The Last Broken Promise

by Grace Walton

  “Is this Sister Berta’s confession or yours?” the old man asked sourly.

  “Sorry, Father.” Jess bit her lip. “Sister Berta was crying over the rain barrel. So of course, I asked what was wrong.”

  “Of course.”

  Jess was tired of dealing with his surliness. Everyone should show common courtesy, even priests. “Anyone would have asked. The poor woman was a puddle for God’s sake,” she explained.

  His sudden gasp told her she had sinned, again. “I’m sorry Father, one day I will learn not to take the Lord’s name in vain. It’s just that living with three older brothers does tend to widen one’s horizons, verbally that is,” she added lamely.

  “Do not start telling tales of your brothers,” he commanded. “Let’s stick with your own sins, shall we?”

  “Fine.” A tiny frown wrinkled her brow. “Where was I?”

  “Sister Berta and a rain barrel.”

  The memory made a sweet smile settle on her lips. “I asked her why she was crying over the rain barrel? She told me she could see an image of the Virgin Mary in the water. I looked Father, honest to g…”

  He cleared his throat to prevent her from taking the Lord’s name in vain again. If he didn’t do something to move the proceedings along, he was going to end up being in this stuffy confessional all day long.

  “Honest to goodness.” Accusing green eyes flashed at him from behind the screen. “I didn’t see a thing in that rain barrel, not a thing, except some disgusting slime on one side. You know, Father Thomas, someone really ought to tell the Reverend Mother about the nasty condition of that rain barrel. I know I wouldn’t want to drink out of it.”

  “Why don’t you let her know, my dear?” Father Thomas wanted to be finished. “And forgive me, but I still don’t see how you have blasphemed.” He tried to comfort her. She did seem to want to always take the whole weight of the world upon her shoulders.

  “I’m getting to that,” Jess replied mulishly. This was her sin and he wasn’t going to cheat her out of confessing it. “Sister Berta asked me if I saw the Holy Mother. I had to be honest, so I said, no. I told her all I saw was green muck and I was sure the Virgin had better things to do than mess about in slime.”

  “That was the blasphemy?” Hallelujah, he thought with relief. We’re almost done.

  Jess cocked her head to one side trying to get a better view through the grillwork. She knew she wasn’t supposed to do that, but talking to someone you couldn’t see was difficult. She needed to be able to see his expression, so she could gauge just how bad this sin was.

  “Doesn’t it seem like blasphemy to you?” she asked tentatively.

  Father Thomas leaned as far away as he could. He rested his weary back against the opposite corner of the booth. “Sounds like impertinence to me. I think the best thing for you to do is apologize to Sister Berta.”

  “I just told her the truth,” Jess reminded him stubbornly. Telling the truth shouldn’t be a sin.

  “No you didn’t. You gave Sister Berta your opinion.”

  “She asked if I saw the Virgin in the barrel.” Jess waved a hand to punctuate her words.

  Father Thomas caught the scent of lavender drift through the elaborate woodwork. She always wore a distillation of lavender. It had warned him many a time when she was coming his way.

  “And the correct answer to that question would have been, a simple no. She did not ask for your opinion on what, to her, was a very spiritual experience. She only asked if you saw the Virgin.” He thought he was being incredibly patient. “The Bible says, let your yes be yes, and your no be no.”

  “But that’s so boring,” she huffed softly, hoping he wouldn’t hear her, but he did.

  “If you find the restricted life of the convent boring, you should not attempt to take up Holy Orders.” This was his chance. This was his golden opportunity to sway her away from becoming a nun.

  “But Father, I have told you many times God has impressed upon me that he has a special plan for my life.” Jess was not going to give up so easily. “And the most special, holy thing I can imagine is becoming a nun. I want to surrender my life totally to God.”

  “Daughter, you have told me this too many times. But you do realize God has a special, holy plan for every person’s life? Psalm One Hundred Thirty-Nine tells about His special plans for us all. I encourage you to read it, my child, again.”

  “But Father Thomas, I want to give my life to God,” Jess persisted.

