Bishop England looked like royalty, his black hair and grey eyes set off against his red and gold episcopal robes. Yet His Lordship did not rule like a monarch—he preferred American government. He’d written a Constitution for their diocese and begun annual conventions in which a House of Lay Delegates and a House of Clergy made decisions together.
Joseph’s Mama and his grandparents were always praising Bishop England. Apparently he irritated Archbishop Maréchal, but Joseph didn’t understand why. Everything His Lordship did seemed wise. He had written the first English catechism in the United States and translated the Missal too.
Bishop England was a Doctor of Divinity like Papa was a Doctor of Medicine; many people called him “Dr. England.” His Lordship made house calls throughout the three states in his diocese: North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia. In Rome, they calledhim “the Steam Bishop” for his energy. His Lordship was born three years before Papa; he was thirty-four when he came to Charleston. That sounded old enough to Joseph, but Grandpapa said it was young for a Bishop.
Joseph’s little sister understood and respected none of this. After Mass in the cathedral, Hélène marched up to Bishop England, who was deep in conversation with someone else. Joseph chased after his sister, but he was too late. His Lordship turned to meet Hélène’s scowl and her disapproving words: “Mama says you’re fromIreland.”
“That I am.” Amusement tugged at Bishop England’s mouth and sparkled in his eyes, as if he knew what was coming.
“Then why is your nameEngland?”
“Where areyoufrom, lass?” His Lordship knew this too. Papa had tended the Bishop during his most recent illness.
Hélène frowned. “I’m from here.”
“Your name must be America, then?”
“No! It’s Hélène Lazare!”
“Well. Be thankful ’tis not Asparagus.”
Hélène made the same face she always made when Mama insisted she eat that dreaded vegetable.
Beside her, Joseph tried not to laugh. He wondered if Bishop England had learned his sister’s least favorite thing through divine revelation, or through Papa. Joseph took Hélène’s hand. “Come on, Asparagus.”
She tried to pull away. “I’mnot?—”
“That can beyourConfirmation name,” Joseph suggested.
“It has to be a saint’s name! There wasn’t any Saint Asparagus!”
“Your sister is learning her catechism almost as quickly as you did, Joseph.” When he glanced back, Joseph saw His Lordship smiling at him the way his parents, grandparents, and teachers so often smiled at him, as if they expected him to part the Red Sea.
Joseph colored. He would disappoint them. He already had.
Yet Joseph could still feel the chrism oil on his forehead; he could still feel grace entering his body, washing him clean from the inside out. He was a new person now: JosephDenisLazare. He’d chosen the name to honor his great-granduncle Denis, the Priestwho had died during the Terror rather than abandon his parishioners. With the intercession of such a martyr, strengthened by God’s Sacraments, maybe Josephcoulddo great things someday, or at least resist his own sinfulness.
The next morning,when Mama began to say grace, Hélène tapped her wrist and signed: ‘Don’t start without Papa!’
‘He had to visit a patient outside the city.’ Mama could see Hélène wasn’t finished, but she made her wait till after the prayer.
Joseph’s little sister frowned at her hominy. ‘Papa said he’d take me to Grandpapa’s shop today.’
Mama stirred her tea, then answered, ‘He can take you tomorrow.’
‘But Grandpapa told me he would receive a new shipment of clocks today! Could you take me, Mama,please?’
‘Sweetheart, you know I can’t.’
‘Why not?’ Hélène pouted. ‘You never want to go anywhere except church!’
Joseph knew why Mama never wanted to go out. Even at church, there were often new people. People who didn’t understand how Mama communicated. People who stared. And some of the people who’d known them for yearsstillstared, even though they spoke without words too. The looks on their faces said:You don’t belong here.
‘Do you think someone will buy all the best clocks before you see them?’ Cathy laughed.
‘They might!’ Hélène argued. ‘It isn’t far, Mama, and I know the way. I could go by myself.’
‘Absolutely not.’
