The Passage

by Irina Shapiro

  “May I?” Reverend Snow asked as he gestured toward the pew. I slid over and allowed him to take a seat next to me. I half expected a sermon, but the reverend rubbed the bridge of his nose and stared ahead for a moment, his eyes unseeing, before finally replying to my question.

  “I feel lost more often than not,” he said softly. “That is not an answer that my superiors would expect of me, but it’s the truth. You’d think that being a man of the cloth would give me greater understanding or a deeper faith, but if anything, at times it leaves me more baffled than most common men. You see, the average parishioner takes what I say on faith and believes that God has a greater plan, like a parent, punishing and rewarding as circumstances dictate. I, however, don’t see it that way at all.”

  “How do you see it?” I asked, stunned by the heartfelt admission of a man who was supposed to lead his flock, not admit that he was wandering in the wilderness.

  “When I was a young man attending the seminary, I believed that when bad things happened, it was because the Lord saw fit to punish certain people for their transgressions or sacrifice others for the greater good. I was comfortable in my faith, and safe in my delusions. But then I was posted to a parish and came face to face not with doctrine, but with real people, and I realized that I could no longer accept that view. So, to answer your question, I feel lost every time I bury a young woman who died in childbirth, or visit the deathbed of a child who’d been in fine health only a few days ago, but is now ready for the next world. I try to hold on to my faith, but I see no justice or wisdom in these pointless, random deaths, deaths that seemingly benefit no one and cause endless suffering to those left behind.”

  “So, how do you cope?” I asked, grateful for the man’s honesty. I strongly suspected that a speech like the one he just made would get him defrocked, if the term could be applied to a Protestant clergyman.

  “I’ve come to understand that in my arrogance, I try to interpret and judge the will of God, when my true purpose is to comfort, guide, and at times offer forgiveness. It’s not for me to ask why, but it is for me to do everything I can to help those who rely on me. I try to live every single day in a way that makes my life meaningful, so ultimately, I’m doing God’s work.” He smiled that disarming smile of his as he saw me nod in understanding. He hadn’t been so much questioning God as questioning himself, and he came up with an answer that made his presence in this parish meaningful to him.

  “Your parishioners are lucky to have you, Reverend Snow,” I said, and meant it.

  “You are my parishioner, are you not? So, tell me what’s troubling you so?”

  Of course, I couldn’t tell him the truth, but talking to him had been comforting and oddly illuminating, so I decided that there was no harm in seeking his advice. “You see, Reverend, I find myself at a crossroads. If I go the way I originally intended, I will have safety, comfort, and most likely a much longer life span. However, if I go the other way, I will have uncertainty, possible danger, and might have to sacrifice many things that I’ve always taken for granted, but which are important to me.”

  Reverend Snow gazed at me for a long minute while sizing up the situation. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, glanced toward the Heavens as if looking for guidance, then finally turned back to me. “If I understand you correctly, the second alternative is as appealing to you as the first, or you wouldn’t be torn, would you? So, what is it about a life of danger and uncertainty that is as appealing as one of safety and comfort? Surely, you are not telling me the whole truth.”

  Reverend Snow saw the panic on my face and held up his hand, in a gesture meant to stop me from speaking. “You don’t wish to tell me, and that’s quite all right. You are entitled to your privacy, my child. I will tell you this, however. Imagine your life already lived, a winding road that’s mostly behind you as you walk the last steps toward your final destination. When you look back on the path you’ve traveled, which do you regret more, choosing an unpredictable, but eventful life, which clearly appeals to you or you wouldn’t be here, or choosing a life of safety and predictability?”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but the Reverend patted my hand and rose to leave. “Don’t give me your answer. I don’t need to know it, but considering the haste with which you were ready to reply, I can only assume that you knew the answer all along. God bless you, my dear, and I hope you never regret anything.”

  “Thank you, Reverend. I don’t think I will.” I rose to my feet and walked out of the church into the April sunshine, as certain as anyone in my position could be of their decision.

