"She was so much better,” he said. “I was so encouraged. But for that cough, she'd come back to herself—and now...” He waved his arm in a gesture of defeat. “It hasn't been easy for her here, and she's just now beginning to take to it. You were right, Colin, she is too frail for this climate, and I don't believe I could bear to go through what I did when Mary died again."
"Will you relax?” Colin exclaimed. “Drink that, damn you, and for Christ's sake don't raise the dead. Stop worrying ‘til you've got something to worry about. ‘Tisn't going to help, and you know she's in good hands."
The vicar nodded and took a swallow from his glass. “You're right I suppose,” he conceded. “It's just that I feel so damn, blood guilty."
"What in hell have you got to feel guilty about? You didn't give her that blasted chill."
The vicar popped a cryptic laugh. “Oh, but I did, God forgive me, Colin,” he confessed. “I did."
"What the devil are you talking about?"
George Howard's appearance in the doorway spared the vicar the ordeal of an explanation. At sight of him, Elliot vaulted out of his chair, and Colin spun around from the French doors, where he'd just drawn the draperies.
The doctor's face was unreadable.
"George . . .?” the vicar prompted.
"I'd like a word with you alone, Elliot,” he replied.
"It's all right, George, I shall tell Colin all of it—whatever it is—in any case."
"That is your prerogative, of course,” said Howard tersely, “but what I have to say I should like to say in private and that is my prerogative if you please."
"I'll be in the conservatory, Elliot,” said Colin, brushing past them. Then stepping into the corridor, he closed the door behind him.
Howard turned to the vicar. “Sit down, Elliot,” he said.
"What is it, George? What's wrong?"
"Will you sit,” the doctor barked, “and take another swallow of that, man? You're going to be a father!"
"A-a . . . father?” Elliot sank back into the chair
The doctor nodded, and Elliot dropped his head in his hands wagging it slowly. “Well, God alone knows how,” he murmured, half to himself. “Good God!"
"Hah,” the doctor blurted. “I dare say that's as curious a reaction as I've come upon yet—and I've seen a number in my time I hope to tell you."
"No, George,” said the vicar, “I've been . . . impotent until just recently. Even now . . . I can't, George . . . I just can't."
The doctor's smile dissolved and a frown took its place. “Well, for someone who can't, you've done a proper job of it I dare say,” he said. “She's three months along, and by Christmas you're going to have another mouth to feed."
"Is she pleased?” Elliot begged for reassurance.
The doctor laughed heartily. “Euphoric,” he pronounced.
"Thank God I've finally managed to make her happy in some way."
Howard frowned again. “Look here, do you think there's a physical problem behind this impotence of yours?” he probed.
The vicar shook his head and lowered it. “No,” he said, speaking haltingly, “I know it's not physical, George."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
The doctor sighed. “Do you want to talk about it, Elliot?"
"I don't know what it is, George, she's lovely and tender and willing; too much of me is buried in that graveyard down at the Cross. My thoughts are always with Mary and what might have been if I'd told her my mind, as Colin wanted me to. I loved her so much."
"Mary's dead,” the doctor mouthed flatly. “She's gone, Elliot, and that woman upstairs worships you."
"I know, that's the hellish part—I love her, too, believe it or not. Oh, it's not the same, but I do love her. I feel that I've cheated her, though. She deserves so much more than I have left in me to give."
"She knows about Mary, then?"
The vicar nodded. “She knew before we were married,” he said. “I'm responsible. I went to her. I was so lonely. Colin had gone off and I was beside myself with worry over what might become of him. I missed him so much—I even missed the bickering.” He smiled sadly. “I still miss my sparring matches with his father.
"Emily filled a void in my life. I needed her, George. I never meant to hurt her. Who the devil ever expected this? Oh, deep down I knew I was fooling myself. I knew and I prayed—how hard I prayed that I could pull it off. I've bungled it so badly. It was five months before our marriage was ever consummated—five months, George!"
The doctor took an audible breath. “I wish you'd spoken to me,” he said.
