They processed into the cathedral. Joseph genuflected and prayed: “May the Lord be in my heart and in my lips…” Joseph clasped his hands before him and sang for joy. But it was Tessa in his heart and in his lips, as much as God.
“Ex-ul-tet…” the hymn began: Rejoice… Joseph let the ancient words flow through him: the plainchant whose beauty belied its name. This was an aria to surpass Mozart and Donizetti, all the more elaborate for its lack of accompaniment. Lifted by jubilation and weighted with yearning, every syllable rose and fell, dipping and turning like the incense that billowed around him. For a quarter of an hour, he stopped time. For more than a thousand years, men of God had chanted the Exultet on this day.
Before celibacy became compulsory, how many of those men had been husbands? Ever since, how many had sung these words to a beloved hidden in the crowd? Even now, Father Wallace must be chanting the Exultet to Sarah.
“O truly necessary sin…” Joseph sang. “O truly blessed night… The sacredness of this night dispels wickedness, washes away sin, restores innocence to the fallen, and joy to those in sorrow…”
After Joseph bowed his head and the last note died away, the twelve lessons began. The first reading was from Genesis: “And God said: Let there be light. And God saw the light that it was good…” With his eyes, Joseph saw the Paschal Candle; but in his mind, he saw Tessa’s blue lamp.
When Joseph laid Christ’s Body on Tessa’s tongue, she closed her mouth so quickly, her lips brushed his fingers—like a tiny Baptism. The memory of her warmth remained with him beyond the last “Amen.”
As soon as he’d unvested, Joseph longed to run after her. But it wasn’t even noon yet. Tessa’s slaves would be in the house. He must wait the ten excruciating hours till sunset.
He blessed the homes he hadn’t blessed on Epiphany. He returned to the cathedral and heard the Confessions of parishioners who planned to receive the Eucharist at the Easter Mass. It was only mid-April, and already the closeness of the booth felt oppressive. He did not visit his own confessor. Joseph knew what the man would say.
By late afternoon, Joseph was exhausted. He must conserve his strength, or he would faint before he even caught sight of Tessa again. He allowed himself a little water, since this was permitted during the forty-hour fast.
Before he lay down, he knelt by his bed and prayed for a sign. The key felt like a millstone around his neck. Was he truly about to do this: skulk into another man’s home to ogle his wife? On Holy Saturday? It wasn’t too late. He could still decide not to go to her.
Somehow Joseph managed to rest; but he did not dream. He rose only to kneel in prayer again. “O God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” Above all, be merciful to Tessa. I am her Priest; her soul is in my care. If this is mortal sin, let the punishment fall on me alone. Give me a sign that whatever I do, SHE will be saved…
I do not pray as Saint Augustine did in his wicked youth: “Grant me chastity and continency, but not yet.” Instead I beg You: Grant me chastity and continency—and Tessa. Grant me the strength to live without the touch of her flesh, but do not ask me to live without the sound of her voice and the sight of her face.
The sun was setting; but David would still be awake. Joseph must wait an hour or two longer. This was his last chance to think things through, to make the right choice once and for all.
He browsed the books in the library downstairs. Inscribed on these pages, there were a thousand reasons to remain in this sanctuary, to turn his back on Tessa. He’d read and recited the arguments so many times, they rattled around in his head—admonishing him, condemning him. “It is necessary, above all things, to abstain from looking at women, and still more from looking at them a second time. … Our intercourse with women should be passing, and as if we were in flight.”
Joseph noticed that someone had left a pink ribbon in one of the books. It was Saint Teresa’s Interior Castle—his own copy, though he hadn’t read it since seminary. He’d lent it to Tessa and later to Hélène. He opened to the page with the ribbon. Someone had underlined: “it is not so essential to think much as to love much; do, then, whatever most arouses you to love.”
Joseph released his breath. Saint Teresa was speaking of loving God; but Joseph had asked for a sign. Writing in someone else’s book, the pink ribbon—these were traces of his sister, surely. She was guiding him even now, his Hélène—his light. Joseph closed his eyes, then the book, and pressed it against the key still nestled close to his heart. “I hear you, Ellie.”