  **

  Hugo was out when I got back, but Jane was perched on a settle in the sitting room, her crewel work on her lap, her gaze far away. She started as I walked into the room, picking up her work with the guilty air of one who’d been daydreaming.

  “I can’t seem to concentrate,” she explained as she stabbed her needle into a flower.

  “Jane, it’s a lovely day outside. Why don’t you join me for a walk in the garden? You hardly leave the house,” I suggested gently. Jane seemed to have an aversion to the outdoors and spent most of her time either quietly sewing or quizzing poor Clarence on his academic progress. The boy was almost as pale as his mother, but certainly not for lack of trying to escape. He had a mischievous streak which I found endearing, especially since it made me wonder what Hugo had been like as a boy.

  Jane looked as if she were about to refuse, but after glaring at her half-finished pattern seemed to change her mind. “Oh, all right. Just for a little while.” She stowed away her embroidery, shut her work basket, and followed me outside into the garden with an air of one going to the gallows. I usually preferred to walk toward the woods or into the village, but Jane seemed to like enclosed spaces, so the walled garden it was.

  We walked in silence for a few moments, each lost in our own thoughts. There were many things I wanted to ask Jane, but didn’t want to overstep my bounds. My position within the household was an awkward one since I was neither wife nor just a guest.

  “Will you stay on at the manor after we are gone?” I finally asked Jane, “or will you return home?”

  “I’d like to stay on,” Jane replied. “This is my childhood home, you see, and it’s full of good memories, unlike the house I spent most of my married life in.”

  “I thought you and Ernest were happy.”

  Jane didn’t reply, just picked a flower and tore off the petals in a way that suggested some suppressed anger. “I ruined my life,” she suddenly blurted out. I was about to respond, but Jane turned away, embarrassed by her admission.

  “Jane, you can talk to me, you know. I won’t judge you.”

  “Won’t you? Everyone else would if they knew the truth,” she replied sadly. “And the truth is that I have no one to blame but myself. I haven’t spoken of this to anyone, but I think I can tell you. You are my brother’s mistress, a woman of flexible morals, so you might understand. You are not like the women I’d been exposed to most of my life -– rigid and only too eager to judge and condemn. May I confide in you?”

  I wasn’t sure that Jane hadn’t just insulted me, but she seemed eager to talk, so I let the slight pass and invited her to sit on a bench in the shade of an ancient tree. It was pleasant and cool, but Jane seemed unable to relax. She sat on the edge of the bench as if sitting more comfortably might somehow make it impossible for her to speak.

  “I was sixteen when I met George,” she began. “He was the handsomest man I’d even seen, not that I’d seen very many. Father often brought Hugo to London with him, but I was always left behind since he felt I was too young to be exposed to the intrigues of the Court. I didn’t mind, really; I’d always liked my own company, and the time passed quickly. Hugo always told me stories of the Court when he came back and I enjoyed seeing it all in my mind’s eye from a safe distance.”

  Jane grew quiet for a moment, no doubt remembering that safe and happy time. I just waited patiently until she spoke again.
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  “I knew George had been promised to someone else, but I was young and fancied myself in love, so I took a gamble and lost. I allowed him to seduce me, hoping that if I got with child he would be forced to marry me. It would have been the honorable thing to do, but alas, George refused. Turned out he wasn’t a very honorable man.”

  Jane laughed bitterly before carrying on. Now that she was talking, she couldn’t stop. She had to get her story out, and I strongly suspected that she’d never spoken to another female about any of this.

  “Hugo blamed himself, you see, since he was the one who took me to London. He thought I would enjoy the entertainments at Court and the company of other women. He also hoped that I might catch someone’s eye and make it easier for him to arrange a suitable match for me. Instead, he married me off to Ernest, so that I could keep my baby. Despite my foolishness, I did love George and couldn’t bear to have my child taken away from me, which is what would have happened. I would have been confined to the country until the baby was born, and then the midwife would take it away and I would never see him again.”

