Hélène grinned up at Joseph. She too had been worried about Tessa. But clearly, something had changed. Perhaps the new wife had employed some of their father’s advice after all.
Joseph and Hélène set down their baskets on the piazza. Tessa said her cook was still finishing her contributions. While they waited, Tessa offered them tea in her garden.
Though it would not enter its full glory till spring, Joseph thought it was coming along very well, this joint project of theirs. They sat in the shade of the magnolia tree, its red seeds beginning to burst from the pods on their tiny cords. But Tessa herself was the brightest thing in her garden. Joseph had not seen her so ebullient since the day they’d met.
Hélène was equally happy. “Have you seen Liam in his new uniform? Doesn’t he look handsome?” Like many other Irishmen, Liam had joined the Phoenix Fire Brigade (partially, he admitted to Joseph, to impress his future mother- and grandmother-in-law, who remained ignorant of the betrothal). Every few months brought an opportunity for heroism when a blaze threatened some part of the city. Hélène leaned toward her friend and confided in a loud whisper: “Liam let me feel his arms through his shirt. They’re hard as coconuts!” As a matter of pride, and to distinguish themselves from the slave companies, volunteer firemen eschewed mules and pulled the engines themselves.
Tessa’s cook brought out her baskets. “Would you mind very much if I carried only the bread?” Tessa inquired.
“Are you still feeling unwell?” Hélène worried.
Tessa smiled into her teacup. “Afternoons are easier.”
His sister selected another little cake from the table. “Joseph can carry the heavy things. He may not be as strong as Liam, but he’s stronger than he looks.”
“Thank you,” Joseph responded. “I think.”
“He swims a lot. That must be it.”
Tessa sat back in her chair and drew their attention again with a sigh at once resigned and contented. “I expect I shall be ill again tomorrow morning.”
Hélène frowned and said around the cake, “You should really talk to Papa.”
“I did.” Tessa lowered her eyes to the front of her pink bodice, where she placed a spread hand. When she looked up at Joseph, a blush suffused her cheeks, so that they nearly matched the silk. “Father, is there a special blessing for…a woman ‘in a delicate condition’?”
Joseph’s cup clattered in the saucer, when he’d only meant to set it down. Of course.
“You’re going to have a baby?!” Hélène squealed.
Tessa nodded and grinned. “Your father confirmed it yesterday.”
Hélène sprang up to embrace her friend, then abruptly drew back. “Did I hurt the baby? Did I hurt you?”
“Not in the slightest,” Tessa laughed. It was so good to hear her laugh again.
“Can Liam and I be the godparents?”
“Of course you can be the godparents!”
“And Joseph can perform the Baptism!”
“Certainly,” he managed, finding it difficult to look at Tessa. How strange, to think that two souls now inhabited one body. Joseph thought he’d accepted his own solitude the day he left for seminary, yet the truth struck him as if by surprise: he would never be part of such blessed news. He would always be a Father, but never a father. He could only watch the progression of others’ lives.
“Can you still come with us today?” Hélène fretted.
“You’ll have to remember that I tire more easily now, but yes,” Tessa assured her. “Irishwomen usually remain on their feet and working till the moment their pains start. We’re a hardy race. I certainly won’t be pulling any fire engines, but your father says moderate exercise is good for me and the baby.”
“We have to think of names!” Joseph’s sister realized. “There are so many lovely Irish names!”
Tessa’s smile faded. “Edward says it can’t be anything too Irish.”
“What?”
“You know…like Bridget or Patrick. I don’t think he’d want anything Gaelic, either.”
Hélène pouted, then squeezed her friend’s hand. “We’ll find something, Tessa.”
“It doesn’t matter what we name her. I love her so much already.” As she gazed down at the place where new life knit together inside her, Tessa soon recovered her happiness. “Your father said she’s only the size of a kidney bean at the moment—so that’s what I’ve started calling her: Bean!”
“That small!” Hélène gasped in wonder.
Tessa nodded. “She’s about eight weeks.”
