Necessary Sins

by Elizabeth Bell

  Joseph sank onto a bench. Each time he thought the last blow had landed, his father added another. In July, the McAllisters’ wagon had capsized in the Platte River. Perry had not survived. Cathy made it only as far as a landmark called Independence Rock, where she gave birth to a son and decided to turn back. One of the trappers remained with her and the children while the other wagons disappeared into the mountains. Then childbed fever took the lives of Cathy and her newborn. At least he’d been baptized.

  Before the trapper could lead Cathy’s surviving children back to Fort Laramie, his horse spooked and threw him. Ten-year-old David and seven-year-old Sophie had been left utterly alone in the wilderness, two hundred miles from help. They began retracing their steps toward the fort; but if they’d not crossed paths with a half-breed Good Samaritan, the children would surely have perished as well.

  Hélène blotted her eyes with her handkerchief. “Can you imagine?”

  “It’s a miracle David and Sophie survived,” Joseph murmured. “Literally, a miracle.” Yet he struggled to praise God for this imperfect mercy.

  “They’re staying with former neighbors in Missouri now,” his father explained. “I’ve a few things to arrange first—patients I need to refer to colleagues—then I’ll fetch David and Sophie.”

  “You’ll be able to take them in to live with you?” Joseph asked.

  His father nodded. “We’ll make space for them on the third floor, across from Hélène and Liam.”

  “I don’t mind giving up my dressing chamber—truly I don’t,” Joseph’s sister asserted. “It will force me to be less vain. But a boy who’s already proven himself a man should not have to share a bedchamber with his little sister. And after what those children have already suffered…it seems so cruel, to bring them into a house where two of us are dying.”

  Their father the doctor did not contradict her. He only averted his eyes.

  Hélène twisted up her handkerchief. “David and Sophie need a refuge, not a cramped mausoleum.”

  Their father patted her hand. “It cannot be helped.”

  How Joseph wished he had a home to offer his niece and nephew.

  A few days later, Joseph celebrated Mass on Sullivan’s Island for the Irish workers. He would have welcomed the solitude on the other side of the island, the chance to listen for God’s voice and find sense in Cathy and Perry’s deaths. But Joseph had made a promise to his living sister.

  So he rode Prince only as far as the Stratfords’ cottage, where Hélène was staying. He found Tessa reading on the back porch, with Hannah seated beside her doing mending. At Joseph and Prince’s approach, Tessa set down her book and came to the railing.

  Though her wide straw hat obscured her eyes, her lips were smiling. “You are like something from a fairy story. While you are out of my sight, I tell myself I must have imagined you. Then, you reappear, as handsome as before.”

  Joseph’s mouth fell open.

  Tessa added in a rush: “Hélène has been resting. I’ll see if she’s awake.” And she darted into the cottage.

  Joseph glanced nervously at Hannah. She too was in shadow, but he thought he saw her smile. The question threatened to tumble from his tongue: “Mrs. Stratford was speaking to Prince, right?”

  The alternative was ludicrous. To direct such flattery at a Priest would be entirely inappropriate, even sacrilegious. To question Tessa’s intentions would be not only the height of arrogance but also calumny to Tessa. He must say nothing at all.

  Joseph tied Prince to the railing and climbed the porch steps. He cleared his throat and asked only: “Were Edward or Liam able to come?”

  Hannah shook her head. “They’re both busy in town.” Liam had been admitted to practice in the equity courts only a week ago.

  Tessa returned carrying an apple. “Hélène is rousing herself, but she still needs to dress.”

  Joseph thought Hannah glanced at him before she announced: “I’ll help her, Miss Tessa.” The black woman disappeared inside.

  Tessa offered Joseph the apple. “Have you broken your fast, Father?”

  “With the workers.” He shook his head to refuse the fruit. “Thank you.”

  “You have made Prince very happy.” Tessa held out the apple to his mount, who devoured it noisily. Tessa kept her eyes on Prince, her expression grave now. “Hélène told me about Cathy and Perry and your little nephew. I’m so sorry, Father.”

