by Robyn Carr
The priest looked over his spectacles, waiting. “There’s a woman, Father. She’s going to have my child.”
“I see,” the priest said, looking at the papers on his desk. “I’m thirty-six years old, Father. I want this child.”
“The issue of adultery could complicate your petition for an annulment, Andrew. Not to mention what this development could do to Brenda. And of course I’ve already written many letters about her condition to the archdiocese in--”
“Letters about her? What kind of letters?”
“The church is very interested in the healing works of priests and in those who have experienced the miracles of prayer. It’s a long tradition among us to share these benefits of faith.”
Andrew listened to the priest without interruption and felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to prickle.
“We have been blessed in Reading. Cases of cholera have been healed, there was a woman who had never in her life spoken who was healed by prayer, and a deaf child can now hear. All healed by the love of Christ.”
By you, Andrew thought. He was suddenly sure of something; he’d met very few honest people in his life. The honest ones were the most criticized. Wilson. Lilly.
“Brenda was a major achievement for you, Father,” he said shrewdly.
“I was fortunate to be the vessel through which--”
“You might achieve immortality through your good works,” Andrew said. “Her condition of madness must surely be the most rare, the most difficult.”
“We have immortality through Christ,” the priest said. “The work we’re given is special, difficult, and if I could make you see one thing, Andrew, for the sake of your own soul, it is that sacrifice of one’s worldly attachments can be the path through which we have life everlasting and joy while we’re alive.”
“Also fame,” Andrew said. “Possibly sainthood.”
“I think you’ve missed the point. What we have is a more meaningful life, a greater eternal pleasure.”
But Andrew didn’t think he had missed the point. The priest was going to add Brenda’s recovery to a list of achievements he had written about to the church leaders. He had made himself a savior; many people in Reading were cognizant of his healing powers and he was visited often by the sick. If the word continued to spread, if the priest had many cures to his credit, he would be worshipped. He might get power in the church.
He had power over Brenda--that was the cure. Brenda had been overcome by her mother, then her dead mother, now the priest. Who knew how well she was? She could be controlled by Mrs. Waite. It was only the period after her mother’s death and before Father Demetrius discovered her that she had been out of control, completely unmanageable.
“I think it would be a shame to mention adultery and somehow fail to get the annulment,” Andrew said. “I suppose the best tactic would be to mention in your petition that the husband has suffered too long and must be given an opportunity to have a family to carry on the name. Brenda cannot be encouraged to have children.”
“I don’t know that we’ve established she can never have children. In fact--”
“She can’t have them with me, Father. I can’t be her husband anymore.”
“I don’t know that I can accommodate you, Andrew. The petition would absolutely require Brenda’s endorsement, and…”
Andrew’s concept of priests had been a very confused one all of his life. Taught to respect them, he couldn’t dismiss his distrust. He often wondered if his father had been a good man who couldn’t control his passion or an opportunist who used the power of his reverence to seduce a young girl. What excuses were used on his own mother? Had his father been decent, wouldn’t he have left the church and married the mother of his child? What would God have expected of that priest? Of this one? “Convince her. I know you can. Tell her that it’s the best possible way for her to become well. Tell her that she has to forgive me, you’ve convinced her to forgive the ones who really hurt her. I’ll see that she’s cared for. That’s as much as I’m willing to do.”
“I’m sorry, Andrew, I can’t--”
“If you refuse, I’ll take her away from here. I’ll put her in an asylum. They’ll keep her from hurting anyone.”
The priest’s eyes grew narrow and angry. “That would be a cruel and heartless thing to do!”
“This is cruel and heartless! I don’t think God would love me any better if I let others live in pain and humiliation because you would like to have credit for healing Brenda! Perhaps if this were my fault, perhaps if my own hand or terrible words dealt her this madness, perhaps then you could convince me to carry on out of guilt, but that isn’t the way of it. I know you can help me. You won’t get much credit for it, but you can do it.”
“And if I won’t?”
“Then say good-bye to her on your next visit. I mean it, Father. I’ll take her out of here. And I’ll write my own letters, bring in priests to judge her condition, whatever I have to do.”
“You will be dealing the death blow.”
“Not if you do your part. Not if you continue to tell her what she wants and feels. The pity is that even you can’t keep her going forever.”
“I’ll have to think,” the priest said. “I’ll have to pray.”
“Good,” Andrew said. “Think, pray, and visit my wife. I will see you in two weeks.”
The gamble he had taken did not worry Andrew until he was away from Reading. It was then that sleeplessness and guilt had their day; he added prayers of his own. He prayed he had not misjudged what seemed obvious. The full two weeks passed slowly. He had not seen Lilly since May; he had not had the courage to look at her until he had resolved part of his burden.
Brenda seemed not to notice his exhaustion, his worry. She was plagued with her own. “I have to tell you something important,” she said during their walk. “I’m afraid it’s very bad news, Andrew. I hope you will forgive me.”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ve thought it through.”