"I was too ashamed to speak to anyone—not even Emily. George, I offered her an annulment . . ."
"And you couldn't come to me? I thought we were friends, Elliot. I'm hurt. How could you struggle through all that on your own—how, when you know you can confide in me over anything?"
"You have enough of the task tending the sick. I didn't want to burden you with such as this is . . . whatever it is."
"You're sure it's not physical?"
"I'm positive."
"How can you be certain? Are you doctor here now?"
The vicar looked him in the eyes. “George, I am aroused just thinking about Mary,” he said, “and yet I lie in my bed with my wife, and her body is there, and her arms are around me, and I can't. I just . . . can't . . ."
"Christ,” the doctor snorted, “there's not one goddamn thing wrong with you save a guilty conscience. And you bloody well know it don't you?"
The vicar didn't answer.
"Elliot Marshall, you should know better,” Howard scolded. “Have you forgotten everything they taught you in the seminary? Well, I've never been to a seminary, and even I know that there's no guilt for the faithful. If God can forgive you, who the devil are you, then, that you cannot forgive yourself?"
"That's easy to say, George, until you have to put it to the test."
"Elliot, I've seen what guilt can do. It's an evil that twists the mind until the body is useless. It eats like a cancer into the heart and soul. For the love of God, face it here and now before me. You know whatever you tell me will go no further. Get it out in the open and put it behind you. If you don't it's going to drive you just as mad as Mary was."
The vicar hesitated and swallowed dry. “All right,” he began, “I've always blamed myself for Mary's death . . . her madness . . . the rape . . . all of it, you know that . . ."
"There's more,” Howard prompted.
"I am riddled with guilt that her ghost can bring me to a full arousal while my living wife cannot."
"Go on,” said the doctor, who had lost his color.
"The night Emily took the chill, I was in the graveyard. She came down to fetch me. It wasn't particularly cold, but I'm used to this climate now, George, and she is so frail. I should have taken her back inside at once, but I didn't. It was there that I offered her the annulment. I was beside myself—I didn't know what else to do under the circumstances.
"She ran from me and I caught up with her, but not before she'd taken a proper drenching in all that mist. George, she thought she repulsed me—thought it was her fault that I hadn't been able to make love to her. She was so hurt I had offered her an annulment that she said she wanted to die. I couldn't bear the look in her eyes, and somehow I took her then and there on the heath in all that blasted damp. I was afraid to wait until I'd gotten her back to the vicarage for fear it would only end in another failure."
He had dropped his head in his hands, and the doctor came closer and laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “Elliot, I've got to tell you something,” he said, his gruff voice grown soft. “It isn't the best of news, but it's got to be told nonetheless."
The vicar stared up at him.
"Emily has lung fever,” said Howard.
"Consumption?"
The doctor nodded. “I suspected it when she took sick, but there was no way to be certain, what with the chill on top of it.” He looked toward El
liot's despair and shook his shoulder. “Listen to me,” he urged, “you did not give it to her out on that damnable heath. She's had it a good long while I expect. I don't know what sort of doctors her father's had her to, but they couldn't know a whit about medicine. There's a damn good size spot on that lung I'll wager. It isn't anything she's gotten since she's come here, I can promise you that. It's too far advanced, and while that little tryst on the moor hasn't helped much, I will not have you blaming yourself for the whole of it."
"Colin was right,” said the vicar, “I told him so before here. He tried to warn me—he knew it all along. Is there nothing to be done, then?"
The doctor hesitated. “Elliot, we don't even have a proper name for the condition. It wastes the body away and collapses the lungs. It isn't pretty, but people have recovered from it; that's a fact."
"And Emily?"
"I truly don't know."
Gooseflesh pricked at the vicar's scalp and his eyes flashed. “The baby,” he breathed, “can she? Oh, George!"
"Now hold on, Elliot, that's no Mary we've got up there. Her childbearing organs are fit enough to provide you with a tribe. I'm not in the slightest disturbed over that."
"What, then?"
