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Lambton Parish Church

Reverend Thomas Ainsley

Reverend Thomas Ainsley had long cherished weddings.

Compared to the many solemn duties to which a clergyman was called, often burdened with grief or repentance, there was something singularly blessed in the joining of a man and woman in holy matrimony.

To be the humble instrument by which the Lord Himself united two souls was a charge he bore with profound gratitude.

Indeed, he considered it a divine calling.

It was even more rewarding if the union were grounded in true affection—when the bride and groom stood before the altar as one in heart, their love shining more brightly than the very candles that flanked them.

Alas, such felicity was rare.

More often than not, marriages were forged not from love but from prudence—or worse, from the schemes of ambitious relations.

It was no uncommon thing to see the happiness of the young bartered away for wealth, consequence, or political advantage; their futures sacrificed upon the altar of worldly ambition.

It was his particular jest, often repeated with a knowing smile, that he preferred those weddings in which the couple were so utterly entranced by each other that they required gentle prompting to recall their vows.

Upon this most auspicious day, he had the honour of presiding over such a union.

The bride—a young woman he had known from her infancy, gentle in spirit, fair of countenance, and pious of heart—had eyes for none but her groom.

The gentleman, hailing from a distant county in the southern part of this fair land, met her gaze with equal devotion, and in that look Mr.

Ainsley beheld a promise far dearer than any spoken before the altar.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God…”

The parson’s voice rang clear, echoing through the stone walls of the chapel. The bride stood with her hands clasped before her, eyes lowered in modesty, her heart brimful of joy.

The groom turned his gaze upon her with so tender a look that the very air seemed to hold its breath in solemn expectation.

All eyes were fixed upon the couple as the parson prepared to pronounce the words that would unite them in holy matrimony.

“Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife…?”

With eyes fixed upon his bride and heart unveiled, the groom’s voice rang out firm yet heavy with feeling. “I will.”

Yet as those words left his lips, the parson’s eyes caught sight of a sudden shadow—a grey shape no larger than a hand—that darted swiftly before the window to his right. Was it a bird? He had scarce time to ponder, for in the next instant the groom uttered a sharp cry and staggered backward, clutching his left eye.

In the next moment, a small round object, no larger than a large marble, fell with a dull and unsettling sound upon the stone floor.

A gasp ran through the congregation as the groom collapsed, clutching his face, blood welling from beneath his fingers. The bride’s father and the groom’s best man hurried forward, catching him before he could fall to the floor.

“He is shot! Who could have done this?”

cried a voice from the front pew.

“But there was no sound,”

another replied in confusion.

“From that window,”

came a voice.

“I think ’twas a boy—a flash of grey, far too slight for a man,”

whispered another urgently.

“A boy with a weapon?”

one exclaimed in disbelief.

“I tell you, there was no shot!”

came the sharp retort.

Some of the men had already left the chapel in pursuit of the culprit.

Parson Ainsley stood motionless, stricken, his eyes darting between the injured groom and the bewildered assembly.

His gaze fell upon an object lying beside him, and he stooped to pick it up.

It was a stone—hard and roughly round, yet jagged enough to inflict harm.

Blood stained its surface, a grim testament to the injury it had wrought.

The men who had rushed after the assailant were long gone, their voices fading into the distance.

Parson Ainsley remained standing, his heart heavy with the unthinkable turn the day had taken.

He could scarce comprehend what had just transpired: who could have committed such an act, and for what reason?

Years hence, the parson would still recall that day’s events with a shiver of disbelief.

The wedding over which he had presided that fateful morning became the most widely recounted of all his years in service.

Even the Darcy wedding—where he had been summoned at the last moment owing to the illness of the vicar at Pemberley—was eclipsed by the shock and mystery of this occasion.

To this day, Parson Ainsley has no answer as to who committed that heinous deed within the sacred walls of God’s house.

The perpetrator remains unknown, and the act—so perplexing and cruel—still lingers in the depths of his mind.