Chapter 39 #3
“There we are,” his father declared. “That didn’t take her long at all.” He leaned back. “This may even help you with the final contraction.” Pitching his voice a little louder, he returned his attention to Joseph. “You’ll need to watch Clare—make sure she doesn’t become smothered or tangled.”
“Of course,” Joseph stammered. He didn’t think he could refuse, even though watching the baby also meant watching Tessa’s breast.
“I’ll be just outside.” His father closed the door behind him.
Joseph was alone with Tessa and her daughter.
All he wanted to do was admire them, this perfect tableau of Madonna and child.
He thought he understood a glimmer of what his patron saint had felt, two thousand years ago inside that Bethlehem cave, as he watched over the beloved child who would never be his and the beloved woman he could never have.
He had a duty to perform; that was all. A duty that had nothing whatsoever to do with breasts.
Joseph busied himself vesting. He drew his soutane over his clothes and began fastening the thirty-three buttons.
Even now, he should be reciting the prayers he’d intoned at a hundred death-beds; but to someone who understood only snatches, the Latin sounded so cold.
In their last moments together, he could not treat Tessa like a stranger.
Instead, Joseph asked: “You named her Clare?”
“Do you like it? I thought about naming her Sophie…”
The idea made him smile; but he supposed it was best not to repeat the past. Tessa’s daughter should be her own person.
Clare would honor not only a remarkable saint but also the Irish county of Tessa’s birth.
Yet the name was not obviously Irish, so it should meet with her husband’s approval.
Surely Edward would not deny Tessa this final wish.
“Clare is perfect.” Joseph fastened the lowest button on his soutane and looked over at the nursing child. “She’s perfect.”
“She’s worth everything.” Then Tessa’s beautiful face tightened in anguish. “Except what I am doing to David. I brought him here to shield him from death…”
“We’ll look after him.” Joseph slipped his surplice over his head.
“Promise me you will look after Clare, too? You will baptize her as soon as possible? And teach her the catechism and the names of all the plants in your Biblical garden—and you will sing for her? At least once?”
Joseph had to chuckle, so he did not weep. He kissed the cross at the center of his violet stole and draped it around his neck.
“I want Clare to know you; I want…”
Joseph came to the edge of the bed and tried to smile. “I will gladly be her ‘soul-friend.’” When he offered Tessa her crucifix, she stared up at him with such heart-breaking longing. Then Tessa closed her eyes and kissed Christ’s broken body.
Joseph was sinning in thought again. He gazed down at Tessa’s newborn daughter nursing so contentedly, and he thought: Why now, Lord?
Have You no mercy? Tessa’s only living child would never know her remarkable mother.
After her miscarriages, Tessa would have welcomed an escape from this vale of tears.
Now, she would leave behind two children who needed her desperately. David was already so angry at God.
Determinedly, Joseph returned Tessa’s crucifix to the altar.
He poured holy water into the aspersorium from Tessa’s cabinet, then took up the aspergillum and prayed: “Purge me with hyssop, Lord, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.” First he sprinkled Tessa with holy water, then he blessed each corner of the bed and each wall.
All the while, he continued the Psalm: “Let me hear joy and gladness; that the bones which Thou hast crushed may rejoice…”
Finally, Joseph brought a chair to the bedside.
He would have preferred to sit with his back to Tessa, so he might concentrate on her sins instead of committing new ones himself.
The delicate, undone buttons at the front of her chemise drew his gaze as if they were lodestones.
The buttons shimmered in the firelight; they must be mother-of-pearl.
But if he faced away from Tessa, he could not watch Clare.
Tessa closed her eyes. “I confess to almighty God and to you, Father, that I have sinned exceedingly, in thought, word, and deed.” Her right arm still cradled her daughter. Tessa tried to make a fist with her left hand, but the fingers trembled.
He could see she was weakening. Joseph rose, took her wrist, and helped Tessa fold her arm across her chest till her loose fist made contact just above her right breast, the one still concealed by her chemise. He struck her gently, once for each accusation.
She switched to Latin: “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa.” Joseph released her wrist, but she left it there against her breast. She was weeping now, her tears flowing into the pillow.
“I have dreaded this moment, Father, and longed for it… You are the only man to whom I can truly confess—yet in your presence, I cannot repent.”
Frowning, Joseph settled back on his chair.
Tessa dragged her left hand up to cover her eyes.