  Joseph stared at his boots. “Wherever their bodies may rest, I am certain their souls are Heaven-bound.”

  “Hélène also shared her worries about what it will be like for David and Sophie, to watch at such close quarters while their great-grandmother and their aunt…” Tessa trailed off.

  “Unfortunately, we have no alternative. My cousin Frederic still hasn’t surrendered his bachelorhood. David and Sophie need a mother. My Aunt Véronique and her husband have the space and the pecuniary resources to raise another family, but they say they want to travel.” Joseph leaned against the railing and sighed. “In truth, we were relieved. Véronique is a cold woman. She’s not what any of us want for the children. They need a true mother.”

  Still Tessa did not raise her eyes. “Father…I know I am not family, but—”

  “Of course you are! We are practically sister and brother, you and I.”

  Tessa smiled, but it did not last long. Hélène appeared, and Tessa addressed her too. “Since I learned about David and Sophie, I’ve been pondering and praying… It has been more than a year since— I must accept that Our Lord does not wish me to bear my own children.”

  Hélène came to squeeze her friend’s hand.

  Tessa looked up to her and then Joseph, hope and supplication in her eyes. “But I should very much like to be a mother to your nephew and niece—if your family would agree to it.”

  Cautiously, Hélène voiced the question before Joseph could: “Would Edward agree to it?”

  “There was a time when he would have refused,” Tessa acknowledged, “when he would have been jealous. But now, Edward is married to the plantation more than to me. We are like strangers sharing the same roof. We each inhabit our own little country, and I think I can welcome David and Sophie into mine without disturbing Edward’s very much.” Tessa lowered her eyes. “I will find a way to convince him. I cannot promise he will be a good father to the children.” She looked back to Joseph. “But they will have you, Father, and their grandfather. I would never wish to separate David and Sophie from their true family. They would be only two streets away; they could visit you often, and you could visit them.”

  To Joseph’s shame, the thought foremost in his mind was: I could visit Tessa often.

  “It’s a marvelous idea, Tessa.” Hélène embraced her friend. “We will ask Papa before he leaves. But I am certain he will agree. He’s as fond of you as we are.”

  Over his sister’s shoulder, Tessa’s eyes searched Joseph’s. “Do I have your blessing, Father?”

  “Of course. I could not choose a better mother.”

  When they’d broken their embrace, Tessa stared down at Hélène. “Are you really wearing them?”

  Hélène grinned. She pulled up her skirt and a single petticoat to reveal the black trousers underneath.

  Joseph smiled too. “They’re Liam’s?”

  His sister nodded. Then guilt darkened her face. “I know we’ve been planning this for weeks; but we’re in mourning now. I feel disloyal, enjoying myself so soon after Cathy…”

  “It was your father’s—your physician’s—idea,” Tessa reminded her. “And it’s our last week on the island.” It was already October. Very soon, the Stratfords’ slaves would close up the cottage. They would not return to the island till spring. And only their Lord knew how profoundly Hélène’s condition would change in six months’ time.

  “Cathy would understand,” Joseph assured Hélène. He suspected Cathy would not have understood; but she should have.

  Hélène was persuaded. Joseph led Prince, walking b
eside his sister and Tessa till they were out of sight of the other bathers and strollers. Then Joseph helped Hélène onto the horse’s back. Tessa arranged her friend’s skirts, and Joseph adjusted the stirrups. They had no side-saddle, so his sister had settled on trousers to allow her to ride astride. “Besides, I would confuse Prince,” she’d said, “hanging off one side of him like that!”

  As it was, the grey proved himself quite amenable to his new rider. With Tessa watching and laughing, Joseph dashed along the sand, leading Prince. Hélène leaned back into the sunlight, her face awash with peace, and lifted her arms as if she were flying.

  Chapter 35

  Show me your garden…and I will tell you what you are like.

  — Alfred Austin, The Garden that I Love (1905)

  Joseph’s father agreed to entrust David and Sophie to Tessa. Edward and his father consented upon several conditions. The children would be wards. Edward would provide David with an education and Sophie with a dowry, but he would deed them no property. Nor would they take the Stratford name.