  “He’s a lovely boy,” I said and was rewarded with a smile.

  “Yes, he is. He looks much like his father.”

  “I thought your marriage to Ernest was a satisfactory one,” I prompted, thinking back to all the things Jane had said about her husband. She seemed to have had genuine regard for him.

  “I liked Ernest and I was grateful to him for marrying me and accepting Clarence as his own, but he had his own reasons, you see. When we were first married he never visited my chamber. I assumed that it was because I was with child and he found it distasteful, but he never came even after Clarence was born. He never consummated the marriage.”

  That was odd, especially since he’d been married before and had a child by his first wife. Could he have really been that disgusted by his wife who bore another man’s child?

  “In the beginning, I hinted that his attentions would be welcome, but he just smiled at me and retired to his own room. He was always kind and respectful to me, but there was no intimacy between us, and he took no interest in Clarence or his daughter.”

  Jane grew quiet again, but her hand pleated the fabric of her skirt subconsciously, betraying her nervousness at revealing herself to me.

  “Did he keep a mistress, Jane?” I asked carefully, not wishing to hurt her.

  “Looking back, that would have been preferable, but there was no other woman. Ernest never really went out, at least not then.” Jane let go of her skirt and turned to face me, her eyes burning in her face with an emotion I couldn’t quite name. I thought it might be defiance, but I wasn’t sure.

  “After two years of marriage, I decided to take action. I wanted another child, you see, but I also wanted a husband who cared for me. Ernest was just indifferent, and I thought I could make him love me if he saw me in that way. It’d been wonderful with George, and I thought that although it would never be like that, it would be better than nothing. So, I brushed out my hair, dabbed on a little scent, put on my prettiest nightdress and crept to Ernest’s bedroom. He didn’t even hear me open the door because he wasn’t alone. I just stood there, frozen, watching my husband bugger his secretary, Mr. Spencer. After he’d finished, he kissed him most tenderly, and I realized that this must have been going on for some time. Ernest had what he needed and had married me to keep his secret and attain an heir. He wasn’t the one who’d been duped; I was.”

  “Oh, Jane, I’m so sorry. It must have been awful for you,” I said, taking her cold hand in mine. I wanted to offer her comfort, but I had no idea what to say.

  “Oh, that wasn’t the worst part,” Jane said, smirking bitterly. “John Spencer died of syphilis a few years later. Have you ever known anyone who died of syphilis? It’s a terrible way to go — years of mental and physical deterioration until there’s nothing left of the person; just a hollow shell, and a deranged mind. Ernest made sure his lover was cared for and comfortable until the end. He was devastated after Spencer died, not only because he lost someone he loved, but possibly because he knew that he’d been infected as well. The physician never told me the truth of my husband’s condition, but I knew. I couldn’t even tell Hugo because I was too ashamed. Ernest begged for my forgiveness before he died, although his mind was mostly gone by then.”

  “And what of his daughter?”

  “Oh, Magdalen wasn’t his. His wife conceived after nearly a decade of marriage, and it certainly wasn’t by Ernest. Magdalen was most likely the daughter of a groom or someone from the village. Can’t say I blame the poor woman. She wanted a child, and she finally had one.”

  “Jane, Ernest is gone now and you are still a young woman. You can marry again; it’s not too late.”

  Jane just shook her head. “I’m thirty years old, Neve. I’m well past my childbearing years, and I don’t ever want to be at the mercy of some man again. Ernest had left me very comfortably off, so I plan to remain a widow and look after my son. Clarence needs me. I thought Hugo needed me too, but it seems he’s got you now, although I still don’t understand when all this came about.”

  I sensed her bitterness, but there wasn’t much I could say. Someday Clarence would grow into a man and want a life of his own and Jane would find herself very lonely once again.

  Jane sprang to her feet. “I must get back. Clarence will be finished with his Latin by now.”