“It’s been very difficult, but if I’m to have the kind of life that isn’t marred by illness, I have to break free of the past. Oh, Andrew, I’m so sorry. I know you were hopeful that we could build some kind of life together--but it’s important that I find a way to start over. Father Demetrius believes a good thing to do would be to ask for an annulment of our marriage. I don’t know how I’ll live, but I’ll manage something with the help of--”
“You don’t have to worry about how you’ll live,” he said. “I won’t abandon you. I’ll pay for your care until you don’t need me anymore.”
“Oh, Andrew,” she said, tears coming to her eyes, “Father is so right about you! You’re such a generous, wonderful man.”
Generous, wonderful, and late, he thought. He saw the priest on his way out of town. “Thank you,” he said.
“It won’t be in time for your child,” the priest glumly informed him. “I suspect a year, perhaps two.”
“Don’t drag it out, Father.”
“I told you, it takes--”
“I’ll be here in September to see how she is. She thinks my visits will be good for her, even under the circumstances.”
“September, then,” Father Demetrius said unhappily, more than aware that Andrew intended to monitor the sanity of his wife, prepared to write those letters, prepared to expose the priest as a fraud. Extortion had worked better for Andrew than all the forgiveness, responsibility, and honorable suffering had. It left him bitter and angry when he left Reading. It left him wondering if he could really live without guilt. Which guilt? Remaining the long suffering husband while Lilly and his child endured alone? Staying with Lilly while Brenda remained the pawn of a power-hungry priest?
Lilly had not really considered Fletcher’s offer of marriage. She had said she couldn’t be happier married to a man she didn’t love. She had said there was no lie that could be better than bravely bearing the circumstances. But she had spoken all those words before she began to feel her child move w
ithin her, before she found the need for loose clothing, before she heard someone mutter poule de luxe as she passed. It was French for “prostitute deluxe.”
The last time she ventured out publicly had been to attend a small party for her mother and Noel Padgett on the July day they married. It was the single happy day in her summer, seeing her mother achieve the joy of a marriage of love. There had been very few present at the simple ceremony, only the friends and staff members who held Emily dear. And of course, Sophia Washington, who grew ever more beautiful in Lilly’s eyes as her face wrinkled and her eyes burned with that bright fire.
“Your Mama never been happier than this,” she whispered to Lilly. “Miz Em waited her whole life for this man.”
“I hope I don’t have to wait my whole life,” Lilly said quietly.
“That baby kickin’ you yet, child?” Sophia asked.
“You know?” Lilly asked in surprise.
“Now, how you going to keep a secret ‘round this house?” Sophia laughed, her grin wide and sparkling. “Jes’ see you don’t make it no worse on yourself.”
“Your advice hasn’t changed in twenty years,” Lilly told her.
“World hasn’t changed in longer than that,” she said.
Noel Padgett entered the apartments as comfortably as a husband as he had as a tenant or guest. He didn’t promise not to travel west again, but he sold his ranch and banked the money. He became a natural grandfather for Katherine.
Seeing Emily happy was not enough to ease Lilly’s loneliness. However determined she was, she did not find herself able to ignore blithely the looks, the insensitive comments. She began to use the back stairs to go to the stables to fetch herself transportation from the hotel rather than going through the foyer to the portico where she would have to face guests. She greeted Jake, a hand she had hired herself, and found her greeting was answered with downcast eyes; as politely as possible, he did not look at her. She was informed that two maids had left her employ because they feared the hotel was soon to become a house of ill repute. Though it was only two, it felt like two hundred.
Lilly could enjoy the gardens only at dawn; at dusk hotel guests walked there. Her accounts were not insulted by her growing girth, but her secretary was and could barely look into Lilly’s eyes when work was being assigned.
She kept whatever tears of self-pity she had to herself. Elizabeth bravely and sorrowfully resigned.
“Lilly, your grandmother has asked me who it was. Your resolve to have him has caused you too much pain for me to watch. They’re all talking--in the offices, in the dining room, in the stables. I’m afraid--”
“That this will stain you,” Lilly finished for her. Elizabeth promptly cried. “It’s all right, Bethie, darling. I do understand. You’ve never been brave, but you’ve been a good, good friend. Did you tell?”
“No,” she said, weeping.
“Well, thank you for that. I shouldn’t have asked you not to in the first place.”
“Lilly, it’s not too late to go away somewhere and--”
“Yes, it is,” she said flatly. “That won’t fool anyone now.”
“If he comes around, Lilly, I don’t know if I can--”
“Of course you can’t protect him--that’s not your job. I’m not going to insist you stay. You’re not a bondslave for goodness’ sake. But Bethie, this will pass. Come to visit us when my motherhood is not all the rage,” she said, pretending more courage than she felt. Losing Elizabeth was the second of many difficult revelations. Andrew’s absence, which had not seemed to raise the curiosity of anyone else, had been the first.