  Father Thomas rose to leave the booth. “Jessamine, everyone should give their life to God. But one doesn’t have to be a nun or a priest or a monk, or a preacher to do that. Now, enough for today. It’s almost supper time.”

  She tried to stop him as he left the confessional. The rotund priest ignored her. He started down the aisle to leave the building,

  “But what about my penance?” she wailed.

  Without turning around, he answered, “Memorize Psalm One Thirty-Nine.”

  Father Thomas shoved his arms into his cassock as he marched along the walk to Mother Marguerite Marie’s private chambers. A brisk, late summer wind played with the hem of his gown. His feet crunched across the layer of dead leaves littering the walk. Indian Summer was his favorite time of the year. But he wasn’t enjoying it this year. Not with the problem of Jessamine St. John hanging over his head. As much as she exasperated him, he cared for her. At first, he’d tried not to like her. He’d told himself she was a spoiled, rich little pagan from the Church of England. He was sure once the novelty of Catholicism wore off, she’d be running back to that pale imitation of the true church. But she hadn’t. She’d embraced his religion with fervor. And she’d proven herself to be a hard worker. Ready to do even the filthiest jobs. The thing he liked the most about Jessamine was her pure heart. Very seldom had he seen a person with a truly pure heart. But even with all those things in her favor, Thomas knew she was not destined to be a nun. She was destined to a wife, he was sure of it. And he pitied the man the good Lord picked for her. That particular man would surely have his hands full.

  Now Thomas was on his way to try, one more time, to convince the Mother Superior that young Miss Jessamine St. John needed to leave the convent. The young woman needed to spread her wings. Father Thomas was rather glad he’d be cloistered when she burst upon the world. She’d no doubt shine like a candle in its darkness, with the more than occasional dramatic spark and sputter. But now, he needed to focus on what he would say to Mother Marguerite Marie. It would be the truth, of course, but after all, even the apostles had told the gospels differently. It was all a matter of perception, he nodded, agreeing with himself. He just had to convince Mother Marguerite to see things his way.

  Looking up, he squinted at the pale waning sun. The rose-bricked walk led up to a small neat cottage. This was where Mother Marguerite Marie lived. His fist hesitated for a second at the door. But then with resolve, he rapped sharply on the rough wood. He only had to wait a moment before the latch raised and the door swung slowly inward. The dark interior of the one room cottage made the woman in the doorway stand out in sharp relief. She was small but held her body erect with immense dignity. Large, pale blue eyes as brilliant as they were intelligent raised calmly to his face.

  Father Thomas had never been able to figure out how old the Mother Superior might be. He had 62 years in his dish, but she made him feel like a babe every time they spoke. The aristocratic bones of her face had an elegant, timeless quality. She was beautiful in her kindness and grace.

  Mother Marguerite Marie inclined her regal head. “You do me great honor with this visit, Father Thomas.” She stood to one side and motioned him into the small room.

  It was this quaintly aristocratic turn of speech that had started the rumors years ago. Father Thomas had only been at the convent two weeks when he had first heard the speculations about Mother Marguerite Marie’s early life. One of the older nuns gleefully told him everything she knew. It was said the Mother Superior had been a French
countess before the bloody Citizen’s Revolution had taken her noble husband and sons. She’d turned to the church for sanctuary. And she’d found a calling for her shattered life. Father Thomas didn’t know if the stories were true. But looking at her now he could believe they might be. She looked very much like a countess inviting a poor relation into her drawing room.

  “Thank you, for inviting me in,” Father Thomas murmured humbly.

  He might be the son of a jumped-up Irish baron, but he still felt like a butcher’s boy when it was time to have an audience with the Reverend Mother. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkened room. Mother was very thrifty, it was a necessity. Tithes were slow in coming. The few Catholics, in the back country, were not wealthy. Only one small candle burned in a pewter holder perched on the corner of her small, rough desk. There was a healthy fire burning in the grate. That helped Father Thomas find his way to a straight-backed chair facing the writing table. He waited for the woman to slowly shuffle across the tiny room. She gingerly seated herself before he sat down himself.

