Edward found another lawyer to complete Liam’s apprenticeship. Edward himself had always been more interested in agriculture. Even knowing he would not inherit it, he’d helped manage his family’s rice plantation, Stratford-on-Ashley. Now, Edward’s father altered his will: the property would be Edward’s—ifhe and Tessa could produce an heir. If they failed, Stratford-on-Ashley would goto Edward’s nephew, his brother Laurence’s second son, who had never even set foot in South Carolina.
To Tessa, this inheritance was closer to a nightmare than a dream come true. Stratford-on-Ashley was nothing without its slaves—nearly one hundred of them. That was not the legacy she wanted to leave the child she carried. Headaches plagued her, and sleep eluded her.
Edward’s father sent his own physician to examine her. There was nothing to worry about, he proclaimed. Tessa was a foreigner still acclimating to the Low Country.
Joseph’s father wasn’t so sure: “There isso muchwe do not yet understand—especially about women’s bodies.”
Tessa rested as much as she could. To fill the long anxious hours, she learned to paint. She claimed her work was nothing remarkable. Hélène and Liam disagreed, urging Joseph to see for himself.
During Holy Week, he was able to do so. Tessa was capturing the finest blooms in her garden. She was no Renaissance master, it was true; but there was life and beauty on the canvas—Joseph’s pleasure and praise were no lie.
He was so entranced, admiring the anemones taking shape on her easel, he did not realize Tessa had turned away from him. She walked straight through her flower-bed to clutch the balustrade of the piazza.
“Tessa?” When he saw her face, Joseph rushed to her side, not caring what he trampled. She was as white as death.
Tessa closed her eyes tightly. “No, no, no,no…” She wavered and lost her grip on the balustrade.
Joseph caught her before she could fall. “Hannah!” he shouted into the house. Through the cloud of skirts, he found the bend of Tessa’s knees and gathered her into his arms. She clung to his neck, and he felt her hot tears against his cheek. Joseph muttered a prayer as he carried Tessa up the steps of the piazza.
Hannah met them in the entry hall.
Joseph stammered: “I—I think…”It’s happening again.He couldn’t say it aloud, as if this alone would make it true.
She bled for days.On this slow, inexorable tide came the tiny body in its sac. A little boy this time, but still no sign of life. No hope of Heaven or reunion.
Tessa buried her son beside his sister at Stratford-on-Ashley. Shortly after Easter, she walked with Joseph from the plantation house to the two small graves. Her dress was lavender.
“Edward still won’t let me wear mourning,” Tessa explained. “‘Must everyone know our business?’ he says. I pleaded with him: ‘I could say someone in Ireland had died.’” Tessa stopped for a moment and murmured: “’Tis a sin to lie, Father, I know.”
“I imagine that wasn’t the reason your husband refused?”
She shook her head and resumed their path. “He told me: ‘Black makesyoulook like a corpse. It’s our first social season.’”
Joseph gritted his teeth. Edward wanted to show off his beautiful wife. He cared only that she present a pleasing exterior, not about the misery beneath her masquerade.
“He isn’t a cruel man; you mustn’t think that,” Tessa added quickly. “But ’tis as if…he cannot see through anyone’s eyes but his own. Our children aren’trealto him like they are to me. He didn’t carry them; he didn’t hold them. I suppose ’tis easier for him, to believe they don’t have souls. To Edward, our children are only broken promises, something he would rather forget.” They reached the two small markers. “I had to beg him for these.” Tessa knelt at the stones. “But Edward said I could name our children whatever I wanted.”
Joseph knelt beside her and read the inscriptions:
Bridget Stratford
November 12, 1837
Beloved Daughter
Conlaed Stratford
April 14, 1838
Beloved Son
Joseph smiled at Bridget, the name her husband would have rejected for a living child. “Conlaed is also an Irish saint?”
Tessa nodded. “He was the first Bishop of Kildare. And Conlaed was my family name, before the English changed it to Conley.”
She should have been Miss Conlaed. “Do you know what it means?”
“‘Chaste fire.’” She smiled a little too, and then her face clouded again. “When I lost Conlaed, I told myself: ‘At least Bridget isn’t alone anymore; at least they have each other.’ But how can they— You said that children in Limbo don’t know what they’ve lost.”