September brought cooler weather and Lilly’s increasing size. She found herself all but hiding. There were very few places she could go and not suffer averted eyes, muttered recriminations, or outright staring. There were a few surprises that she hadn’t counted on--the sympathy of a laundress who met her eyes and asked her forthrightly if she was feeling well and offered a home remedy for dizziness that had been in her family for years. There was the gift of a hand-sewn quilt from the wife of a groundskeeper. This led Lilly to believe that people wanted to rise above prejudice and intolerance, but didn’t quite know how. Those minor things helped her ease her distress in a difficult time.
The hotel maintained its reservations, but Lilly worried that if she were seen among them in her delicate condition, she would infect the business; even married women who were with child did not socialize publicly. The staff and her grandmother’s friends were having a gossip feast, but to guests she was anonymous; if they became acquainted only with Amanda, the business might endure. She realized that if she was completely wrong, if the behavior all around her didn’t adjust and improve, she would end up in the country or perhaps some other city, starting over. This suffering she could bear, but as her child became older, she would not be able to raise it among such reproof. She wouldn’t have her son or daughter shunned, friendless, and scrutinized. She might be forced to adopt some convenient lie after all--but she would not do it for all the wrong reasons.
When the weather was cold enough late in September for large capes, Lilly could entertain herself by taking a coach to Rittenhouse Square or the theater where she wasn’t known. She visited Fletcher’s townhouse for luncheon or tea and began to think of him as her dearest friend outside the family. With him she could be completely herself; she found a new hospitality with him in her condition. She had been meeting with him for years about business; there was a different kind of friendship with him when she called on him socially. He always worried about her comfort and health, and he talked to her about books and plays, subjects they hadn’t indulged before. Fletcher’s solicitous valet, Michael, would make them tea, stoke the fire, and sometimes shyly offer to get a lap robe for Lilly. It was Fletcher’s house where she felt the most nurtured.
“I should have married you,” she told him one day. “I could be happy here. I could work as well.”
“You’ll work again, Lilly. And you’re always welcome here.”
Even the outings to the city were going to become rare as her pregnancy threatened to exceed the winter capes she hid under. She took an Armstrong Arms coach to Philly to walk about in the cold air, and though she hadn’t asked Fletcher if she could visit, when the thought came, it was natural for her to walk to his house. She didn’t realize she shouldn’t presume on an open invitation.
No one answered her knock and she turned to walk away. Then, thinking perhaps Michael was out and Fletcher could be at work in his upstairs office, she tried the door and found it unlocked. She smiled to see the fire in the hearth on this cold fall day. Fletcher must be buried in paperwork. She began up the stairs when she heard Fletcher’s voice.
“When you touch me like that, I can’t concentrate on work.”
Lilly felt embarrassment rush to her cheeks. She turned very quietly to sneak away; she had not considered the obvious--that Fletcher might have a woman with him.
“Forget about work for a while. Come downstairs and let me fix you a drink.”
Lilly stopped suddenly. The voice was Michael’s. She felt confusion; her eyes began to shift in bewilderment. She had misheard. No, she had heard. A riot of confounding, unbelievable possibilities rushed to her head all at once. All she was sure of was that she couldn’t be found on the stair.
She fled from the house as quietly as she had come and walked briskly away, her cheeks on fire and her pulse racing. It was the need to sit down and think, slow her heartbeat and take stock that sent her back to the park where she could deal sensibly with her flood of emotions. Her first conclusion upset and disgusted her. Fletcher and Michael! She couldn’t fathom it. She had heard of such things but had never considered them really possible. Lilly, who had asked such blatant questions in her life, had never found that one on her lips.
She sat and stared, her mind awash in confusion, while she began to believe what she had heard. All these many years! Fletcher left the British courts because he could not be seduced by
a public life, because fame in the courts often preceded a political life and he had no interest in leaving himself so disposed to the whims of the public. He liked his work for Amanda in which he could be private, anonymous. His reputation as a ladies’ man reminded her of the number of times he had been asked why he didn’t marry. Being seen with women must have been a necessity to protect his private obsession.
A bachelor’s life, he had told her. His was much more than that. She shivered to think she might have married him. But then she felt tears come to her eyes. Whether or not she understood what she had just discovered, they cared for each other very deeply. What an enormous risk he had exposed himself to, offering to bring Lilly and a child into his life with Michael! She would have discovered them eventually. He couldn’t possibly have known what her reaction might be! She could expose him! Humiliate and destroy him! In outrage she could have easily cost him his secret. She could have cost him his happiness--Michael.
Yet, they had never been anything but kind to her. What had Fletcher told her? He was more tolerant than most. Love was decent and right, but risky. Of course he was tolerant--his secret was far more shocking than hers. How complex and confusing the world felt, suddenly. When she thought about the chances she took with her child, her love affair, her reputation, it all became far less overwhelming than what others faced in their intense, private lives.
She doubted this was a thing she would ever understand. She also knew that her ability to comprehend the true meaning of freedom hit a snag that she might not overcome. But there was one thing she was sure of: her own courage and the depth of her love. No one had ever risked as much for her as Fletcher had. How unselfish he had been. Though she did not go back to Fletcher’s house, she did not tell anyone what she had heard. And she did not confront Fletcher. That she was forever changed by this reality was her secret.
