Chapter 13 #2
Bishop England kept grinning, his grey eyes shining like silver. “Joseph, how would you feel about attending seminary in Rome?”
“Rome?” Joseph gasped. To kneel at the tomb of Saint Peter! To receive a blessing from the Holy Father himself! “I thought I would stay here.”
“The truth is, son, my little seminary cannot give you the education you deserve. As I said, I’ve been anticipating this, and I’ve made enquiries already. You are familiar with the Sacra Congregatio de Propaganda Fide?”
“The Sacred Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith.” Joseph nodded. “The Cardinals responsible for missionary work.”
“A young man of your intelligence, the first candidate from a new diocese—I’m certain the College of the Propaganda will accept you and pay your expenses.
” Bishop England studied Joseph. “It will mean leaving your family. That is the first sacrifice a Priest must make. If we hurry with your application, you could start in November. Do you think you are ready?”
Joseph swallowed. He didn’t want to leave Mama. He would miss Grandmama and Hélène—and Cathy, too. But going to Rome also meant he would not have to live under the same roof as his father. At last Joseph nodded. “The sooner I begin…”
“…the sooner you will be a Priest.” Bishop England squeezed his shoulder as if to confirm he was real. “Will you promise me something, Joseph?”
“Anything, my lord.”
“Promise me you won’t remain in Rome? I know it will be tempting, but we need you here—desperately. Even ten years from now, I don’t think that will change.”
Joseph nodded. “I will complete my studies as quickly as I can.”
His Lordship smiled again, then averted his grey eyes. “I suppose Saint-Sulpice would feel more like home. You could apply there as well.”
The Parisian seminary was famous. But Joseph remembered Bishop England’s struggles with Archbishop Maréchal. Joseph asked cautiously: “You’re not very fond of Frenchmen, are you, my lord?”
Bishop England sat back and raised his hands to protest his innocence.
“I have no objection to them whatsoever—apart from their insufferable arrogance and their refusal to learn English!” His Lordship laughed his warm Irish laugh.
“You, dear boy, are guilty of neither fault. You know you have my recommendation. We will also need a letter from a physician—someone besides your father.”
“A physician?”
“’Tis nothing to worry over, son—simply a confirmation of your good health.” Bishop England stood. “I will ask Dr. Moretti. Perhaps he can even teach you a little Italian! Now, have you discussed your vocation with your family?”
“I will.” Joseph knew most of them would be pleased. He suspected his father would be furious.
After Joseph crossed Queen Street, he paused at the sight of the two steeples ahead: the Unitarian Church and St. John’s Lutheran.
He thought of the congregations who assembled there every Sunday and the graves in those churchyards: so many lost souls…
Once he was a Priest, Joseph could baptize them and grant them Absolution; he could save all those people—the living ones, at least. All he had to do was convince his father.
Resolutely, Joseph continued down Archdale Street toward home.
He found a tall, grey-haired man standing outside their gate.
The man turned at his approach, and Joseph slowed.
It was Philippe Noisette, holding a cutting in a pot.
“Ah, Joseph! What fortunate timing. I am in need of an ambassador.” Noisette lowered his voice.
“I know your mother saw me, but she is pretending she didn’t. ”
Joseph was tall enough now to peer through the slats at the top of their gate, and he followed the Frenchman’s gaze into their yard.
Mama strolled the garden beds alongside the piazza, selecting blooms to take inside.
Careful to keep her back to the gate, she glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder and scowled at Noisette.
Deafness had few advantages, but the freedom to ignore someone you didn’t like was one of them.
“The sign says your father is out, but I promised him this cutting.” Noisette extended the flower-pot, so Joseph had to look back at him. “Would you take it? It’s rooted, but best to leave it in the pot another week.”
Reluctantly Joseph accepted the cutting.
For a minute, he only stood there on the sidewalk and stared at the small severed branch.
Joseph wanted nothing to do with this man or his plants.
Noisette lived in sin with one of his slaves; he could legally sell his own children—and yet…
that also meant he understood the Curse of Ham in a way Bishop England never could.
Perhaps African blood did not matter to God, but it mattered to everyone else. “You know about my father, don’t you?”
Noisette’s caution gave Joseph his answer. The Frenchman glanced again toward Mama. She glared back and hurried into the house, slamming the door behind her. Finally Noisette replied: “I know he is a skilled physician, a loyal friend, a devoted husband, and a doting father.”
Joseph clenched his teeth. “I mean about…” He was not going to say it aloud.
They were completely exposed, but he wasn’t about to invite Noisette in.
Joseph glanced behind him. Two men approached on the other side of Archdale Street, deep in their own conversation.
Strangers, Joseph told himself, who would not draw conclusions from a few guarded French words.
Noisette leaned closer and dropped his voice to an urgent whisper.
“What I know beyond a shadow of a doubt is this, Joseph: the prevailing theories that mulattos inherit the worst of each race, that they’re weak, even sterile—it’s absolute rubbish.
” He pointed to the cutting in Joseph’s hands.
“Noisette roses have been so successful because they possess the qualities of both Rosa moschata and Rosa chinensis. They don’t lose anything.
Botany thrives on hybrids: taking two good things and combining them to make something great. ”
People weren’t plants.
“Other men of science—and men of color—will argue that mulattos are superior to negroes because of their white blood. That is equally ridiculous. I know my children’s virtues didn’t come from me alone.
Your father’s intelligence, his humor, his compassion, his courage—do you really think all of that derives from his French blood?
Do you really believe that you have inherited nothing good from him and his mother? ”
Perhaps Joseph’s father was intelligent, but so was Satan. His father’s humor was usually ribald. As for his compassion… Where was the compassion—or the courage—in raping a deaf woman? Noisette saw only what he wanted to see.