“I have been lying to you, Father, since the day we met—each and every time we have spoken, I have lied by omission. You know I entered my marriage with a guilty conscience. But I have concealed from you why I cannot love my husband. Long before I met Edward, my heart was full of someone else: his face, his voice, his tastes; the quickness of his mind and the depth of his compassion.”
Every muscle in Joseph’s body tightened like the strings of a piano. She couldn’t mean—
“I knew that even if I remained free, this man could never be mine,” Tessa sobbed behind her hand.
“His vocation means he belongs to everyone. I know ’tis depravity to want him only for myself, that feeling what I do for him is not only mortal sin—’tis sacrilege.
To touch him as I long to would be a desecration.
But even knowing my last chance for repentance is slipping away, I can feel no remorse. I have tried.”
The dam burst. Joseph let his own tears splash to the floor.
“All I want is to tell him what a solace he has been to me these seven years—how I have cherished every moment in his presence—how much I love him. He must despise me for it; but I can feel no other way.” Tessa’s hand slipped down the pillow, and her tormented eyes met his.
“Forgive me, Father! I know God never will; I know I am damned; but please, Father…” Tessa reached out to him across the bed.
“I need your forgiveness, before— I think I can bear anything, even Hell, if…”
Joseph shook his head vehemently. “No, Tessa…” He didn’t need to forgive her. The opposite was true, because the sin was his, far more than hers.
Before he could speak, Tessa clenched her eyes shut and drew in a sharp breath. She’d seen only that he was shaking his head. She’d heard only the word “No.” She thought he was refusing to forgive her.
Then Tessa clutched the pillow with her free hand and moaned. Joseph stood up in alarm. This pain was as much physical as spiritual: from between her legs, a bright crimson bloom was staining the sheets with terrifying rapidity. “Tessa?”
“Joseph?” his father called from the hall. “What’s happening in there? Is Tessa worse?”
“She’s bleeding!” Joseph shouted.
His father flung open the door, and he and Hannah rushed inside. He went to his patient, and Hannah gathered up Clare, who started wailing.
Joseph made the Sign of the Cross and muttered the prayer without once taking a breath: “I absolve thee from all censures and from thy sins, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit—Amen.” Tessa was screaming; he knew she didn’t hear him.
She’d also said she did not repent. If that were true, the Absolution wasn’t valid. But he had to try.
Joseph snatched up the Body of Christ and retreated into the hall with his portmanteau.
Hélène hurried past him into Tessa’s bedchamber, as did the maid he’d seen earlier, who pushed the door shut behind her.
Joseph heard his father barking commands, but his own heart was pounding in his ears, so he understood little.
In a daze, he descended the stairs. Liam and David were standing in the hall. They stared up at him, begging for a word of hope. Joseph opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
David frowned, then narrowed his eyes at Joseph as if it were his fault that Tessa was worse—as if being a Priest meant Joseph could call down miracles whenever he wished.
The boy paced to the front door and yanked it open.
Cold hit them like a tidal wave, but David plunged into it and disappeared outside.
“At least the storm is over,” Liam told Joseph as he grabbed his overcoat and David’s from the rack. “I’ll go after him. He’s my nephew too.”
With shaking hands, Joseph restored the pyx to its pouch and hung it back around his neck.
He took off his violet stole—the color of repentance.
For an eternity, he knelt before his portmanteau, staring down at his white stole—the color of purity and resurrection.
The color of those who died blameless. But if Tessa died now…
Joseph shut the portmanteau. When he peered into the parlor, he saw Edward slumped over the chess table, queens and pawns scattered everywhere. His face was hidden in his crooked arm, his other hand still clutching an empty glass.
So a few minutes later, when Joseph’s father descended the stairs again, only Joseph was present to hear the news. “She’s delivered the placenta—all of it. Her uterus has finally contracted. I believe the danger has passed.”
Joseph exhaled with relief. But he knew this only postponed the reckoning. The truth remained: he, who was supposed to lead Tessa to Heaven, was dragging her to Hell. Joseph strode to his overcoat and shoved his arms inside.
“You’re not leaving?” his father demanded like an accusation.
“I can do no more good here.” Joseph ignored his father’s protests and fled—into the merciless embrace of the icy, dimly lit streets. If he’d broken his neck, it would have been divine justice. He slipped several times but fell only once.
In the end, he made it relatively intact to his little room in the Bishop’s residence where there was no longer a Bishop—where there was no longer even a Priest worthy of the name. Shivering with cold and foreboding, Joseph sank to his knees on the floor.
Tessa was going to live. And she loved him.