Chapter 51
Thou art…a locked garden, a fountain sealed up.
Thy plants are a paradise of pomegranates…
Joseph left the theological library and the Biblical garden behind him.
He tried to progress nonchalantly toward Church Street, as if he were out for an evening stroll.
But the nearer he came to Tessa, the faster each step followed the last. By the time he reached Meeting Street, he was racing.
Anyone who recognized him would think he was rushing to a deathbed. The truth was quite the opposite.
Yet he felt as if he were a skiff careening around breakers, as if this mad dash could end in no way but splinters. Then, on the corner of Longitude Lane, he found his bearings at last. The blue lamp was shining for him, like a lighthouse in the midst of a storm.
Before turning into the alley, he gripped the Stratfords’ wrought iron fence to steady himself.
He remained light-headed from his fast, and sweat was collecting around his waist. He doffed his wool hat, unbuttoned his wool coat, and panted.
Only April, and already so warm. This was Charleston, after all.
In the next moment, he noticed the ghoulish shadows the fence cast on the sidewalk and across his own body.
He saw the chevaux-de-frise that guarded Tessa’s house as if for the first time: the spikes meant to protect the inhabitants’ lives, their valuables, and the virtue of their women. To impale lustful negroes.
Joseph’s throat tightened with guilt for sins not yet committed—and so many which already had been.
Beyond Edward, beyond even God, there remained this: Joseph’s deception of the woman he claimed to love.
This was the barrier he’d not yet overcome: the amalgamation of his blood.
He’d pushed it aside and refused to think about it at all, because he was terrified it would outweigh everything else.
“For what communion hath light with darkness?” Before he put his colored hands on Tessa’s alabaster flesh, he must tell her the truth about his family.
But when he did, these midnight meetings might cease before they began.
Tessa might never again love him as anything but a brother.
Suddenly, he was literally cast into darkness: the blue lamp disappeared from the window.
Joseph’s heart nearly stopped. Tessa couldn’t know what he was thinking.
And Edward couldn’t have returned home; the carriageway entered the lot a few feet from where Joseph stood.
Perhaps Tessa had grown tired of waiting.
Joseph had asked for a sign. This was it. He’d missed his chance.
Then the twin lights of the blue lamp appeared on the piazza and floated into the garden, toward the far gate. Tessa had seen him. She was coming out to meet him—but not here, where anyone could see. She was flying to their secret door.
Joseph released his breath. He replaced his hat and fled from the shadows of the chevaux-de-frise.
He followed the scent of the Noisettes to their wall.
The flagstones of Longitude Lane stretched out before him like twin paths, illuminated just enough by the full moon and the street lamps at each end. Deserted, but for him and the roses.
First the white Lamarques greeted him, crisp and luminous in the pale light. Then the sweeter, muskier scent of the Jaune Desprez, luscious as pineapple with heads the color of flesh—unless you were a negro. And finally, from inside Tessa’s garden, the fragrance of gardenias.
She was waiting for him on the other side of her gate, holding their blue lamp. For a moment, she only grinned at him through the claire-voie. “You saw,” she whispered. “You understood. You came.”
He did not even need the key; she’d already unlocked her gate for him.
One last time, he glanced right and left to ensure they were alone.
As Tessa opened the door, Joseph stared down at the line where stone became grass.
He thought of Saint Denis; and then he stepped over the threshold into Tessa’s garden.
As soon as he was inside, she clasped his hand. Joseph looked for the myrtle hedge—as if it might have vanished since February, exposing them to the slave quarters. But the myrtle kept their secrets.
“You needn’t worry about the slaves seeing the light,” Tessa told him in a low voice.
“They know I come out to my garden at night sometimes: to inhale the moonflowers or to pray.” She looked not to her statue of the Blessed Virgin but to her Arbor Vitae, the tallest tree in her garden. “This is my cathedral, too.”
She was descended from Druids who worshipped trees.
Tessa had changed her attire since the Vigil Mass; she was in glorious dishabille.
If he’d been able to see as much through the claire-voie, Joseph might have thought twice about joining her.
Tessa wore a wrapper of vivid blue edged in gold, the same colors as their lamp.
