemed ill at ease and looked about the church nervously. The clergyman turned to Landen and opened his mouth to speak, but as he did so there came a loud, clear voice from the back of the church: ‘The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment!’
One hundred and fifty heads turned to see who the speaker was. One of Landen’s friends laughed out loud; he obviously thought it was a joke. The speaker’s countenance did not, however, look as though any humour was intended. Daisy’s father was having none of it. Landen was a good catch for his daughter and a small and tasteless joke was not going to delay her wedding.
‘Proceed!’ he said, his face like thunder.
The clergyman looked at the speaker, then at Daisy and Landen, and finally at Mr Mutlar.
‘I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been asserted and evidence of its truth or falsehood,’ he said with a pained expression; nothing like this had ever happened to him before.
Mr Mutlar had turned an unhealthy shade of crimson and might have struck the speaker had he been close enough.
‘What is this nonsense?’ he shouted instead, setting the room buzzing.
‘Not nonsense, sir,’ replied the speaker in a clear voice. ‘Bigamy is hardly nonsense, I think, sir.’
I stared at Landen, who looked confused at the turn of events. Was he married already? I couldn’t believe it. I looked back at the speaker and my heart missed a beat. It was Mr Briggs, the solicitor I had last seen in the church at Thornfield! There was a rustle close by and I turned to find Mrs Nakijima standing next to me. She smiled and raised a finger to her lips. I frowned, and the clergyman spoke again.
‘What is the nature of this impediment? Perhaps it may be got over—explained away?’
‘Hardly,’ was the answer. ‘I have called it insuperable and I speak advisedly. It consists simply of a previous marriage.’
Landen and Daisy looked at one another sharply.
‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Mr Mutlar, who seemed to be the only person galvanised into action.
‘My name is Briggs, a solicitor of Dash Street, London.’
‘Well, Mr Briggs, perhaps you would be good enough to explain the previous marriage of Mr Parke-Laine so we may all know the extent of this man’s cowardly action.’
Briggs looked at Mr Mutlar and then at the couple at the altar.
‘My information does not concern Mr Parke-Laine; I am speaking of Miss Mutlar, or, to give her her married name, Mrs Daisy Posh!’
There was a gasp from the congregation. Landen looked at Daisy, who threw her garland on the floor. One of the bridesmaids started to cry, and Mr Mutlar strode forward and took Daisy’s arm.
‘Miss Mutlar married Mr Murray Posh on 20 October 1981,’ yelled Mr Briggs above the uproar. ‘The service was held at Southwark. There was no divorce petition filed.’
It was enough for everyone. A clamour started up as the Mutlar family beat a hasty retreat. The vicar offered an unheard-of prayer to no one in particular as Landen took a much-needed seat on the pew that the Mutlar family had just vacated. Someone yelled ‘Gold-digger!’ from the back, and the Mutlar family quickened their pace at the abuse that followed, much of which shouldn’t have been heard in church. One of the pages tried to kiss a bridesmaid in the confusion and was slapped for his trouble. I leaned against the cool stone of the church and wiped the tears from my eyes. I know it was wrong of me, but I was laughing. Briggs stepped through the arguing guests and joined us, tipping his hat respectfully.