  Instead, the Stratfords stipulated that the children use their mother’s name. Thanks to Joseph and his father, Lazare was known and respected in Charleston, whereas the name of an obscure dead Scotsman meant nothing to anyone. Except his children. Joseph’s father bristled at this qualification, but finally he signed.

  “Did the Stratfords think I would neglect my grandchildren if they carried a different name than me?” he blustered afterwards. “Maybe that’s how their set behaves, but not mine!”

  Joseph knew it also rankled his father that near-strangers could provide for his grandchildren better than he could, at least financially. He’d already spent most of his nest-egg: on a gift to start Cathy in California (which David had used to return to Missouri), on Hélène and Liam’s wedding holiday, and on Prince.

  Since the cathedral had no cemetery and St. Mary’s churchyard had no corner unfilled, Joseph’s father used the remainder of his funds to purchase a plot at St. Patrick’s in Radcliffeborough. There, two of his patients, free colored artisans, built a brick mausoleum. The men carved LAZARE on the sandstone arch above the door and three names on a limestone panel inside: Cathy’s, Perry’s, and the name of their newborn son, Ian. But of course the crypt behind the panel held no remains.

  Joseph reflected on the words he would say in remembrance of his sister, his brother-in-law, and the nephew he would never meet. He decided it was fitting that the name Lazare should appear on an empty tomb. It was, after all, the French form of Lazarus. One day, Cathy, Perry, and Ian would arise too.

  As if to emphasize the depth of his own pockets, Edward purchased a new house on Church Street, in one of the oldest parts of Charleston. This house was twice as large as Joseph’s father’s, with a total of twelve rooms (not counting the piazzas or the cellar). Edward wished to avoid his wards, it seemed.

  Tessa admitted her relief at leaving Friend Street and its memories behind. Tessa still visited her children’s graves; she still prayed for them; but she would no longer be forced to live in the house where she had lost them. Her wedding night had taken place in the Friend Street house, too. In the new house on Church Street, Tessa and her husband would occupy separate bedchambers.

  She was particularly delighted by her new garden. Edward had considered a house on the Battery with a smaller lot, but Tessa had persuaded him to take this one. “The moment I saw the garden, I felt as if I belonged here,” she told Joseph. The previous owner, a widower who would take up permanent residence at his summer home in Rhode Island, seemed relieved to have found a successor who appreciated his roses. These thrived against the brick wall that bordered Longitude Lane. At the back of the large lot, fruit trees and vegetables beds supplied the kitchen. Many of the ornamentals had become overgrown, however, while others suffered unnecessarily. “All the better to make a new start,” Tessa said.

  Charlestonians favored parterres: geometric beds bounded by low hedges and wide paths. To please Edward, Tessa would keep a parterre in the area between the house and the front wrought iron fence. And she would not dream of uprooting the roses. But in the rest of the space, she would make the garden her own.

  She took her cue from Capability Brown. With suggestions from Joseph and assistance from her slaves, Tessa began to create an informal garden: a small oasis of shrubs and trees joined by grass that might be mistaken for a natural woodland glade. “As little brick and oyster-shell as possible,” Tessa declared. “I want it to be soft—so it can be a play-ground for the children. I want them to feel at home here too.” She could hardly wait until spring.

  In the house itself, Hélène helped Tessa decorate David and Sophie’s chambers in preparation for their arrival. Joseph visited one evening for the sheer pleasure of watching Tessa smile—not for a few moments but for hours. His sister’s humor rebounded easily; he did not fear so much for her. Tessa’s despair was more stubborn, her joy more timid. Finally, she seemed to have found her way again. Joseph had not seen Tessa aglow like this since she was carrying Bean.

  Perhaps this was why God had denied Tessa her own children, Joseph thought: so that her heart and her home would be open for David and Sophie.

  That wicked part of him protested: Do you really think she could not have been mother to them all?

  Perhaps her suffering had served merely to persuade Edward to pity her.