He wondered if his sister had read Juliana of Norwich. Hélène would have liked her. Perhaps they were conversing even now.
Chapter 51
Thou art…a locked garden, a fountain sealed up.
Thy plants are a paradise of pomegranates…
— Canticle of Canticles 4:12-13
Joseph left the theological library and the Biblical garden behind him. He tried to progress nonchalantly toward Church Street, as if he were out for an evening stroll. But the nearer he came to Tessa, the faster each step followed the last. By the time he reached Meeting Street, he was racing. Anyone who recognized him would think he was rushing to a deathbed. The truth was quite the opposite.
Yet he felt as if he were a skiff careening around breakers, as if this mad dash could end in no way but splinters. Then, on the corner of Longitude Lane, he found his bearings at last. The blue lamp was shining for him, like a lighthouse in the midst of a storm.
Before turning into the alley, he gripped the Stratfords’ wrought iron fence to steady himself. He remained light-headed from his fast, and sweat was collecting around his waist. He doffed his wool hat, unbuttoned his wool coat, and panted. Only April, and already so warm. This was Charleston, after all.
In the next moment, he noticed the ghoulish shadows the fence cast on the sidewalk and across his own body. He saw the chevaux-de-frise that guarded Tessa’s house as if for the first time: the spikes meant to protect the inhabitants’ lives, their valuables, and the virtue of their women. To impale lustful negroes.
Joseph’s throat tightened with guilt for sins not yet committed—and so many which already had been. Beyond Edward, beyond even God, there remained this: Joseph’s deception of the woman he claimed to love. This was the barrier he’d not yet overcome: the taint in his blood. He’d pushed it aside and refused to think about it at all, because he was terrified it would outweigh everything else. “For what communion hath light with darkness?” Before he put his colored hands on Tessa’s alabaster flesh, he must tell her the truth about his family. And as soon as he did, these midnight meetings would become unnecessary. Tessa would never again love him as anything but a brother.
Suddenly, he was literally cast into darkness: the blue lamp disappeared from the window. Joseph’s heart nearly stopped. Tessa couldn’t know what he was thinking. And Edward couldn’t have returned home; the carriageway entered the lot a few feet from where Joseph stood. Perhaps Tessa had grown tired of waiting.
Joseph had asked for a sign. This was it. He’d missed his chance.
Then the twin lights of the blue lamp appeared on the piazza and floated into the garden, toward the far gate. Tessa had seen him. She was coming out to meet him—but not here, where anyone could see. She was flying to their secret door.
Joseph released his breath. He replaced his hat and fled from the shadows of the chevaux-de-frise. He followed the scent of the Noisettes to their wall. The flagstones of Longitude Lane stretched out before him like twin paths, illuminated just enough by the full moon and the street lamps at each end. Deserted, but for him and the roses.
First the white Lamarques greeted him, crisp and luminous in the pale light. Then the sweeter, muskier scent of the Jaune Desprez, luscious as pineapple with heads the color of flesh—unless you were a negro. And finally, from inside Tessa’s garden, the fragrance of gardenias.
She was waiting for him on the other side of her gate, holding their blue lamp. For a moment, she only grinned at him through the claire-
voie. “You saw,” she whispered. “You understood. You came.”
He did not even need the key; she’d already unlocked her gate for him. One last time, he glanced right and left to ensure they were alone. As Tessa opened the door, Joseph stared down at the line where stone became grass. He thought of Saint Denis; and then he stepped over the threshold into Tessa’s garden.
As soon as he was inside, she clasped his hand. Joseph looked for the myrtle hedge—as if it might have vanished since February, exposing them to the slave quarters. But the myrtle kept their secrets.
“You needn’t worry about the slaves seeing the light,” Tessa told him in a low voice. “They know I come out to my garden at night sometimes: to inhale the moonflowers or to pray.” She looked not to her statue of the Blessed Virgin but to her Arbor Vitae, the tallest tree in her garden. “This is my cathedral, too.”
