“Your sister is with him. And Miss Teresa is in good hands already, sir, with our midwife.” Elijah bowed and hurried away.
Weakly, Joseph turned back to the sacristy. How many hours had elapsed, since Tessa had woken in pain? Even now, she might be— In danger of death, why had she asked for him? He wasn’t her confessor.
“Father?” inquired his young server.
“Would you fetch my breviary please, Anthony?”
The boy frowned. “Where is it?”
“My chamber. In the Bishop’s residence. On my desk. Don’t let the notes fall out.”
“Yes, Father.”
In the boy’s absence, Joseph struggled out of his vestments. He stuffed his surplice, soutane, and a stole into his portmanteau, along with his Ritual. Fortunately, he checked the sick call kit—the bottle of holy water was nearly empty. He was at the font when Anthony returned. Joseph stashed his breviary in the portmanteau, strapped it as quickly as he could, and raced to the seminary. He begged Father Baker to either lead or cancel the classes Joseph usually taught.
Then Joseph had to wait for the liveryman to select, saddle, and bridle a horse. Every lost minute haunted him. Thirteen long miles away, two souls were in peril, and Joseph was powerless to do anything but murmur prayers for them.
Finally he and his hired sorrel were cantering out of the city past carriages and farm wagons. On the open road, Joseph urged the gelding to gallop. Instead, the animal slowed to an awkward trot. Frustrated, then dismayed, Joseph realized something was wrong. He had no choice but to dismount. He discovered that one of the sorrel’s shoes was coming loose.
At least the hoof did not look damaged; but if he continued to ride, it might well become so. Joseph stared forlornly down the empty road in the direction of the Stratford plantation and tried to calculate the number of miles that still separated him from Tessa.
He looked back toward Charleston. The sun was already so far above the horizon… Should he return to the livery stable for a fresh horse? How long would it take towalkthat distance? The thought of literally turning his back on Tessa, even intending to return… It made him physically ill.
He decided to put his faith in a Good Samaritan. He prayed that at one of the houses or inns ahead, he would find someone willing to lend him a mount, though he carried no money. He led the limping sorrel at a walk.
Perhaps the hemorrhage had been a false alarm, Joseph told himself. And surely his father would reach Tessa soon. The road was in decent repair; he was grateful for that. Even more important, their destination wasthisside of the Ashley River; they would not have to wait for a ferry.
Joseph saw a wagon approaching. He waved it down. Then he made the mistake of telling the driver he was a Priest. The man spit tobacco juice on Joseph’s boots and slapped his reins against the backs of his mules as if Catholicism were contagious.
His eyes on his filthy boots, Joseph started forward again. He anticipated his upcoming conversation with the next man. He couldn’t lie. But if he mentioned that it was a matter of life and death and the manassumedhe was a doctor…
As if in reproach, a light morning rain began to pelt him. Joseph hoped this was not an omen. At least the rain washed away the tobacco spit, though mud soon replaced it. His stomach complained loudly about the extension of his fast.
Between his desperate prayers for Tessa, Joseph remembered the saints who’d been granted the power of bilocation, like Martin de Porres. While Martin’s body remained in Peru, he appeared at the sickbed of a friend in Mexico City to comfort and heal him.
Joseph had done nothing to deserve such a miracle. He kept recalling the afternoon he’d blessed Tessa and her child. In the midst of the invocation, selfish thoughts had intruded:This could have been my child.This should have been my child.He’d paused for only a moment. Surely that had not made the blessing invalid. Surely God would not punish Tessa for his own unholy longing.
Over the patter of the rain, Joseph did not hear the rider till he called out: “Father?”
Joseph turned and squinted through the drops to see Tessa’s brother reining his horse just behind him. “Liam!”
The Irishman insisted that they switch mounts: “Tessa needs you more than she needs me.”
Joseph transferred his portmanteau and pulled himself onto the new horse. Promising to send someone from the plantation to meet Liam, Joseph kicked the mare into a canter.
An eternity later,Joseph recognized Stratford land passing alongside him. At last he and the borrowed horse turned through the gate and followed the avenue of live oaks to the grand house.
As Joseph dismounted, the elder Mr. Stratford strode out the front door. “Look, Eddy,” he called over his shoulder with a chuckle. “It’s another Lazare. We’re being invaded!” The old widower might be eccentric, but he had not struck Joseph as mad. Surely Mr. Stratford’s flippancy meant all was well?
Edward barely glanced at Joseph before he slumped into a chair on the veranda. “You’re too late, Father. It’s over.”
Shivering in the rain and aching from the long ride, his hands on his portmanteau, Joseph waited in vain for Edward to explain. “Mrs. Stratford is out of danger, then?”
“She’s alive,” her husband muttered.
“And the child?”
“Quite dead.” Edward seemed more annoyed than grieved. He might have been reacting to the loss of a horse race. Not the loss of his firstborn. Not the loss of a priceless human soul.