“How do you know she’s a girl?”
“I don’t, not for certain. But I…dreamt about her last night. And b-e-a-n is the Irish word for ‘woman.’”
Hélène stooped over to speak to Tessa’s abdomen. “You’d better hurry up, little Bean! We cannot wait to meet you! I’m going to love you almost as much as your mama!”
“I talk to her too,” Tessa laughed. “I told Bean I’m going to plant a tree the day she’s born, so she can watch it grow along with her.”
Hélène stood up straight again. “When you’ve just given birth! I don’t care how hardy the Irish are—you will not be planting anything! Joseph will do it for you! Won’t you, Joseph?”
“Of course.” He tugged at his choker. September was still quite warm.
His sister squinted thoughtfully at the garden beds. “What kind of tree should we plant?”
“Do you have any suggestions?”
“It can’t be anything too big: you’ll want a tree for every one of your children, or the others will envy Bean.”
“Every one of my children?” Tessa echoed with a laugh.
“We must plan ahead!” Hélène turned to him. “What kind of tree would you recommend, Joseph?”
He said the first genus that came to him. “Dogwoods?”
“I think I like those.” Tessa stood to assess the space herself.
“They prefer partial shade, so we could plant them against the wall.”
“Dogwoods are the showy white trees I’ve seen in the spring?”
“They can be pink, too,” his sister pointed out. “Pink for the girls and white for the boys! It’s perfect!” She grasped both her friend’s hands, gazing out at the garden. “I can see them, Tessa! Little Bean and all her brothers and sisters tending their trees, comparing their heights…”
“And your children will come and play with them.”
“Yes!” Hélène’s skirts bounced in her impatient joy.
“Oh, Ellie.” Tessa embraced her friend. Over Hélène’s shoulder, she caught Joseph’s gaze for only a moment before averting her eyes. “Everything will be all right now,” Tessa predicted softly. “I know it will.”
Part V
In Limbo
1837-1842
Charleston
It has pleased Divine Providence to permit us to be sorely afflicted. Our holy and our beautiful house…is burnt up with fire
and all our pleasant things are laid to waste.
— C. E. Gadsden, Rector of Saint Philip’s Episcopal Church,
after the 1835 Charleston fire
Chapter 27
Original sin [is] the sin we inherit from our first parents; and in which we were conceived and born children of wrath…
— Bishop John England, Catechism of the Roman Catholic Faith (1826)
On the second anniversary of his Ordination, Joseph rose before dawn as he did every day. He prayed the morning Office, dressed, and unlocked the cathedral. Anthony, his young server, assisted him with his vestments in the sacristy, then preceded him to the altar, and they began the Mass.
While Joseph was offering Communion, he could not help but notice the negro who entered the back of the sanctuary. The man stood turning his hat in his hands, looking anxious but uncertain. He met Joseph’s eyes across the pews in a moment of silent entreaty, then dropped his gaze. The negro was well-dressed, but he’d missed one of his waistcoat buttons. Joseph thought he recognized the man,
though he couldn’t recall the context.
He tried to concentrate on his solemn task: placing the Body of Christ onto the tongues of communicants. But a drama was playing out at the back of the sanctuary. The negro was whispering to one of the parishioners, who glared at him but answered. Another man rose unhappily to close the door, which the negro had left ajar. Finally he hurried up the stairs into the gallery. Even there, the negro perched on his pew; he was clearly preparing to spring up again.
The last communicant left the rail. Joseph returned the ciborium to the Tabernacle. Anthony helped him to rinse his fingers and the chalice. Joseph gave the final blessing and offered the final prayers. He kissed the altar. Never before had these concluding rituals seemed to take so long.
At last he genuflected a final time and carried the chalice to the sacristy. In the corner of his vision, Joseph watched the negro approach. He came back without unvesting.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the negro began. “I didn’t mean to disturb your service.”
“It’s a matter of urgency?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then no apology is necessary. But did no one tell you Father Baker was at the seminary?”
