His beloved sister Joanna was reinterred beside him. “Now,” Father Baker murmured over them that evening, “they may commingle their dust in death as they did their hearts in life.” There was a strange catch to his voice, as if he envied them. “They only await the blast of the Archangel’s trumpet, at which they are to spring forth from their lowly bed, and hand in hand go forth to glory. May you and I meet them there.”
“Amen,” Joseph whispered.
CHAPTER 38
The mortality among foreigners during the summer months at Charleston is incredibly great. He, whose veins glowed but yesterday with health, shall today be undergoing the agonies of the damned.
— John Davis,Travels of Four Years and a Half in the United States of America, 1798-1802
Sometimes, as Joseph made his parish visits, he would cut through Longitude Lane between Church Street and East Bay. For much of the way, the fine old brick wall draped with climbing Noisettes was all that separated him from Tessa’s garden. And then, for a moment, nothing separated them—only the narrow gate and its claire-voie half-hidden by petals. He might have curled his fingers through the opening and touched someone standing on the other side. The delicate tracery of the wrought iron reminded Joseph of the rose windows he’d seen in French cathedrals. Here, there was no stained glass, yet the claire-voie framed splashes of color nonetheless: glimpses of Tessa’s flowers.
No properly bred Charleston lady dirtied her hands, just as no properly bred Charleston gentleman peered into a lady’s garden.But Tessa was Irish; she loved the land. He was French—and she’d invited him to look. She wanted that sliver of garden to be beautiful.
“It’s like a glimpse into Paradise,” Joseph assured her. “Like the Garden of Eden.”
“There’s even a fig tree!” Tessa laughed. “Should I plant a pomegranate?”
David inhabited the garden only if he had a book in hand; but just as Tessa had hoped, Sophie played there often. In May, Joseph was passing the garden gate when he heard his niece giggling on the other side. He paused to peek through the claire-voie. If he leaned in, he could just see the statue of the Blessed Virgin, crowned now with blossoms as they’d done at the cathedral. Nearby, Tessa was trimming the thorns from roses and then handing each flower to Sophie, who tucked them into another crown.
“If ’tis not for you…” Tessa mused aloud, “is it for your brother?”
Joseph’s niece shook her head and giggled again. “He’d look silly!” Sophie finished the crown and held it up proudly. “This one is foryou, Aunt Tessa!”
She smiled as bright as the sunshine. Tessa removed her bonnet and bowed her head so the little girl could crown her.
Joseph smiled too, before he went on his way. To anyone else peering through the claire-voie—though he hoped no one did—Tessa and Sophie might have been mother and daughter. Theyweremother and daughter.
When Joseph visitedhis niece and nephew on the Feast of the Most Holy Trinity, Sophie met him breathlessly at the front gate on Church Street. “Uncle Joseph! I’m going to have a baby brother after all!” Sophie grabbed one of his hands and towed him toward the piazza steps.
“Is that so?” Joseph stammered. He’d been secretly relieved that Tessa and her husband no longer shared a bedchamber. But apparently, their two separate countries still merged on occasion.
At the top of the steps, Sophie nodded eagerly. “Aunt Tessa told us this morning. Grandpa thinks he’ll be born around Christmas—just like baby Jesus!”
Reclining on a chaise-longue, Tessa smiled nervously. “It might be a babysisterinstead.”
“That would be even better!” the girl declared.
After Sophie darted off again, Tessa murmured: “Or it might not remain with us at all…” She kept her eyes on her bodice. “I didn’t want to tell the children—not yet. But they could see I was ill. And I keep thinking: ‘This is the seventh. Perhaps he—or she—will be lucky.’ Perhaps Our Lord will allow me this miracle.” She looked up to Joseph. “I’ve been clinging to that verse in the Psalms: ‘He causeth the barren woman to be a joyful mother of children.’ The morning sickness has been worse than with any of the others. Your father says that’s actually agoodsign. In all other ways, my health has beenbettersince we came to Church Street. Your father speculated that it might have been something about the old house, that… He is hopeful. Cautious, but hopeful.”
“Aren’t you a seventh child yourself?” Joseph remembered.
Tessa nodded. “The Irish would say that the seventh child of a seventh child is destined for great things. That he or she will be a healer.”
“You know we Priests do not subscribe to superstition,” Joseph smiled. “But this childwillbe blessed: I can promise you that.” He himself blessed it immediately.
On the Feast of the Assumption, as Pharaoh admitted Joseph to the Stratfords’ entry hall, their greetings were interrupted by quarrelling on the second floor. The butler appeared uneasy, and the harsh words plummeting down to them made communication impossible. Finally, Pharaoh simply bowed and retreated. Joseph supposed he should wait on the piazza. He turned back to the door.
Above him, Edward demanded: “Do you expect me to predict the future now?”
“This is August and we are in Charleston! There is a riskeveryyear!” Compared to her husband’s, Tessa’s voice was hushed, but every bit as passionate. “I said it months ago: ‘We should take David and Sophie to your sister’s in Greenville till fever season has passed’!”
Joseph’s hand paused on the doorknob, and he held his breath.
“And then you admitted you were with child again!” Edward shouted. “You know what the mountain roads are like! Are youtryingto kill this baby?”
Even a floor away, Joseph heard Tessa’s sharp intake of breath. “How can you ask me that?”
“Because you seem to care more about a dead man’s children than you do about mine!”