"She isn't strong physically in general. She's thin, she's weak, and from what you've just told me she's discontented, though you'd never know it by the look of her up there now. I can prescribe a diet to put some weight on her, I can try to build her blood, and I can treat the symptoms of the sickness even if we don't know the cause, but you've got to pull yourself together and be a husband to that wife. She's going to need peace of mind—and quickly, if anything that I can do is going to help her. Even at that there are no guarantees."
"Am I going to lose her, George?"
"Elliot, if you want an answer to that, you'll have to talk to God. Even if I'd known all this before you married her, I couldn't have honestly told you."
* * * *
They spoke longer, but Colin had heard enough. His face was wet with tears he hadn't even felt slip down. He staggered away from the dark recesses of the study doorway outside where he had been listening, and stumbled along the entrance hall and out into the thick gray fog. He wouldn't be in the conservatory as he'd promised. He couldn't face the vicar then—not until some of the grief had passed and the mask had come again to hide what remained behind.
Despite what he'd heard he was glad he'd eavesdropped. Indeed, he wouldn't have heard all of that conversation from the vicar's lips. He, too, was hurt that Elliot hadn't confided in him, but he would respect it, and he stole quickly away, for he would rather have died then, than have his friend learn he'd discovered his shame.
* * * *
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Chapter Eighteen
* * * *
In the months that followed, George Howard became a constant visitor at the vicarage, coming whenever he had a moment to spare. Ecstatic over the expected birth, Emily's spirits were high, but the cough worsened with each day's passing. Her medication was changed several times without results. She grew steadily weaker, and by mid-October she had to take to her bed altogether, not having strength enough in her wasted body to carry the weight of the baby inside her.
Emily knew she was dying, and toward the end of her term she prayed with all her heart that God lend her enough strength to give Elliot his child. She swallowed the porter and kept to her bed, minding all of the doctor's orders religiously. If she must leave Elliot, something of herself would remain behind—a little son or daughter to lessen his grief, for she was convinced that the living could do that for the dead. She was also convinced he would take more comfort from their child than he ever had from her, and she would give him that comfort if it took the last breath in her hopelessly diseased lungs to do it.
One morning late in November, George Howard sought the vicar in his study after he'd been to see Emily. Drained pale but for the shadows beneath his eyes that had become part of his complexion, Elliot sat behind his desk pouring over his notes for the Sunday sermon. He looked up as the doctor entered, and reading the strain in Howard's demeanor he rose from his chair, anticipating calamity.
The doctor waved his hand and sank down on the sofa. “Sit, Elliot,” he murmured.
"Something's wrong,” Elliot said, sinking back into his chair. “What is it, George?"
"I'm sorry,” said Howard, “she hasn't got long. She's begun coughing up blood. I've done everything in my power. We caught it too late. It was too far progressed. Even if we'd known at the outset I couldn't have prevented this."
The vicar's posture collapsed and he lowered his eyes. “Does she know?"
"She told me,” Howard said with a grunt, “and she doesn't want you to know, Elliot. She's determined to give you this child."
"Kyrie eleison, but for the child—"
"No,” the doctor interrupted him, “it would have happened in any case. The child has just brought the inevitable along a little sooner."
"Ahhhh, George,” the vicar groaned, “I've been expecting this, but that doesn't make it any easier to bear. What am I going to do? I'm going to lose them both, aren't I?"
"I don't know,” said Howard. “She's got another month. If we're lucky."
"It's going to kill her, isn't it, bearing this child? I've killed her, that's what I've done. I've taken a gentle little sparrow and crushed it in my bare hands. I've murdered her!"
"Now you listen here to me,” said the doctor, “you haven't murdered anybody but yourself, if you're not careful. What have I been telling you all these months? Have I wasted my breath?"
"I can't live with this and God won't hear me. He hasn't in some time. Mary cursed me you know, George. She did. It's as though she's manipulated all that's happened since from beyond the grave."
"Elliot, that's codswallop. You're a man of God, you can't believe in curses. Mary is dead. She can't manipulate anything. The dead have no power over the living. Why, if that were possible . . ."
