— Mark Twain,The Tragedy of Pudd’nhead Wilson(1893)
Every week that separated him from Ordination seemed to stretch out like a month. He should have had more than enough to keep him occupied. In addition to teaching at the seminary and directing the cathedral’s choir, Joseph had many other duties as a Deacon. Bishop England also allowed him to dine with his family once a week. Yet in the midst of it all, there were hours when Joseph felt restless.
He suggested creating a Biblical garden on the lot between the cathedral, the seminary, and the episcopal residence. His Lordship was so delighted by the idea, he offered some of his own limited funds. Joseph’s grandmother also contributed.
Autumn was the perfect time to begin. Joseph planned out the beds, and Henry and Castalio helped him prepare the soil. Around a statue of Saint Rose with her crown of blossoms, they began toplant herbs, bushes, and trees mentioned in the Scriptures that might grow in South Carolina as well.
One fair Tuesday in early November, Joseph was transporting a pomegranate sapling in a wheelbarrow when he heard something so beautiful, so ethereal, he thought he must be imagining it. Or, on the eve of his Ordination, was God granting him a Heavenly visitation, an experience like Saint Teresa’s?
As he pushed the wheelbarrow deeper into the garden, the lilting sounds grew more distinct: a woman’s clear, pure soprano, singing words Joseph did not understand, though he suspected the language was Irish. Then, between the statue of Saint Rose and his pear sapling, he saw a burst of blue: the bodice and skirt of a graceful figure seated on one of the stone benches. He stopped, afraid to frighten her, as if she were a songbird instead of a woman.
The morning sunlight caught the gold in her resplendent brown hair. She wore it in braids that encircled her head like a halo, adorned with a pink camellia. A few wisps dangled beside a face he could not quite see as she rocked a red-haired little boy in her arms. Madonna and child. She was singing a lullaby, Joseph realized. He felt a ridiculous stab of envy that his own mother had never soothed him so sweetly.
The young woman must have felt his eyes on her; she looked up. Her singing broke off, and her lips opened in a gasp instead. Her face was as beautiful as Bernini’s Saint Teresa; it possessed a perfection of shape and proportion only an artist could explain. Her eyes were the same remarkable shade as her hair: a complex brown as glorious as metal, but infinitely softer. She was twenty at most, her child perhaps two. Her day dress, worn but clean, was the breathtaking blue of woad. “I’m so sorry—should I not be here?”
It took Joseph a moment to find his voice. He kept it low, so he would not wake the little boy. “Of course you should. I created this garden for you. I mean: for visitors.” Joseph knew he was staring. He set down his burden and dropped his eyes to the pockets of his leather gardening apron. “So that people can see what hyssop and spikenard look like—all the plants from the Bible I can makethrive.” Since he didn’t actually need anything from his pockets, he could not resist glancing up again.
“What a brilliant idea!” The young mother looked around herself at the half-bare beds. Her lips turned up in a smile that lit her whole countenance. Her accent was not as heavy as some of the other Irish he knew, but it possessed that musical rhythm. “I shall have to tell my brother Daniel—he is a gardener. So there will be olives and grapes and lilies? I love the scent of lilies!”
He loved her enthusiasm. “All of those, eventually.” Joseph pulled out his garden plan and pretended to examine it. “Plus a few other appropriate plants—Passion-flower, perhaps.”
Now she frowned. “Passion-flower? How is that holy?”
Joseph realized her mistake and grinned. “It was named afterChrist’sPassion.”
The young mother blushed, covered her face with her hand, and tucked her head over her child’s, exposing the camellia in her hair again. “One of my brother’s books said Passion-flowers grow in hot countries, so I assumed…” Her voice was hurried and hushed, as if she were admonishing herself more than speaking to him. “You must think me so ignorant—perhaps even wicked.”
“Not at all,” Joseph chuckled as he put away his plan. This pomegranate needed transplanting, he reminded himself. He picked up his wheelbarrow again.
“Iama Catholic in good standing with the Church.”
“I am glad to hear it.” He set down the sapling beside the bed he’d chosen earlier.
“Silentium est aurem—I should leave you to your work.”
Now Joseph had to stare. “You know Latin?”
“Only a little.” She shifted the weight of her slumbering child. “Mostly proverbs. My father is a schoolmaster.”
Silence was not golden when one’s companion had a voice and a mind like hers. What else did she know? “Quid plura?”
The young mother considered. She decided on: “Vita sine libris mors est.‘Life without books is death.’ ’Tis one of my father’s favorites, and mine as well.”
Joseph withdrew his shovel and watering-pot from the wheelbarrow. “Optimus magister bonus liber.”
“‘The best teacher is a good book,’” the young mother translated slowly, and beamed at her success.
He could not help smiling back. She knew more than she thought.
“But—with respect, sir—I’m not sure I agree. Much as I adore them, books cannot answer questions. May I ask how Passion-flowers earned their name?”
Joseph tried to concentrate on his digging. “Jesuit missionaries thought parts of the plant resembled the Instruments of Christ’s Passion: the scourge, the Crown of Thorns, the nails.”
“I look forward to seeing such a plant. I imagine I shall have to wait till next spring?”
“For Passion-flowers, we’ll have to wait till July. But I’m trying to plant something for every season.”
“I’m amazed there are still things in bloom here—so different from County Clare in November.” The young mother touched the camellia in her hair. “This had already fallen, I promise.”
