Yet what humbled Joseph most were the times he administered the Last Rites. To hear a stranger’s deepest regrets and assure her she was forgiven; to hold her hand as she died and watch the strangersmile…this was the reason Joseph had been ordained, to embody the unseen for those who had almost lost hope.
The first Sunday of Advent,Joseph decided to knock at one more door before dusk. “It’s Father Lazare, the new Priest,” he announced.
“Father! Come in!”
Joseph opened the door to reveal a familiar figure standing by the window, hastily tucking stray hairs behind her ears. Notsofamiliar—only unforgettable: Miss Conley.
Joseph took in the room at a glance. There was little to see. A cracked hearth with books on the mantle shelf. Two worn trunks that doubled as tables. A frayed blanket strung up in one corner. Beyond it, he glimpsed a washstand with a battered basin, pitcher, and dressing mirror. The only adornment was a crucifix, hungbetween the two beds. Unless the mold on the walls counted as decoration.
Of course Miss Conley lived like this. She was poor. But the sight of her beauty in this ugly little room seemed so incongruous. To call her a pearl among swine would be uncharitable to her neighbors. Most of the Irish were good, pious people—and no one should live like this, unless they chose it as a Penance. But certainly Miss Conley was a rare flower in need of a better bed.
Bettersoil, Joseph corrected.You must see her as Christ would.He would care only for Miss Conley’s spiritual beauty.
She assisted at Mass every day. As a parishioner, Joseph had not understood the truth of that phrase, how the faithful in the pews could “assist” the Priest in his sacrifice. But as the celebrant, when Joseph knelt before the altar, when he elevated the Host, he felt their prayers joining his, strengthening them, strengtheninghim. Especially Miss Conley’s prayers.
She knelt before him now, and as he blessed her, a ridiculous wish occurred to him: that this invocation could transform her drab dress into a ball gown, as if she were Cinderella.
When he’d finished the blessing, Miss Conley took his hand and kissed him just above his knuckles for what seemed like an eternity, but must have been a moment. His reaction to her touch had hardly dulled. Few of Joseph’s other parishioners greeted him in such an intimate manner, though the practice had been common in Italy—he had often kissed Priests’ hands himself.
He must say something to discourage Miss Conley without her suspecting his true reasons. He had asked Father Baker, and there were no indulgences for kissing a Priest’s hand after his Ordination and first Mass. “Miss Conley,” Joseph stammered, “I do not know the practice in Ireland, but in this country, it is customary to kiss a Bishop’s hand only, not a mere Priest’s.”
She had not let go. “But your hands are also holy. Every day they hold the precious Body of Our Lord.”
Joseph sighed. He could hardly explain:When you kiss me like that, my thoughts are anything but holy. I imagine not Our Lord’s body but?—
Slowly Joseph realized that Miss Conley’s expression hadchanged. Still on her knees, she was squinting up at him quizzically. When Joseph frowned, Miss Conley quickly lowered her eyes and let go of his hand. “I’m sorry, Father.”
“What is it?”
She bit her lip and pointed gingerly toward his head. “There’s a…small yellow ball in your hair.”
Joseph chuckled, stroked his fingertips below his hat brim, and withdrew a chinaberry. This explained why Mrs. O’Flaherty had been staring at him out of the corner of her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking, and why Frankie Doyle had been gaping outright. “Thank you.”
Suppressing a giggle, Miss Conley rose from her knees. “Could I make you some tea, Father?”
Parishioners were always offering him food and drink—people who could ill afford to spare it. “No, thank you; I’m quite all right.” Joseph stepped before the hearth and tossed the berry into the fire.
“Perhaps a seat, then? I imagine you’ve been on your feet for hours.”
She was right. “Yes; thank you.”
Miss Conley offered him the room’s larger chair, which must belong to her brother. As if she’d read Joseph’s mind again, she added: “Liam is still at the office.” She frowned. “That lawyer keeps him so late—and pays him so little.”
As Joseph sat by the fire, he noticed the pincushion, spool of thread, and pair of ladies’ gloves on the table by the window. The gloves were rose silk, finer than anything Miss Conley herself would wear. “Please don’t stop your own work on my account.”
“The sunlight is going, anyway. I should move to the fire.” Even candles must be beyond the Conleys’ means. She transferred her chair to the hearth across from Joseph, then gathered her sewing. “I help Liam all I can, but my skills are limited. And I didn’t realize I’d be competing with—” She broke off and fell silent, lowering her eyes to her task.
“With negroes?” Joseph prompted.
Miss Conley nodded. “We knew there were slaves in South Carolina, of course, but somehow we’d thought they were all onplantations, that I’d be able to find work easily in a city… I know that must sound naïve.”
“I’m sure I harbor just as many misconceptions about Ireland.”
“Perhaps,” she smiled, glancing up at him. “But most of your ideas are probably accurate. Many Irish do believe in fairy folk. My own father—who is very God-fearing—calls me hisaisling.”
Joseph held his hands to the warmth of the fire. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize the word.”
“You must understand, Father, I am my parents’ seventh child, but their first daughter.” Miss Conley concentrated on her stitching as she spoke. “While my mother was carrying me, both my parents prayed for a girl. My father claims he had a dream in which a beautiful woman assured him I was coming.Aislingmeans ‘vision’—she appears to dreamers and foretells change. My father swears theaislinghe saw nineteen years ago looked like I do now.”