“The mistress asked for you specifically, sir.” The negro saw that Joseph hadn’t yet recognized him. “I belong to Master Edward. He and Miss Teresa, they’re visiting the master’s father this week, at the plantation. But Miss Teresa, she started…bleeding. Our midwife thinks she’s losing her baby.”
In spite of his vestments, suddenly Joseph felt cold.
“Your father has already gone to her,” the negro assured him. “I’ve got to tell Mr. Conley next. Should I come back for you?”
“No, I-I remember the way. But I don’t think my father has ever—”
“Your sister is with him. And Miss Teresa is in good hands already, sir, with our midwife.” The negro bowed and hurried away.
Weakly, Joseph turned back to the sacristy. How many hours had elapsed, since Tessa had woken in pain? Even now, she might be— In danger of death, why had she asked for him? He wasn’t her confessor.
“Father?” inquired his young server.
“Would you fetch my breviary please, Anthony?”
The boy frowned. “Where is it?”
“My chamber. In the Bishop’s residence. On my desk. Don’t let the notes fall out.”
“Yes, Father.”
In the boy’s absence, Joseph struggled out of his vestments. He stuffed his surplice, soutane, and a stole into his portmanteau, along with his Ritual. Fortunately, he checked the sick call kit—the bottle of holy water was nearly empty. He was at the font when Anthony returned. Joseph stashed his breviary in the portmanteau, strapped it as quickly as he could, and raced to the seminary. He begged Father Baker to either lead or cancel the classes Joseph usually taught.
Then Joseph had to wait for the liveryman to select, saddle, and bridle a horse. Every lost minute haunted him. Thirteen long miles away, two souls were in peril, and Joseph was powerless to do anything but murmur prayers for them.
Finally he and his hired sorrel were cantering out of the city past carriages and farm wagons. On the open road, Joseph urged the gelding to gallop. Instead, the animal slowed to an awkward trot. Frustrated, then dismayed, Joseph realized something was wrong. He had no choice but to dismount. He discovered that one of the sorrel’s shoes was coming loose.
At least the hoof did not look damaged; but if he continued to ride, it might well become so. Joseph stared forlornly down the empty road in the direction of the Stratford plantation and tried to calculate the number of miles that still separated him from Tessa.
He looked back toward Charleston. The sun was already so far above the horizon… Should he return to the livery stable for a fresh horse? How long would it take to walk that distance? The thought of literally turning his back on Tessa, even intending to return… It made him physically ill.
He decided to put his faith in a Good Samaritan. He prayed that at one of the houses or inns ahead, he would find someone willing to lend him a mount, though he carried no money. He led the limping sorrel at a walk.
Perhaps the hemorrhage had been a false alarm, Joseph told himself. And surely his father would reach Tessa soon. The road was in decent repair; he was grateful for that. Even more important, their destination was this side of the Ashley River; they would not have to wait for a ferry.
Joseph saw a wagon approaching. He waved it down. Then he made the mistake of telling the driver he was a Priest. The man spit tobacco juice on Joseph’s boots and slapped his reins against the backs of his mules as if Catholicism were contagious.
His eyes on his filthy boots, Joseph started forward again. He anticipated his upcoming conversation with the next man. He couldn’t lie. But if he mentioned that it was a matter of life and death and the man assumed he was a doctor…
As if in reproach, a light morning rain began to pelt him. Joseph hoped this was not an omen. At least the rain washed away the tobacco spit, though mud soon replaced it. His stomach complained loudly about the extension of his fast.
Between his desperate prayers for Tessa, Joseph remembered the saints who’d been granted the power of bilocation, like Martin de Porres. While Martin’s body remained in Peru, he appeared at the sickbed of a friend in Mexico City to comfort and heal him.
Joseph had done nothing to deserve such a miracle. He kept recalling the afternoon he’d blessed Tessa and her child. In the midst of the invocation, selfish thoughts had intruded: This could have been my child. This should have been my child. He’d paused for only a moment. Surely that had not made the blessing invalid. Surely God would not punish Tessa for his own unholy longing.
