Necessary Sins

by Elizabeth Bell

  Joseph obeyed.

  Three days later, he was in the library at the Bishop’s residence when Mrs. O’Brien announced a caller.

  Tessa swept past the housekeeper and knelt at his feet. “Forgive me, Father.”

  “Of course.” When she did not rise, Joseph knelt himself and peered beneath her bonnet. A deep flush stained Tessa’s face, and rivulets of sweat descended her temples. It was August, after all—and she was corseted again. Joseph glanced to Mrs. O’Brien. “Could you fetch us some water, please?”

  He led Tessa to a chair and helped her untie the stubborn ribbons at her throat. When she pulled the bonnet away from her hair, Joseph started as if she were a stranger. Those glorious bronze tresses had been severed at the nape of her neck. He fell into the chair across from her. Joseph remembered a story Father Verchese had told him in Rome: when a wife proved barren, her merciless husband had shorn off her long hair, yelling: You might as well be a boy! “Tessa? What happened to your hair?”

  She did not meet his eyes. “I cut it. As a sacrifice. So God will let me keep the next child. To show Him that nothing else matters to me.” She accepted the glass of water from Mrs. O’Brien and hid in it.

  The housekeeper gaped at Tessa’s cropped hair till Joseph’s glare drove her off.

  “Edward is furious,” Tessa confided, staring into the glass. “He sent my hair to a shop so they can fashion a chignon, so that when we go out, it will look like nothing has changed. He said if I do anything like this again, he’ll send me to a madhouse. But I cannot fast; I cannot do anything that would harm the baby too…” Tessa looked to Joseph at last. “What else is there, Father? Should I wear sackcloth? Smear myself with ashes?”

  “Why do you feel you need to do Penance, Tessa?”

  She avoided his eyes again. “I cannot tell you that.”

  “Have you told Father Baker?”

  She nodded haltingly.

  “What did he advise?”

  Tessa’s beautiful throat convulsed as if she were swallowing poison. “He told me I must avoid my proximate occasion of sin.”

  “Will you?”

  “I would have to leave Charleston! How could— How could I explain it to Edward?”

  “Would you like me to speak to him?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Please don’t.”

  “I want to help you, Tessa.”

  “I know. But you cannot.” She replaced her bonnet.

  Tessa told no one about the sixth child until it slipped away from her. “As if I could keep a secret from God Himself,” she whispered to Joseph.

  In February, when they stood alone before the six little headstones, Joseph read from Lamentations: “He hath led me, and brought me into darkness, and not into light. … He hath broken me in pieces… He hath fed me with ashes. … The Lord is my portion, said my soul… It is good to wait in silence for the salvation of God.”

  When Joseph had finished, Tessa responded: “In County Clare, a graveyard for unbaptized children is called a ceallúnach. Suicides are buried there also. The ceallúnach near my village, ’tis beside an ancient stone circle. As if unbaptized children and suicides are destined for some pagan after-life entirely apart from Heaven or Hell…”

  “Tessa, you know there isn’t a pagan after-life.”

  “At least I could be with my children then, if I…”

  Joseph drew in a sharp breath of cold air. Was Tessa saying she had contemplated—

  “I know I would be damned.” She wrapped her arms around her empty womb. “I know God created this body, that I have no right to despise or destroy it. But all my body has ever done is betray me—again and again and again.”

  The most beautiful woman he had ever met despised her own body. “Suicide is not the solution, Tessa. Even this despair is a mortal sin. It means you do not trust our Lord, that you have not resigned yourself to His will. God wishes to purify you. Suffering is an invitation to holiness.”

  He wasn’t sure Tessa was listening. “The Irish believe a ceallúnach is a dangerous place—that anyone who steps upon the grave of an unbaptized child will be surrounded by darkness and become lost.”

  “Surely there is a way to counteract the curse?” He was grasping now. “A second superstition to combat the first?”

  “You must turn your coat inside-outwards. What if you’re not wearing a coat?”