  She stared at him with eyes as inscrutable as those of a cat. He waited silently. Polite manners and church hierarchy kept him from speaking first. So they sat. And they sat some more. Father Thomas always hated this part of his interviews with Mother Marguerite Marie. Quiet was a wonderful thing when one was alone in a shadowy chapel. But it was highly uncomfortable when you were the sole focus of Mother’s obelisk stare. Father Thomas often wondered what went through her mind at these times. Was she praying for wisdom? Was she trying to read his mind? Was she hoping to intimidate the short, pudgy man? He never knew. Because just as the silence stretched to the snapping point, she spoke.

  “What brings you to me this day, Father Thomas?”

  Thomas jumped. Her low musical voice was always such a surprise after the dead quiet. “Well, Mother.” He squirmed sideways in the chair. “I wanted to talk with you about our newest postulate.”

  “I take you to mean Jessamine.” Mother settled back in her own chair. She folded her weathered hands across her bosom. “Since she is the only postulate we’ve had here in fifteen years.”

  “Yes, I mean Jessamine.” His smile was strained. “I’m very concerned she may not be suited for a religious life.”

  “Oh?” The solemn expression never wavered on the old woman’s face. “And on what do you base this opinion?”

  “Mother, the girl is very... well, she’s very... that is to say she’s very....” He struggled to come up with a word that fit Jessamine.

  “Spontaneous?” suggested the Mother Superior helpfully.

  “Exactly.” He blew out a sigh of relief. “And she’s also inclined toward... uh, that is, she’s inclined toward...” He was stuck again.

  “Enthusiasm?” the papery dry voice of Marguerite Marie whispered across the desk to him.

  “Enthusiasm. Absolutely.” He nodded vigorously. “Jessamine is a fine girl. But she’s totally unsuited to take up Holy Orders.”

  “Because she is both spontaneous and enthusiastic?” There was a note of challenge in the old woman’s voice now.

  “No, that’s not it exactly.” Father Thomas tried earnestly to get her to understand. “It’s not just those things. It’s the way she acts that tells me she shouldn’t be a nun. There’s a vitality to her that calls out to a man.”

  “Father?” There was stern reproach covering the old nun’s face.

  “Not me, Reverend Mother, I wasn’t speaking of myself,” he rushed to correct what she was obviously thinking. “Although, I confess, I’d have to be dead not to notice her stunning beauty. What I’m talking about is an inner spark. There’s a light in her eyes that tempts a man. Mother, I believe with all my heart Jessamine St. John is destined to be a wife and mother, not a cloistered nun. It would be an awful shame if we let her continue pursuing a path that will only make her unhappy in the years to come.”

  She nodded. The folds of her wimple fell forward to hide her face in their shadow. “I agree with you, Father Thomas. That would not only be a shame, but a great sin as well. I said as much to her brother on the day he brought Jessamine and her aunt, here to live with us.”

  “You did?” he asked confused.

  “Yes, I did.” She chuckled. “I told Connor St. John that his sister would never be a nun.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I knew because Jessamine is so much like me at her age.” Tender memories filled her eyes with tears.

  “But Mother,” he protested. “You are a faithful bride of the church.”

  “I pray that’s true Thomas. But before I was the church’s bride, I was the bride of a man. A wonderful, wonderful man.”

  Father Thomas turned to stare at the fire. The pain in the woman’s face was private. He couldn’t make himself watch her grief. “Mother, please don’t feel you need to explain.”

