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No one is going to challenge me to a duel. If I say something out of turn I will be ignored or forgiven for my outburst, not expected to pace twenty steps into the under-growth with a loaded pistol. I like walking on the inside of the street, not out by the gutter which runs with sewage. I like being helped up into a cab, having doors held open forme, having men doff their hats to me in the avenue. I like the whisper of my skirts, the feel of them in my hands when I gather them up in a knot to step over a muddy patch of ground. I look much better in a woman’s hat than I do in a man’s. My small hands were made for soft leather gloves that button up the forearm with tiny pearl buttons.
    Often I prefer being Charlotte to Charles, and the surprising thing is that I think Adèle prefers this too. With Charles she has to feel the guilt of adultery, the shame that she is cuckolding her husband, breaching her marriage vows. With Charlotte she can pretend that theirs is simply an innocent friendship. She is sometimes much more light-hearted with Charlotte.
    There is the heavy toll of the church door swinging shut. I turn in my seat and see Adèle. She stands there for a moment, at the back of the church, with the last bit of light from the day outside fleeing behind her. She is dressed in dark colours, as she frequently is when she meets me here, as though simply to enter the church is an act of mourning.
    It does not take her long to find me in the dim interior. She hurries up the aisle and slides into the pew where I am sitting, hurling herself towards me with a recklessness that I find so touching. All my words dissolve to feeling and it takes ages for them to struggle back into shape.
    “Charlotte,” she says, “you look so lovely. I have missed you so much.”
    We haven’t seen each other for five full days. The separation has seemed eternal.
    “Charlotte,” she says. “I want you so badly. I could take you right here, right now.” She runs a hand across the front of my dress and a small moan escapes my lips.
    At first when we met in the church we spent some of the time in prayer. Adèle is more religious than I am and she believed that by increasing her devoutness she would alleviate some of the guilt she felt at having an affair. By praying more,by praying harder, by having prayer be a large part of our relationship, she would be forgiven the sin of adultery. We would kneel together in the pew, heads bowed and hands clasped in front of us. I don’t know what silent words she offered up to God, but I know I prayed, with all my strength, that she would leave Victor and come away with me. I feared that our prayers were cancelling each other out. She was probably asking to fight temptation. I was begging to have her yield to it.
    Now I lean my head on her shoulder. She still smells of the outdoors, hasn’t taken on the musty perfume of the church. I feel weak with longing.
    In the orchard, if we are lucky, we are able to hold hands, to manage several kisses while walking through the groves of trees. In the hotel, we can be entirely ourselves, without clothes or pretence or observers. The church has more privacy than the orchard, but it is the house of the Lord and comes with his attendant laws. In the orchard we can pretend that we are courting. In the hotel we can pretend that we are married. In the church we know that we are sinners.
    That knowledge does not entirely encourage romance.
    Do lovers always suffer an impediment to their love? Is that what keeps love sweet and strong – the circumstances that would force the lovers apart make them cleave together more keenly? Will we end up poisoning ourselves, like the lovers in Victor’s wretched play? What other choice will there be? We cannot be together, and yet we cannot be apart.
    “We should pray,” Adèle says, without conviction.
    But we don’t pray. I lift my head from her shoulder and take her face in my hands, kiss her deeply and passionately. The church