A wide print bordered each hem, featuring scarlet flowers that resembled nothing so much as pomegranate blossoms.
Joseph sided with the scholars who believed the Tree of Knowledge was a pomegranate, the forbidden fruit of Paradise. But other scholars argued that the Tree of Life was a pomegranate.
Tessa had buttoned the pomegranate wrapper only to the gold sash at her waist; below, the openwork embroidery of her white petticoat peeked through.
At least the shape of the bodice proved she’d not yet shed her corset.
She still wore pearl earrings too. Neither had she let down her hair, her plait done up simply in the way that resembled a Renaissance halo.
The grass muffled their footsteps as he allowed Tessa to lead him within sight of the white piazza. Then, sweat rolled down his spine again, and he stopped. She turned, frowning at him in the light of the blue lamp.
Joseph looked back in the direction of the slave quarters.
He couldn’t meet her eyes. He recalled Jefferson’s treatise on the differences between negroes and whites.
Negroes “secrete more by the glands of the skin,” that great man of science claimed, “which gives them a very strong and disagreeable odour.”
Joseph swallowed. “Tessa…there is something you do not know about me.”
She seemed to hesitate. “Yes?”
“When my father was born, he was a slave. His mother was a slave. I have African blood, Tessa.”
Of all the reactions he’d imagined, Joseph had not anticipated this. When he managed to look back at her, Tessa’s eyes were crinkled up, and she was grinning. “You finally told me.”
For a moment, Joseph only blinked at her. At last he realized: “Hélène told you.”
“Years ago.”
Joseph almost laughed. Of course Hélène had ignored his advice. “Y-You never said anything.”
“Neither did you. I knew you’d tell me when you were ready.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Do you think less of me because my parents are poor?”
“It’s hardly the same.”
“Isn’t it?” She caressed his palm with her thumb, as she’d done at the opera. Then she tugged on his hand again.
Caught in her tide, he washed up the steps of the piazza and into the entry hall. The only sound was the tall case clock, ticking loudly in the darkness. The spiral staircase loomed above them, the familiar become suddenly foreign.
“David?” Joseph whispered to Tessa.
“He blew out his lamp an hour ago. Clare is also asleep. I just gave her to Hannah. She’ll stay with her in the nursery.” Tessa led him to the first step.
Joseph hesitated. He hadn’t expected her to be out of her dress already. “Surely it would be wiser to remain in the parlor…”
“Only if you wish to arouse the suspicions of my neighbors. They are accustomed to me sitting up at night reading or with Clare—but I do it in my bedchamber.”
Joseph gulped and followed her up the stairs.
He half expected one of the steps to shriek in accusation beneath his feet; but they were as silent as tombstones.
Still he glanced above them in worry, as if he might find David’s young face peering down at them.
When he and Tessa reached the second floor, Joseph saw the glow beneath the door of the nursery, nothing more. Her husband’s room was dark.
Tessa led him into her bedchamber, closing the door quietly behind them.
Still it clicked with finality. In spite of himself, Joseph’s attention went immediately to the bed.
Two pillows lay atop the smooth counterpane, the green brocade bed-curtains drawn open.
Across the room, Tessa’s méridienne was emerald too.
In vestments, green was the color of ordinary time. This was anything but ordinary.
Tessa closed the inner jalousie shutters of the left-most window.
Then she plucked off his hat and set it down next to their lamp, on the table he’d used so many times as an altar.
Fortunately the sick call cabinet was shut tight.
While he was thinking about the crucifix tucked inside, Joseph realized Tessa had undone the sash of her wrapper and was beginning to undo the buttons.
“Don’t—” He choked on the word.
She peered up at him through her lashes. “I refuse to wear this corset a minute longer.”
Did she think he was made of stone? While Tessa unbuttoned her wrapper, Joseph stared determinedly at their lamp.
He’d not yet had a chance to examine the fine French craftsmanship.
Above the two burners, the oil reservoir took the shape of a fountain.
Two exotic, golden birds perched on its edge.
They had crests and luxuriant tails; he thought perhaps they were phoenixes.
Tessa’s voice broke into his thoughts: “I cannot do this by myself. I can either ask Hannah—and probably wake Clare—or…”