She was descended from Druids who worshipped trees.
Tessa had changed her attire since the Vigil Mass; she was in glorious dishabille. If he’d been able to see as much through the claire-voie, Joseph might have thought twice about joining her. Tessa wore a wrapper of vivid blue edged in gold, the same colors as their lamp. A wide print bordered each hem, featuring scarlet flowers that resembled nothing so much as pomegranate blossoms.
Joseph sided with the scholars who believed the Tree of Knowledge was a pomegranate, the forbidden fruit of Paradise. But other scholars argued that the Tree of Life was a pomegranate.
Tessa had buttoned the pomegranate wrapper only to the gold sash at her waist; below, the openwork embroidery of her white petticoat peeked through. At least the shape of the bodice proved she’d not yet shed her corset. She still wore pearl earrings too. Neither had she let down her hair, her plait done up simply in the way that resembled a Renaissance halo.
The grass muffled their footsteps as he allowed Tessa to lead him within sight of the white piazza. Then, sweat rolled down his spine again, and he stopped. She turned, frowning at him in the light of the blue lamp.
Joseph looked back in the direction of the slave quarters. He couldn’t meet her eyes. He recalled Jefferson’s treatise on the differences between negroes and whites. Negroes “secrete more by the glands of the skin,” that great man of science had explained, “which gives them a very strong and disagreeable odour.”
Joseph swallowed. “Tessa…there is something you do not know about me.”
She seemed to hesitate. “Yes?”
“By rights, my father should have been a slave. I have African blood, Tessa.”
Of all the reactions he’d imagined, Joseph had not anticipated this. When he managed to look back at her, Tessa’s eyes were crinkled up, and she was grinning. “You finally told me.”
For a moment, Joseph only blinked at her. At last he realized: “Hélène told you.”
“Years ago.”
“Y-You never said anything.”
“Neither did you. I knew you’d tell me when you were ready.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Do you think less of me because my parents are poor?”
“It’s hardly the same.”
“Isn’t it?” She caressed his palm with her thumb, as she’d done at the opera. Then she tugged on his hand again.
Caught in her tide, he washed up the steps of the piazza and into the entry hall. The only sound was the tall case clock, ticking loudly in the darkness. The spiral staircase loomed above them, the familiar become suddenly foreign.
“David?” Joseph whispered to Tessa.
“He blew out his lamp an hour ago. Clare is also asleep. I just gave her to Hannah. She’ll stay with her in the nursery.” Tessa led him to the first step.
Joseph hesitated. He hadn’t expected her to be out of her dress already. “Surely it would be wiser to remain in the parlor…”
“Only if you wish to arouse the suspicions of my neighbors. They are accustomed to me sitting up at night reading or with Clare—but I do it in my bedchamber.”
Joseph gulped and followed her up the stairs. He half expected one of the steps to shriek in accusation beneath his feet; but they were as silent as tombstones. Still he glanced above them in worry, as if he might find David’s young face peering down at them. When he and Tessa reached the second floor, Joseph saw the glow beneath the door of the nursery, nothing more. Her husband’s room was dark.
Tessa led him into her bedchamber, closing the door quietly behind them. Still it clicked with finality. In spite of himself, Joseph’s attention went immediately to the bed. Two pillows lay atop the smooth counterpane, the green brocade bed-curtains drawn open. Across the room, Tessa’s méridienne was emerald too. In vestments, green was the color of ordinary time. This was anything but ordinary.
Tessa closed the inner jalousie shutters of the left-most window. Then she plucked off his hat and set it down next to their lamp, on the table he’d used so many times as an altar. Fortunately the sick call cabinet was shut tight. While he was thinking about the crucifix tucked inside, Joseph realized Tessa had undone the sash of her wrapper and was beginning to undo the buttons.
“Don’t—” He choked on the word.
She peered up at him through her lashes. “I refuse to wear this corset a minute longer.”
