Tessa laughed as he had hoped, but she argued: “There are baritone heroes!”
“In serious opera? Name one.”
Tessa’s forehead bunched up in thought. “Don Giovanni.”
“A Hell-bound libertine?” Joseph chuckled. “You are proving my point.”
It took them a minute to realize the door was open at last. Their erstwhile captors stood watching him and Tessa with self-satisfied smiles. Joseph wasn’t sure whether to shake them or kiss them. All he knew for certain was: he never wanted to let go of Tessa.
CHAPTER 45
O, but they say the tongues of dying men
Enforce attention like deep harmony:
Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain,
For they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain.
— William Shakespeare,Richard II(1597)
Tessa’s brother escorted her home—or at least, to Edward’s home. She was eager to reunite with Clare.
Hélène linked her arm through Joseph’s and asked if he might stop at their parents’ house. “Papa says it’s no use my trying to stay awake tonight, in the hopes that I’ll be able to sleep through the surgery tomorrow. It will wake me.” She drew in a deep breath. “On the contrary, if I am not rested, the shock may be more severe. I know I shall rest easier if my favorite Priest blesses my dreams.”
Joseph had never felt less like a Priest than he did tonight; but his sister needed him. Their father told them he wanted to look in on a patient, so Joseph and Hélène walked back to ArchdaleStreet alone.
“Papa and Liam may have helped with the execution,” his sister informed Joseph, her chin elevated proudly, “but trapping you and Tessa together wasmyidea.”
Joseph chuckled, then sighed.
“We had to dosomething. And I owe it to Tessa, don’t I? To try and correct my selfishness six years ago.”
“You mean when you encouraged her to marry Edward.”
Hélène nodded.
“Tessa made that decision, not you.”
“She made it to please Liam and me, even more than Edward.”
“She doesn’t blame you, Ellie.”
“I know. She laid down her life for us willingly.”
Joseph opened their parents’ gate. A light shone in the parlor. He wondered if their mother or May had waited up for them. But his sister steered him to their Mary Garden. A gibbous moon showed the way: the paths of crushed oyster-shell and the statue of the Virgin seemed to glow.
“Holy Mother,” Hélène prayed as they knelt, “if I am spared tomorrow, I promise to be different—better. I will be selfless, like your Son and like Tessa. I will think first how I might help others.” She crossed herself and stood. “I’ve been pondering that a great deal these past weeks. How I might behave more like Christ. How I might manifest my thankfulness for my recovery.”
“Yes?”
“Do you realize, Joseph, that it’s been nearlyeighteen yearssince we learned about our grandmother in Haiti? And I have donenothingabout it except write her letters. In this very city, thousands of people who share our blood suffer every day.” His sister looked behind them toward the gold glow of the parlor, then toward the dark slave quarters. “I sit here in my cozy little house, enjoying the labor of three of those people, and simply accept it as my right.” Hélène nodded decisively. “If I survive tomorrow, I will do it no longer.”
Joseph frowned. “What do you mean?”
“We mustact, Joseph! We must strike the blows we can! Perhapswe cannot kill the dragon, but we can rescue dozens, perhaps hundreds, from its jaws!”
“What in the world are you talking about, Ellie?”
