Chapter 28 #2
He began to talk about injury, from the moment of birth to the very last breath, and with her blessing, used Rosalind’s own sojourn through pain as an example.
He described in detail the physicality of her pain, what the corner of that plinth did to her leg and how it looked right after the event, and then worsened over days before it could begin to get better.
He pointed out Miss Casper in the congregation as he acknowledged her lesson on the body’s way of creating a warm compress to aid in the comfort and protection of the area that had been harmed while it healed, and how early healers used God’s instruction to enhance His gifts, even if they were only as simple as a cloth in water, heated or cooled, pressed to an injury that required exactly that treatment.
“Even her limp was a divine gift to protect her while she healed,” he said, gesturing to his beloved. “Pain is a gift. It is a reminder not to ask from ourselves more than we are able to give. And how could such a perfect creation come about of its own accord?”
He referenced several moments of harm and healing in the scripture, though no one story took precedence over the others. Rather, he framed holy figures as figures of care, and specified that not every ache is physical and not every scar is visible, yet all of us do heal from them in time.
In the end, he gestured at the statue in the corner, which once had been broken but had also been restored, even without the blessing of living flesh with which to recover.
It had been brought back to its original glory because of the talent and hands of a person with the will and the aptitude to perform such a miracle, because that is what healing is: a miracle.
One we must all acknowledge, no matter how large or small.
“My wife was harmed by scandal,” he said at the end. “And so was I. But because of that harm, we found each other, and in each other, we found the needed balm to heal. Healing is our prerogative. May we all remember that in the days to come.”
By the time he passed the attention of the crowd over to the choir, his knees felt liquid and he needed very much to sit, but he stayed upright through the remainder of the service. He stayed at his post, knowing that it very well could be the last time he had the privilege.
The collection plate had to be emptied and redistributed half a dozen times when it was passed around, with how quickly it filled.
This, Matthew noted, certainly caught the bishop’s attention.
And at the end, when the final bell was rung and everyone stood to make their departures and enjoy their Sunday afternoon, Matthew descended the altar, ready to hear the verdict on his future.
The bishop, however, was squinting over at the statue again and then back over his shoulder, where Roland Reed was talking to Vix.
Back and forth he looked a handful of times, before finally giving a grumble and shaking his head so hard, his combed-over white hair flipped from one side of his head to the other.
“I am getting old,” he said to no one in particular, though it was Matthew who arrived to hear it, followed closely behind by Lord Keaton.
“My lord,” Matthew said respectfully, blinking at him.
The bishop sighed and turned his attention to Matthew, peering up at him against the bright light coming in from the stained glass windows overhead. “I am disappointed,” he said.
Matthew frowned but did not protest.
Shockingly, Lord Keaton frowned too.
“I was told you were some kind of libertine revolutionary and that your sermons would have me either sobbing with laughter or keeling over in shock,” the bishop continued with a grumble. “I didn’t hear even one thing worth lifting an eyebrow over.”
“Oh,” said Matthew, too startled to know whether to laugh or apologize.
“Go on then, lad,” said the bishop, squinting and padding closer. “Say something outlandish. Your father always told me you had the most cheeky observations about the divine.”
“I …” Matthew said, opening his mouth and then closing it, looking to Lord Keaton for help, who only shrugged.
“Bah,” said the bishop, frowning. “I came all the way here. You owe me something to tickle my old bones.”
“I didn’t realize—” Matthew began.
“You know they tell that story about your Jezebel dissertation every year at the seminary review,” the bishop continued, giving a paper-dry chuckle. “That’s what I thought I was in for, not this business about blisters and bruises. Very tame, my boy. Very dry.”
“My lord,” Matthew said, some of his blood beginning to move again. “Am I losing my parish?”
“Well, no,” said the bishop. “You weren’t going to. Especially not after all that money in the plate. But I might take it from you out of spite if you don’t give me at least one good story to bring back to the rectory.”
“I’m afraid I’m a bit on the spot,” Matthew stammered, his mind gone completely blank in the face of this demand.
“He thinks Samson was a half-wit,” Keaton blurted out, bringing both men around to stare at him as he reddened. “I heard him say it to the curate once.”
The bishop gave a dry little cough and turned back to Matthew with his brows raised. “Well? Is that true?”
“Well, he wasn’t a great thinker,” Matthew protested, his own face beginning to heat. “I think the story is pretty clear on that.”
“You said he might have been a hero, but he couldn’t be trusted to help a toddler cross a busy intersection,” Keaton provided, purple-faced and ever so helpfully. “And you said that bit about the bowstrings.”
Matthew just gaped helplessly as this was recounted.
The bishop gave a cackle and turned back to him. “That’s it, then,” he said. “Tell me about the bowstrings and I’ll let you keep your collar.”
Matthew forced himself to swallow, reaching up to dig a hand into his carefully styled hair. “I don’t want to.”
“God demands it,” the bishop said, as sternly as he could at his brittle age.
He sighed, glancing heavenward, and took a deep breath.
“I remember saying something along the lines of,” he began, wishing he could crawl under a pew, “that when he told Delilah the bit about his weakness being being bound with seven bowstrings and he was mugged the very next night, very coincidentally, by a group of thugs wielding exactly seven bowstrings, that the funniest part of the story isn’t that he didn’t put it together that she’d betrayed him. ”
“Is it not?” the bishop asked, raising his bushy brows. “What is, then?”
“It is the man we never see,” Matthew answered miserably, “standing off to the side in the alley, watching the failed binding and his men getting pommeled one by one, while he’s stuck with seven stringless bows that he paid full price for.”
There was a pause.
And then the bishop began to hack in laughter, bending forward to grip his little pot belly over the fine purple fabric of his vestments as he wheezed in amusement, oblivious to Keaton and Matthew staring at each other in horrified amazement.
“Very good!” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he hiccuped away. “Excellent. I shall tell that one after evensong as soon as I get back. Ha! Can you imagine? ‘Really, gents? I paid for all these blasted bows!’”
Matthew continued to stare.
“Ah, excellent,” the bishop sighed, shaking his head. “Now, where’s that terrifying buxom woman with the auction idea? We’ve business to discuss.”
He stood, frozen, as Keaton helped the bishop hobble away in search of Vix, and remained there for as long as it took until Rosalind appeared at his side, shaking him out of his reverie.
“Well?” she breathed, concern all over her beautiful, wide-eyed face. “What did he say?”
Matthew blinked and turned down to look at Rosalind, breathing in her presence like it was the only thing keeping him alive. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you,” he said. “But we are keeping the parish. All is well.”
“Oh,” she said, breaking into a smile and hopping up on her toes to clutch at his cassock. “Oh, Matthew, that’s wonderful news!”
He chuckled, his tension easing at last, and leaned down to drop a kiss on her forehead. “It is, isn’t it? We can finally rest easy.”
“Shall we go tell the others?” she asked, gesturing to the throng of people milling about just beyond the church doors. “Share the good news?”
“Yes, in a moment,” he told her, pulling her close. “Would you believe that Keaton actually pulled me out of the lurch there, in the moment of truth?”
“Did he?” she said, blinking in surprise. “Well, perhaps your sermon spoke true. We, all of us, have the capacity to heal.”
He grinned at her and took her hand. “You really are the kindest creature I’ve ever known. Let’s go tell the world our good news. Lead the way, Miss Manners.”