Did she think he was made of stone? While Tessa unbuttoned her wrapper, Joseph stared determinedly at their lamp. He’d not yet had a chance to examine the fine French craftsmanship. Above the two burners, the oil reservoir took the shape of a fountain. Two exotic, golden birds perched on its edge. They had crests and luxuriant tails; he thought perhaps they were phoenixes.
Tessa’s voice broke into his thoughts: “I cannot do this by myself. I can either ask Hannah—and probably wake Clare—or…”
She’d peeled off her blue wrapper now. The neckline of her chemise was low, exposing her gorgeous collarbones. This chemise had no buttons, only a delicate line of embroidery just beneath a gathered draw-string. Her corset was quilted white on white, patterned simply but beautifully with flowers. Joseph had seen his mother and sisters’ corsets when they weren’t wearing them; he knew such garments laced down the back. But on the front of this corset, laces fastened together each gusset as well, so that they might be opened. This must be a nursing corset, he realized. The knowledge retarded his lust only briefly.
“Will you help me?”
Slowly, Joseph nodded. Tessa turned her back and motioned first to the draw-string of her petticoat. Joseph tried not to let his hands tremble. He undid the string, and the petticoat slid to the floor, pooling at their feet like a fallen white rose.
There was another petticoat beneath the first, this one of dove-grey and fastened by a single button at the waist. When this too had fallen, Tessa’s legs remained concealed by her chemise, and further obscured by the drawers underneath. Nevertheless, his eyes riveted below the line of her corset, trying shamelessly to discern the shape of her buttocks.
But Tessa twisted her hand behind her to direct him to the end of her corset laces. He undid the knot and tugged the laces through each eyelet. As he learned the rhythm, Joseph pulled faster and faster. The laces made a slight hissing noise till at last he tossed them aside like a snake.
“Thank you!” With a sigh, Tessa withdrew her arms from the straps and discarded the corset onto the nearest piece of furniture. It was her prie-Dieu. As she turned to him, her chemise slipped off one shoulder. At least this distracted him from finding her breasts through the linen. “You can’t wish to remain as you are either?” Tessa inquired. “’Tis too warm.”
It was true: he was more damp with sweat now than he’d been on the street.
Tessa peered appraisingly at his choker, the badge of his Priesthood. She slid the tip of her thumb beneath one of the folds. “Will you show me…?”
Joseph reached under the layers of silk and withdrew the knot. Tessa undid it with something like glee, the edge of her lower lip caught between her teeth. She tossed one end of the neckerchief over his shou
lder, then the other, tugging and unlooping till he was free of it. Finally, she draped his choker over her corset on the prie-Dieu. Their shed clothing, already in union.
She helped him shrug off his coat and threw that over the back of her méridienne, on top of her wrapper. Tessa dispatched his waistcoat nearly as quickly. But when she reached for his braces, he managed to stop her, capturing her hands in his. “That’s enough.”
She frowned, her eyes sliding down the length of his body. “Your boots, though—you’ll want to remove those.” She kicked off her slippers and directed him to sit on her méridienne. She knelt before him and bent her myrrh-brown head to the task.
While she popped open each button, he focused his gaze on her shimmering hair, so that he would not stare inside her gaping chemise. As she slid off the second short boot, Joseph stammered: “Would you— Would you let down your hair?”
Tessa smiled up at him and inched closer. He’d splayed his legs a bit, to give her access to the rows of buttons on the inside of his boots; now, Tessa inserted herself between his knees before he could stop her. Head bowed, she took one of his startled hands and placed it beneath her halo of braids. “The first pin is right…here.” She helped him extract it, and the long bronze plait began to unravel.
After seven and a half years of waiting, finally his fingers were plunging into those silken strands, unfurling each plait like a banner—so enraptured that she was squeezing his knee before he’d realized her hand was there. She’d braced her other hand against the edge of the méridienne, so her arm was grazing his other leg. His trousers were broadcloth; but never had they seemed so thin. With every dropped hairpin, he seemed to release more of her perfume; he was drowning in her scent and her softness and he never wanted to come up for air.
Necessary Sins Page 44