Over the patter of the rain, Joseph did not hear the rider till he called out: “Father?”
Joseph turned and squinted through the drops to see Tessa’s brother reining his horse just behind him. “Liam!”
The Irishman insisted that they switch mounts: “Tessa needs you more than she needs me.”
Joseph transferred his portmanteau and pulled himself onto the new horse. Promising to send someone from the plantation to meet Liam, Joseph kicked the mare into a canter.
An eternity later, Joseph recognized Stratford land passing alongside him. At last he and the borrowed horse turned through the gate and followed the avenue of live oaks to the grand house.
As Joseph dismounted, the elder Mr. Stratford strode out the front door. “Look, Eddy,” he called over his shoulder with a chuckle. “It’s another Lazare. We’re being invaded!” The old widower might be eccentric, but he had not struck Joseph as mad. Surely Mr. Stratford’s flippancy meant all was well?
Edward barely glanced at Joseph before he slumped into a chair on the veranda. “You’re too late, Father. It’s over.”
Shivering in the rain and aching from the long ride, his hands on his portmanteau, Joseph waited in vain for Edward to explain. “Mrs. Stratford is out of danger, then?”
“She’s alive,” her husband muttered.
“And the child?”
“Quite dead.” Edward seemed more annoyed than grieved. He might have been reacting to the loss of a horse race. Not the loss of his firstborn. Not the loss of a priceless human soul.
Joseph closed his eyes and crossed himself.
When a negro came to lead away the borrowed mare, Joseph told him about Liam. A second slave carried his portmanteau out of the rain; a third took his wet coat on the veranda; and a fourth brought him towels.
While he blotted the rainwater as best he could, Joseph could not help but overhear the elder Mr. Stratford’s monologue to the taciturn Edward: “This is not a reflection on your virility, son. You did your part! These failures are always because of the woman. The first time I saw that one, I thought you were onto something—new blood and all that. Isn’t my best broodmare an Irish thorough-bred? Let us hope this little episode is only an aberration. You won’t know till you try again!”
Before he was reasona
bly dry, Joseph seized up his portmanteau and asked one of the slaves to take him to Tessa. Still the old planter’s voice followed him: “At least it wasn’t a son!”
Joseph and his guide used the staircase at the back of the veranda. He had not climbed to the second floor on his previous visit—this was private space. But here too, the floor-length, triple-hung windows opened onto the veranda like doors. Joseph did not have to ask where Tessa lay: her maid, Hannah, exited one of the bedchambers, her arms full of bloody bedclothes.
Joseph felt his strength draining and stopped. All those years at seminary, he’d not fully realized how often his duties as a Priest would resemble those of a doctor—how often sick calls, Last Rites, and even Baptisms would bring him into contact with the distressing failings of the body.
“Father Lazare.” Even with her terrible burden, Hannah bobbed a curtsy. “Miss Teresa will be glad you’re here; but we need a few minutes yet.”
Joseph nodded mutely and watched her carry the bedclothes down the staircase.
“Don’t suppose you want me to announce you, then,” observed his young guide.
“No, thank you.”
The boy disappeared after Hannah, and Joseph stood alone on the veranda. Curtains concealed the bedchamber’s interior, but through the open triple-hung window, he heard the familiar voices of his father and sister. The rustling of cloth, the splashing of water, and the low voices of black women. From these sounds, Joseph understood Hannah’s comment: the bed and Tessa’s own garments were being changed.
On a bench outside the chamber, Joseph set down his portmanteau. He opened it and withdrew his soutane, as much for warmth as formality. As he fastened the long line of buttons, Joseph tried to remember when Tessa had expected this child. She’d carried it less than four months, by his estimation—closer to three.
Another maid emerged from the bedchamber, carrying a bloody basin. Joseph fished in his portmanteau for his breviary, hoping it would calm him. He should find his notes, the verses Father Baker had recommended for miscarriages. But the renewed conversation inside the bedchamber drew his attention.
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