  She was wearing a fine brown cloak. Ridiculously, Joseph stepped toward her and undid the clasps. She stood like a statue; she did not protest or resist. He slipped the cloak from her shoulders, reversed it to expose the white silk lining, and draped it around her again. Anything to pull her out of this despair.

  She drew it closed and offered him a wan smile.

  At long last, he had more than superstition to offer her. “Tessa, are you familiar with the doctrine of Baptism by desire?”

  “How can a child who hasn’t even been born desire Baptism?”

  He could hear her sliding back into that abyss. “Three centuries ago, a Cardinal named Cajetan postulated that a child still in the womb might be baptized through the desire of its mother.”

  Her eyes snapped up to his. “Truly?”

  The Council of Trent had debated whether to condemn Cajetan’s theory. The Bishops were split in half. Finally they decided that the Council had more important matters to address. “Even if Cajetan was wrong, I’ve been rereading Ambrose Politi, who believed that those admitted to Heaven would be able to associate with the inhabitants of the New Earth.”

  “You mean…I could visit my children? I could hold them?” In an instant, Tessa was holding him: she flung her arms around Joseph and clutched him in a thoughtless, exuberant gesture. “Bless you, Father!” She nearly knocked off her cloak.

  It took all of Joseph’s strength (and ten years of seminary) not to return her embrace. That would have been selfish and sinful. He’d already given her what she needed. After Tessa let go—too soon and far too late—Joseph reminded her: “But you will be able to see your children only if you yourself reach Heaven. You understand?”

  Tessa nodded and secured her cloak, which was still inside-out.

  Chapter 30

  A canter is the cure for every evil.

  — Benjamin Disraeli, The Young Duke (1830)

  Joseph still dined with his family every week. He did so on his twenty-eighth birthday. While May cleared away the plates, Hélène asked eagerly: “Could you come out to the stable for a minute, Joseph?”

  He smiled. “Have you braided Rocinante’s mane again?” He was their father’s carriage horse, whose name was mostly in jest.

  “Yes—that’s it.” Yet she’d hesitated.

  “I have sick calls to make.”

  “On your birthday?”

  “Just like last year and the years before that.”

  “Surely your parishioners can spare you a little while longer.” Hélène looped her arm inside Joseph’s, not giving him much of a choice.

  Their father followed them to the back of the lot. There, a young negro sat rubbing some kind of oil into a saddle. But Joseph’s father never rode; he always drove.

  Hélène interrupted his thoughts: “Do you remember Nathan, Henry’s nephew?”

  Joseph did. “How old are you now?”

  “Fifteen, sir.” At a nod from Joseph’s father, the young man went toward the stall that had always been used for storage.

  “Papa bartered with Nathan’s master,” Hélène explained, “so he can come every day to visit his aunt, uncle, and grandmother and help tend the horses.”

  As she spoke, Nathan led a new horse from the stable: a stunning dapple grey with dark points, perhaps sixteen hands. His conformation looked flawless. Even across the short distance, the animal seemed to prance, his silky grey tail carried high.

  “Watch this.” Nathan stopped suddenly and backed up a few steps. He kept the lead rope slack, yet the grey not only halted on cue but also backed without being asked.

  Natha
n praised him. The horse lifted his head proudly and stretched his long legs behind him. He radiated ease and alertness at once. Hélène cooed at him and scratched his withers. The grey did not shy but leaned into her, closing his eyes in pleasure.

  “Are you boarding him?” Joseph asked. “Was that the barter?”

  His father grinned. “Yes, and no. What do you think of him?”

  Joseph frowned. “He’s quite handsome. What did you mean: ‘Yes and no’?”

  “The barter was my medical services for Nathan’s grooming services.”

  “Then…you’re replacing Rocinante?”

  At Joseph’s confusion, his sister was inexplicably giggling.

  “No,” his father prevaricated. “The Solomons made us a very good offer on your grandmother’s house.” The Solomons had been renting it for years now, since Cathy and Perry moved to Missouri and Joseph’s grandmother moved across the garden fence to his mother and father’s house. “We accepted. So I can finally do something I’ve been meaning to ever since you were stranded in the rain with that livery nag.”