"Can you give me proof positive of that, George? Can anyone? Life and death are mysteries, my friend. Those of us who probe such things haven't even scratched the surface of that enigma, nor could we comprehend it even if we did stumble upon the key. It's true that Mary is dead, but she didn't die in a state of grace, George. She was never baptized. Did you know that? I didn't until it was too late. Where do you suppose that soul has gone? She didn't believe in God. That foolish, foolish girl was dabbling in devil worship. Malcolm is the result, and just look at his accomplishments."
"Mary was mad. Her psychosis was in progress long before the rape. Normal folk don't go ‘round casting spells and curses. God cares for the poor mad creatures among us, just as he cares for the little children who die. They are innocents, Elliot."
"Madness, George, in Jesus’ time, was another term for demonic possession. Look to your Scriptures for all the accounts of exorcism. Jesus cast out the demons in the mad. They fled and entered other hosts, and the possessed were restored. We didn't do that for Mary . . ."—he thumped his chest—"I didn't do it. She died with her demons, George. They were never cast out. When she passed they had possession of that soul, and I don't want to say where I believe they went when her poor broken body was of no more use to them."
The doctor's posture clenched. “That misfortunate child of hers has never had a chance here, Elliot. You've all condemned him. Before he drew his first breath of life, Chapin was set to abort him, and if Amy Croft had had her way he'd never have drawn his second. What sort of welcome into this world was that might I ask? I feel sorry for the little blighter—now you're trying to pass him off as demon-possessed. Hah, it's no wonder he's bent."
"Bent?” cried the vicar. “If it were only that simple. George, that child is evil. I'd stake my life upon it."
"We'll never agree upon Malcolm, Elliot. On that one topic our horns are locked, so it's best we avoid the subject. I'll not have it spoil our friendship."
"Nothing's going to do that,
George. It's just . . . I feel so damned useless in all this. You've been cheated. The parish deserves more of a priest than I am, God forgive me. When is the debt to be paid I wonder? How much more before the reparation is enough? Is there to be no end to my penance? Is there no purpose to my life at all?"
Howard bristled. “Has your obsession with the Chapins made you blind to all of the rest of us? Have you no idea how many people you've comforted? Look at the size of your congregation and ask me the last of that again, Elliot. You are loved and respected by every resident on this blasted coast. They share your sorrow, for they love her, too, and I promise you that they are praying for her right along with you."
"But I cannot help myself or those whom I love. I failed Mary—I cannot reach Colin—their father, and now I've brought my wife down, too, and I never wanted anything but their happiness, as God is my judge."
The doctor got to his feet with a grunt. “Lost causes—all of them,” he declared.
"Mary said once that I would fight my whole life long for a lost cause—that was part of the curse. I wonder which one she meant?"
"Well, you're no lost cause, my friend,” said the doctor. “Whether you know it or not, you've become the backbone of this community in the few short years we've had you, and if you don't believe me, ask the next person you meet.” He moved toward the door and turned when he reached it. “I have to go, Elliot,” he said. “I'll be ‘round daily now, ‘til it's come."
"I suppose you can't speculate as to how long that will be?"
Howard shook his head. “No,” he said, “but if I were you I'd give her the last rites soon. She could hang on for months, or go tonight in her sleep. There's no way to tell. Elliot, I'm so dreadfully sorry."
"Thank you, George. I'll administer Unction at once, and I'll stay close to her. She's been alone since I married her, God forgive me. I won't let her die alone as well."
* * * *
On the twenty-second of December, Emily gave birth to a six-pound son. He came in the midst of a bitter storm that glazed the heath with a hoary frost, and spread the dark sky thick with clouds and icy rain. They called him Giles Edward after Emily's father. He was strong, though tiny, with hair the color of summer wheat, and eyes a curious shade of blue that would soon turn to amber. The name seemed ostentatious for such a mewing little thing to bear, and the vicar shortened it to simply Ted for all practical purposes.
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