  “But I want you to know, Thomas. It is no deep, dark secret. God has always comforted me, and I’m assured He will continue to do so. When I was a young girl, my father betrothed me to the eldest son of the Comte des Loges. I met him the day of our wedding. I loved him instantly and completely. The blessing of the Lord was that the Comte loved me just as intensely. Marital love was not commonplace in French society when I was young. Nor is it now, if what I read in letters from my friends is correct. Our devotion to each other was the talk of Paris for twenty-five lovely years. We were blessed with two fine sons. It sounds like a fairy tale, no?” Marguerite Marie sounded very French in that moment. “But then the Revolution came. We were the hated Aristos. It didn’t matter that my husband’s family was kind and generous to all. The poor mob was so deceived. They insisted we must pay for the sins of others. We were thrown into prison. It was winter. There was no warm clothing and no fires to be wasted on people who were condemned to meet Madame La Guillotine. I watched my youngest son die, coughing and spitting up blood. He was fifteen. Andre, our oldest son, went with his father in the tumbrel to Madame La Guillotine. Our cruel jailors thought I should go to watch. Even though I myself was not to die, because my father had recanted his piddling title to save himself and his wealth, you see. But since the gaolers had the power, they decided I should watch as my husband and son were murdered.” Her voice broke. Tears filled her pale blue eyes. “Andre was so very stoic and handsome as he and my dear husband mounted the steps to be executed. I did get to kiss them both. For that, I will be eternally thankful. The crowd yelled obscenities, but I kissed them.” Her lip trembled. She stopped speaking.

  Father Thomas reached a hand out to stop her. This was too painful. Mother Marguerite Marie was a woman of immense dignity. He was watching her dissolve before his eyes. “Mother, please stop. I don’t want to hear this.”

  “I understand, Thomas, but I need to tell it.” Her voice was steady now and level. “Please let me finish.” She waited for his permission.

  Father Thomas nodded. What else could he do?

  “I kissed them both. I watched as they went to their death. They were both very brave when the end came. Andre was sacrificed first. They wanted my husband to watch his heir slaughtered. Then my husband was killed. He turned. He bowed to me. Then he walked, like the nobleman he was, to his death. Once they were dead, the mob had no further use for me. So, I was released there in Paris, by the bloody basket that held the heads of my family. My father helped me enter Holy Orders. He was glad to have me settled so he could get on with his own life. Before my exalted marriage, we were only comfortable, gentle folk. The stigma of true aristocracy never fell upon him. So, in the aftermath of the Revolution, he saw there was money to made and loose women to seduce. For a man such as my father, it was the Devil’s Own Play-Yard.”

  “So you came to Virginia to start a new life?” Father Thomas asked in a voice heavy with compassion. He knew well what it was like to become a burden to those whom you loved.

  Mother Marguerite Marie nodded. She gave a little Gallic shrug. “My old life was destroyed. I knew I could never love aga
in. Not like I’d loved my husband, Henri. So, it seemed a religious life was the best option. But that brings us back to Jessamine, doesn’t it? I want her to have what I had with my Henri. The love of a good man and children.” She sighed wistfully. “Perhaps the story of her life will end differently than mine. Thomas, I have spent hours on my knees pleading for God’s blessing for Jessamine. I still feel she has another calling, one that involves a husband and children.”

  “So do I, Mother,” he added fervently and cast a glimpse heavenward. “I definitely agree with you. The girl needs a strong man to control her wild impulses.”

  “Wild impulses?” The old woman tilted her head in confusion.

  “Well, I certainly think bringing a goat into our chapel is a wild impulse,” he defended himself.

  Mother Marguerite Marie’s laugh filled the little chamber. “I have it on a very good authority the goat needed prayer.” She laughed again. “I advised Jess to keep praying, but to please leave the poor goat in the barn.”

  “Laugh if you will, you haven’t heard what the imp did today.” Thomas huffed. His arms crossed on his chest.

  “No, I haven’t.” She smiled at the frowning man. “But I confess, though it goes against our code of conduct, I can’t wait for you to tell me.”

  “She has gravely offended one of the sisters,” he insisted.

  “She has?”

  “She absolutely has.” He was adamant. “Poor Sister Berta is crestfallen.”

  “Oh, dear.” The Mother Superior clucked. “Sister Berta?”

  Father Thomas crossed his legs. He writhed in the hard straight-backed chair. “Well, perhaps crestfallen is too strong a term. But Bertha is disturbed.”