  “I’ll just stay out here a while longer.”

  Jane looked deeply embarrassed, but she smiled at me, and I could see that she felt some measure of relief at having told me her secret. “Thank you, Neve,” she said. “It felt good to talk.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I watched Jane walk away, her back stiff and her gait steady. I wish I could have helped her, but I suppose getting things off her chest was as much help as she would accept. She was only eight years older than me, but she saw her life as being virtually over, which just seemed like a terrible waste. I sighed and left the garden, feeling suddenly suffocated by the stone walls.

  Chapter 39

  Hugo accepted a cup of wine from Bradford and took a long swallow, thirsty after the gallop along the dusty road. Brad always had good wine, not like the swill they usually served at the taverns. It was good to see Brad again, and good to talk. Brad settled himself across from Hugo and listened carefully as Hugo recounted the events of the past few weeks, leaving nothing out. Brad shook his head in disbelief as Hugo finished and took another sip of wine, savoring the bouquet while waiting for him to comment.

  “Well, my friend, you seem to have outdone yourself,” Brad said with a sad smile. “The fact that Finch chose not to pursue you openly only suggests that he has other avenues of retribution in mind.”

  “Which is why I’m leaving England for a time. Brad, I have a favor to ask of you. Will you look after Jane? She’s expressed a desire to remain at Everly Manor, so she might need a hand with the estate as well as some company. You know what a recluse Jane can be; I’d feel better knowing that at least she had you and Beth.”

  “Of course we’ll look after her, but what of her own estate?”

  “She has a competent man in place who can run things to her satisfaction until she decides to go back or send Clarence to run things. I don’t think she ever means to go back.”

  “Shall we introduce her to some eligible bachelors once her mourning is at an end?” Bradford asked, giving Hugo a conspiratory smile. “Jane can be a very eligible prospect for some man. She’s still a handsome woman and has a large estate which produces a healthy income.”

  “Not unless she asks Beth to. Jane hasn’t had a happy time of it, Brad, so I think she might enjoy being her own mistress for a time. I’d gone to visit Ernest before he died and had a word with his attending physician. Ernest died of syphilis, although Jane doesn’t know.”

  “Syphilis?” Bradford repeated, gaping at Hugo. “Are you sure? I’d never thought Ernest was one for the whores. He hardly even went up t
o London, spent most of his time looking after his estate and conferring with that secretary of his, what was the fellow’s name?”

  “Spencer. John Spencer. Seems he died of syphilis as well. Perhaps they visited brothels together, who can say? I only hope that Jane’s health hasn’t been compromised. The illness takes years to show its symptoms, and is usually not diagnosed until the later stages.”

  “I saw Jane only last week and she seemed to be in fine health. Don’t worry, Hugo, syphilis is a man’s disease,” Brad stated, eager to reassure his friend.

  “How can you say that when the brothels in London are rampant with it? The men get it from the whores, do they not? It likely kills as many people per year as the plague,” Hugo replied, surprised by his friend’s naiveté. Bradford rarely left Surrey, so perhaps he wasn’t aware of the disease and squalor of London, comfortable and safe as he was on his estate.

  “Perhaps you are right. I didn’t think of it that way.” Bradford set down his cup and ran his hand through his thick, fair hair – a sure sign that he wanted to discuss something with Hugo, but wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.

  “What is it, Brad?” Hugo asked, bracing himself for whatever unpleasantness was to follow. Brad was a great friend, but he was also someone who never minced words, and, in Hugo’s opinion, and that was his greatest quality. Brad always told him the truth and forced him to take a good, long look at his choices. Hugo had a fairly good idea of what was coming.

  “Have you told Jane that you mean to marry?” Bradford finally asked.

  “No, not yet. I’ll write to her after the deed is done.”

  “Why are you keeping it a secret from your sister? Could it be because you know she’ll disapprove of you marrying some trollop who just happened to stagger into your life?” Bradford demanded, all pretense at diplomacy gone.