Joseph closed his eyes and crossed himself.
When a negro came to lead away the borrowed mare, Joseph told him about Liam. A second slave carried his portmanteau out of the rain; a third took his wet coat on the veranda; and a fourth brought him towels.
While he blotted the rainwater as best he could, Joseph could not help but overhear the elder Mr. Stratford’s monologue to the taciturn Edward: “This is not a reflection on your virility, son. You did your part! These failures are always because of the woman. The first time I saw that one, I thought you were onto something—new blood and all that. Isn’t my best broodmare an Irish thorough-bred? Let us hope this little episode is only an aberration. You won’t know till you try again!”
Before he was reasonably dry, Joseph seized up his portmanteau and asked one of the slaves to take him to Tessa. Still the old planter’s voice followed him: “At least it wasn’t a son!”
Joseph and his guide used the staircase at the back of the veranda. He had not climbed to the second floor on his previous visit—this was private space. But here too, the floor-length, triple-hung windows opened onto the veranda like doors. Joseph did not have to ask where Tessa lay: her maid, Hannah, exited one of the bedchambers, her arms full of bloody bedclothes.
Joseph felt his strength draining and stopped. All those years at seminary, he’d not fully realized how often his duties as a Priest would resemble those of a doctor—how often sick calls, Last Rites, and even Baptisms would bring him into contact with the distressing failings of the body.
“Father Lazare.” Even with her terrible burden, Hannah bobbed a curtsy. “Miss Teresa will be glad you’re here; but we need a few minutes yet.”
Joseph nodded mutely and watched her carry the bedclothes down the staircase.
“Don’t suppose you want me to announce you, then,” observed his young guide.
“No, thank you.”
The boy disappeared after Hannah, and Joseph stood alone on the veranda. Curtains concealed the bedchamber’s interior, but through the open triple-hung window, he heard the familiar voices of his father and sister. The rustling of cloth, the splashing of water, and the low voices of black women. From these sounds, Joseph understood Hannah’s comment: the bed and Tessa’s own garments were being changed.
On a bench outside the chamber, Joseph set down his portmanteau. He opened it and withdrew his soutane, as much for warmth as formality. As he fastened the long line of buttons, Joseph tried to remember when Tessa had expected this child. She’d carried it less than four months, by his estimation—closer to three.
Another maid emerged from the bedchamber, carrying a bloody basin. Joseph fished in his portmanteau for his breviary, hoping it would steady him. He should find his notes, the verses Father Baker had recommended for miscarriages. But the renewed conversation inside the bedchamber drew his attention.
At first, the sound of Tessa’s voice gave him solace: it was irrefutable proof she had survived. Then the words dispelled peace with pain: “Am—Am I deformed in some way?”
Joseph sank onto the bench. For a moment, he was thirteen years old again, exposing himself to Dr. Moretti, waiting for approval. He had purchased his Priesthood by surrendering his modesty. These past few hours, how many people had seen Tessa even more vulnerable, even more ashamed? That was the cost of her motherhood. But she was not a mother.
A mature black woman, probably the midwife, responded to Tessa first, her voice heavy with compassion. “No, honey.”
“You are perfectly formed,” Joseph’s father assured her.
“Then why couldn’t I hold onto Bean?”
“I wish I could give you an answer,” Joseph’s father sighed. “The truth is: most of the time, we cannot explain why a pregnancy fails.”
“I must have done something wrong,” Tessa argued weakly. “I should never have left the city; I shouldn’t have?—”
Joseph’s father interrupted: “You did not cause this by riding in a carriage or walking up stairs or anything else.”
Hélène spoke up next. “If you want to blame someone, blame me.”
“You?” Tessa asked. “Ellie, how could this possibly beyourfault?”
“I told Bean to hurry up, didn’t I?” Her voice broke. “I told her we couldn’t wait to meet her.”
“Sometimes, the good Lord just gathers these little ones to Himself right away,” the midwife soothed. “Sometimes, it’s a mercy, I think. In Heaven, your Bean is never going to feel hungry or sick—she is safe and happy and waiting for you, Miss Teresa.”
For several long moments, Joseph heard only muffled sobs.
“What I do know is this,” his father continued. “My own wife suffered such a loss, and so has Cathy. A miscarriage does not mean you cannot have healthy children.”
“But I want Bean,” Tessa whimpered. “May I hold her again? Please? Just a few minutes longer?”
Joseph heard water splashing again, then Tessa’s breath hitched anew.
“You take as long as you need, honey,” the midwife said.