  In fact, Joseph’s grandmother did not live to see David and Sophie again. Abiding by her wishes, Joseph laid her to rest not in the Lazare mausoleum but atop her husband at St. Mary’s. Joseph, his mother, and his sister assured Tessa that their agreement would not change; she would not lose the children. Even now, on their long journey back to Charleston, Joseph’s father would be telling them about Tessa.

  When Sophie saw the chevaux-de-frise atop the Stratfords’ wrought iron fence, she gasped: “It’s like Sleeping Beauty’s castle!” These brambles certainly might be the work of a deranged fairy: iron spikes longer than a man’s hand that canted in half a dozen directions. Tessa wanted to remove the chevaux-de-frise, but Edward refused. In the wake of Denmark Vesey’s slave plot, many Charlestonians had installed these iron spikes, like porcupines bristling their quills.

  When Tessa first showed the children her garden, Joseph accompanied his niece and nephew. David hung back, as if he didn’t belong with them, but everything intrigued Sophie. Her favorite part was the old brick wall with the climbing Noisettes. Joseph had seen the roses at a distance, but he’d not indulged himself by lingering or asking questions.

  “Allow me to introduce you,” Tessa smiled, tipping a white rose to face them. The blossom was so densely petalled, it turned downward under its own weight. “This is Lamarque.”

  “It looks like your petticoats!” Sophie exclaimed.

  Tessa laughed. She did wear fuller skirts than Joseph’s mother or sister—that was the fashion, so that was what Edward required.

  Sophie had her nose in one of the Lamarques. “And it smells like lemonade!”

  “I think so too,” Tessa agreed. “But this rose down here—I can’t decide what it smells like. Will you help me?”

  Sophie nodded and skipped ahead of them, toward another climbing Noisette. Against the light green of its foliage and the faded red of the brick, this rose was even more stunning—not the color of crisp linen but soft flesh.

  Tessa tried to engage David: “Lamarque and this other rose that’s still in bloom—they’re siblings, just like you and Sophie. Their parents are Blush Noisette and—”

  “There’s a secret door!” Sophie cried, and dashed to it. The canes, leaves, and blossoms of the flesh-colored rose half-concealed a narrow gate set into the brick garden wall. Sophie stretched up onto her toes and craned her neck, but she still couldn’t reach the wrought iron window at the top of the gate. “Where does this go?”

  “Only onto Longitude Lane,” Tessa told her. “This house’s previous owner was a merchant, so he used the gate as a shortcut to the wharves.�
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  Joseph’s niece rattled the doorknob. “Do you have the key?”

  “Of course. We can use it in the spring, if you like, when we take the ferry to Sullivan’s Island.”

  Sophie nodded in anticipation but still stared longingly toward the window. “Give me a boost, Uncle Joseph?”

  “A what?” he asked, though he understood. As he obliged, Tessa laughed too, clearly unconcerned that her new ward did not speak like a Charleston lady. Through the round grille of the window, Joseph and his niece saw the neighbors’ live oak reaching across the cobbles and flagstones of Longitude Lane. “French gardeners have a term for this kind of openwork,” Joseph told them, nodding at the wrought iron window. “They would call it a claire-voie.”

  Sophie puzzled it out. “A light-way?”

  “Très bien!” Joseph praised as he set her down. “You know your French.”

  Her face darkened. “Mama taught us.”

  “Did she have roses, at your home in Missouri?” Tessa asked.

  The girl nodded.

  “If you remember what they looked like, we could plant them here, too.”

  “Mama’s roses weren’t as pretty as these.” Sophie touched the nearest bloom.

  Joseph could see now that the roses weren’t truly flesh-colored. He examined them in awe. The blossoms were golden at their centers, then peach till they flushed pink at the tips of their petals.

  “Can you imagine anything more beautiful?” Tessa asked.

  He couldn’t—at least, not in a rose.

  “They’re called Jaune Desprez. They were the first Noisettes to show any yellow. They’ve been quite the sensation—and not only for their appearance. What do you think these roses smell like, Sophie?”

  The girl sniffed, then hesitated. “Peaches?”

  “There isn’t a wrong answer,” Tessa assured her. “But they make me think of Passion fruit. Did you have Passion vines in Missouri?”