Chapter 27
Original sin [is] the sin we inherit from our first parents; and in which we were conceived and born children of wrath…
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.
“My name is Elijah. 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’s already gone to her,” Elijah 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.” Elijah 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 reasonably 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.