  The day Tessa lost Bean.

  “What I meant was: I’m boarding him for you, son.” His father stroked the elegant, muscled neck of the grey horse. “Henry and Nathan will ensure that he’s properly shod and exercised and ready when you need him.”

  Joseph could only gape. A Priest shouldn’t own an animal fit for nobility—certainly a curate shouldn’t. He was supposed to live in holy poverty. Bishop England didn’t even have his own horse. Joseph could only imagine what such an animal had cost. “I cannot accept—”

  “He wasn’t quite as expensive as he looks,” his father interrupted.

  Hélène shielded her mouth with her hand, as if she were protecting the horse’s pride. “His bloodlines aren’t pure.” She grinned. “But his name is Prince.”

  Of course it was.

  “His former owner was eager to be rid of him—through no fault of his own. Prince just didn’t want to work for someone who abused him.”

  Then their father could sell the grey to someone kinder.

  “The moment I saw him, I knew he was the one,” Joseph’s sister declared. “Papa wanted to buy you this ugly red roan, but I convinced him otherwise.”

  “I find it difficult to deny your sister anything,” their father confided. “Especially since—” He broke off and looked away.

  Before Joseph could question him, Hélène continued: “You see, Joseph, you can’t refuse: you’d be insulting not only Papa, but me as well. Furthermore, you’d deny Nathan the chance to spend time with his family.”

  “Prince may look like royalty,” put in the young man, “but if you’re gentle with him, he’s willing as a dog.”

  His sister strode to their father’s horse, who hung his head over his stall door. “You must consider Rocinante too. He’s been awfully lonely—haven’t you, boy?” Hélène offered the older horse a lump of sugar from her pocket.

  “How can he be lonely, the way you spoil him?” Joseph pointed out.

  “I won’t always be—” She stopped suddenly just as their father had.

  There was some secret they were withholding; Joseph was certain now. Were Hélène and Liam planning to elope? Joseph would have to remind them that the Church did not condone such behavior.

  His sister hurried on. “Prince can keep Rocinante company, when their masters aren’t out on their missions of mercy.”

  “You make house calls just as much as I do, Joseph,” his father reasoned. “You need a good horse, one you can rely on.”

  Nathan added: “Prince has the smoothest action you’ve ever felt—like riding on a cloud.”

  Joseph moved no closer. His duties required him to leave the city perhaps once a week. Having his own mount was an extravagance. Certainly a mount like this was. He wondered if the ugly red roan was still available. “This horse isn’t at all appropriate for—”

  “Don’t judge him by his appearance,” Hélène interjected. “Yes, he’s gorgeous—but more importantly, he has a good heart.” While she spoke, Prince nosed about her pockets.

  “Apparently he has a sweet tooth as well,” Joseph observed.

  His sister produced a second sugar lump but managed to keep it out of the horse’s reach, placing it in Joseph’s palm instead. Prince reached toward him with questing lips. Joseph extended his hand, and Prince snatched the sugar.

  “No more objections, Joseph,” his father said with finality. “Prince is perfect for you. He’s young, strong, intelligent, and calm in a crisis. He’s even a gelding, so the two of you can commiserate.”

  “Papa!” Hélène slapped their father’s arm in reproof, but she giggled.

  Joseph only sighed.

  Father Baker seemed amenable. Then, he saw Prince. His curate needed a reliable mount; but for Joseph to ride such an animal smacked of vanity. They would wait to hear what Bishop England had to say. After he returned from his latest tour of the diocese and before he departed for the Provincial Council in Baltimore, His Lordship considered the grey horse. Finally Bishop England smiled and asked if he might borrow Prince on occasion. Joseph agreed, and the matter was settled.

