Chapter Thirty-Nine
It should have been me who died, not Damien.
He would have known how to keep our Mary safe.
He would have been a strong, smart parent.
Not me. From the start I was too weak to even feed her, then the man in black, then the fire…
Mary near burned to death with me. ’Tis only by the grace of God that she’s still alive.
Oh, I have put my baby’s life at risk too many times.
I am a poor mother. I’m broken and fearful, and I cannot promise her the most basic of things, like food, a roof, or peace of mind.
And that is how it forever will be, looking over my shoulder, waiting for the divil’s bony hands on my neck.
The good Lord saw fit to give us another day after I dashed through the flames with Mary’s blanket over us, but I know the truth now.
I cannot do this. I am breaking apart, torn between my boundless love for this little girl and knowing I cannot offer her anything but a life of running and hiding.
Can I do better? Christ help me. I don’t know how.
The firemen arrive seconds after Mary and I escape the shack. Had I paused to utter one more prayer, one more doubt, we’d be ashes now.
Dazed, I walk back into town, clutching Mary to my heart.
Her blanket, her hair, her skin, it all smells like smoke, as do I.
I pass the hotel, the market, then reach the church.
Father Charles will know what to do. Up the stone steps I climb, then inside the church where the air is cool and calm, rich with the scents of candle wax, faded incense, and stone.
I make for the front pew, where I sit and hold Mary tight, as if she might slip from this world if I let go.
A priest approaches, and he tells me Father Charles is gone for the night. He wants to help, but no. It cannot be him. I only want Father Charles. I remember the day he baptized her, and that little smile when her tiny fingers wrapped around his. Only Father Charles will understand what I need.
Mary is asleep in my arms, warm against my chest. God help me, when I look at her, the love I feel is overwhelming.
As I have a thousand times, I lose myself in the perfection of her soft lips, the pale eyelashes on her cheeks.
Lashes just like her father’s. She stirs, and her little fist brushes my breast, so soft, so trusting.
“You’re all I have,” I whisper.
But I cannot promise to fill her belly as she grows. I cannot promise to keep her safe from villains like Carboni. I cannot promise her anything but my love, and that is not enough.
Carboni wants me, and now his man knows where I am.
The police want me in jail for a murder I did not commit.
If none of these men can find me, might they come after Mary?
Might they hurt her to get to me? My arms tighten around the baby without meaning to, and my jaw clenches.
I will kill anyone who lays a hand on her.
She makes a little sigh and smacks her lips, and I kiss her soft brow. It wrinkles quick, then settles once more. “Shall we keep running, Mary? Maybe if we go far, far away, we’ll be grand.”
But sure, even I don’t believe that. No matter how we run, whether ’tis a bus or train, I will never be enough, will I? I’ll be watching over my shoulder ’til the divil grows weary of the chase.
She is all that matters. I am nothing.
My eyes are gritty from the smoke, and now my shameful tears scald them.
I’ve always tried to be good, I have. I’ve tried to do what is right.
I thought if I could find success, life would get easier.
I’ve no illusions anymore. I never meant to love Damien.
I never wanted Mrs. Evans to die. But it happened, and now they’re both dead.
Them and Bianca and Granny, and even my da, probably.
None of it was my fault, but it clings to me like a curse.
In turn, that curse will hold on to Mary. That is not right.
“I am failing you,” I whisper. It hurts so much. Mary does not hear me through her soft, sleeping breaths. She is at peace, and I wonder if she is dreaming. Does she have dreams yet?
My gaze rises to the altar, glowing red from the sanctuary lamp.
“My Lord, I am lost. Tell me what to do,” I whisper.
The Lord does not answer. Nothing happens. The candles do not even flicker. I look down at the angel in my arms.
“You won’t remember me.”
I am broken in half by my cowardly thoughts. What am I doing? She’s my baby. I am her mother. I need her, and she needs me.
And yet I see only danger and misery ahead, always catching at our heels.
Let the little children come to me.
I must dam the tears that are silently streaming down my face.
I don’t want her last memory of me to be sadness.
She’s so little. She’s so perfect. I trace my thumb over the curve of her cheek, touch the upturn of her nose.
Her tiny earlobes are a bit longer than usual, like mine.
I gave her those. I wonder if she will have Damien’s freckles, or maybe his laugh. I have never even heard her laugh.
I stand, but my knees almost buckle, so I catch myself on the pew. Very slowly, I walk to the church door, never taking my eyes from my baby’s face. If I carry her outside right now, we can get on a bus and never look back. We can run and hide and try to live a normal life somehow.
But I will not do that. She deserves better than the scraps I could give her.
A broad but shallow cherrywood collection plate rests on a table by the door, and I walk to it without any sort of thoughts at all.
I kiss Mary’s brow one more time, then I lay her in the collection plate, wrapped safely in her slightly charred blanket.
She is sound asleep, my angel. I stare at her, feeling like I am missing something important.
But as wrong as this feels in my heart, my brain knows ’tis the right thing to do.
I owe her more than the life we’ve been living.
I must give her a chance to live a long, grand life.
Father Charles will know what to do.
I cannot leave her with nothing. A pile of little envelopes stands by the collection plate next to a pencil. I write a note, and I pray Mary will one day read my words.
“Forgive me, Damien,” I whisper. “Forgive me, Mary.”
Maybe one day I will forgive myself as well.
I tuck the note inside her blanket, then I remember the photograph of the chambermaids.
I have carried it with me all this time, and now I know why.
From the black and white and grey, Bianca stares back at me.
God in Heaven, I wish she was here, even if she only teased me.
Bianca was grand with babies, wasn’t she?
I tuck the photograph into Mary’s blanket by my note, carefully slipping it underneath so it will not scratch her. As I do, her breath brushes the back of my hand.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, then I take a step back. I will lose my courage if I do not go now.
A little fist lifts into the air and wobbles. A tiny wave goodbye. Grief closes around my heart, twisting, squeezing until I cannot breathe. I spin on my heel and walk out of the church. I never look back.