  Joseph himself warmed quickly to the animal. That abusive owner had been a fool. Prince was certainly spirited, yet he remained docile and responded readily to affection. His action was fluid and steady; he was the most comfortable horse Joseph had ever ridden, just as Nathan had promised. Most of all, Prince offered Joseph a taste of freedom, the freedom other young men must enjoy. To counterbalance the work that filled nearly every waking hour, now and again Prince helped him snatch moments of rest, even pleasure.

  Every fortnight that summer, Joseph took Prince with him on the ferry to Sullivan’s Island. The island did not have a church, but it had a growing Catholic congregation: Irishmen repairing the breakwaters that protected Fort Moultrie. After Joseph said Mass in the open air or in someone’s parlor, he usually had an hour or two before the last ferry left.

  He and Prince ran till they were far from the fort, the cottages, and the other bathers, so that no one would be scandalized by the sight of a Priest in his under-clothes. Equally unencumbered, Prince rolled in the sand or snuffled amongst the beach grasses (only once attracting the ire of a crab) while Joseph swam or simply lazed.

  When visits to the mission at Summerville took them inland, Joseph often allowed himself to tour the Stratfords’ gardens. Edward’s father had noted Joseph’s admiration of their design and variety, and he’d said Joseph was welcome any time. He always learned something when he chatted with the plantation’s gardener, a slave who was a master at his craft.

  Sometimes, Tessa happened to be visiting her father-in-law’s island cottage or his plantation garden and her husband happened to be fishing or hunting. Then, Joseph lingered.

  Chapter 31

  The poor breast was no where discoloured, & not much larger than its healthy neighbour. Yet I felt the evil to be deep, so deep…

  — Fanny Burney, 1811 letter

  When Joseph came to dinner at his father’s house that autumn, he found Tessa and her brother there. Throughout the meal, Joseph’s family was strangely somber. Conversations stumbled and died. His father didn’t make his customary jests or try to rile Joseph in any way. His sister, who usually took a second serving, barely touched her food.

  Before they were quite finished, Joseph’s grandmother begged to be excused. His mother rose too. Joseph’s grandmother could no longer walk without assistance. Her daughter’s strength also wavered; May had to help them from the room.

  Joseph’s father stopped poking his apple tart and set down his fork. He looked at Joseph, Tessa, and Liam. “We told them this morning what we’re about to tell you.” Finally, his gaze rested on Hélène.

  She lowered her eyes to her bodice. “It was hardly the size of a pea,” she began in a weak voice. “At first I wondered: ‘Has that always been there?’ I have plenty of flesh in which it could hide—and I am not in th
e habit of fondling myself.” Joseph thought his sister was attempting a smile, though it looked like a grimace. “But it’s larger than it was before.”

  What in Heaven’s name was she talking about?

  “There is a tumor inside my right breast,” Hélène clarified.

  The clock ticked loudly on the mantle.

  All these months, while Joseph had been gallivanting about on his new horse, his little sister had been—

  “I knew something was wrong!” Liam threw his napkin on the table as if it were a dueling glove, as if he had been betrayed.

  Hélène was twenty-four years old. There must be a reason for this, a lesson—

  Only Tessa leaned closer to squeeze her friend’s hand. “Are you in pain, Ellie?”

  “Not—not yet.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

  “We didn’t want to distress you unnecessarily,” Joseph’s father answered. “I needed to monitor the growth, to find case histories and consult with my colleagues. This may be a cyst—it may be benign. That could still mean surgery…”

  Joseph shuddered and looked away, as if he felt the knife penetrating his own chest. Sometimes, surgery patients actually died of the pain—shock, it was called. And Joseph would never forget what had happened to his grandfather. An operation lasting barely a minute, an operation meant to extend his life, had instead hastened his death. A fatal fever might follow any surgery, no matter how simple or successful.

  “The truth is, we still don’t know what we’re facing,” his father admitted. “There are many different types of tumors. But we have decided not to risk a trocar. It would give us a sample of the growth and help us determine its nature; but if the tumor is cancerous, such a puncture would speed metastasis. We would have to operate—amputate—immediately.”

  Tessa drew in a sharp breath and covered her mouth with the hand that did not hold her friend’s.