Chapter Sixty-Seven: Holy Water


Stepping out into the bright sunshine, squinting, an involuntary sneeze seized my body.

It was the other sensation, however, that stopped me in my tracks:

The unmistakable feeling of warm liquid running down my legs.


I felt the blood drain from my face and then the heat bloomed in my cheeks again as the full reality of what had just happened dawned in my consciousness.

This had been an ongoing issue since the birth. I had taken to fashioning a diaper of sorts between my legs but somehow the quantity of the urine or a faulty positioning of the cloths had led to another failure.

The christening….

We were leaving for the christening, but now I had urinated on myself. Did I turn around to change and end up late or keep going and take my chances? Aside from the discomfort of damp underclothes, the smell of stale urine was sure to arise.

I decided to plough on as we were running late. This should not take terribly long. We would go, do the deed, and come home for the celebratory luncheon where I could excuse myself to change.

Thank goodness for long skirts.

“Here you go, miss.”The coach driver handed me up into the hired carriage. The maid handed the baby in to me once I was settled.

My little one’s eyes sparkled and she cooed, as if she knew she were downright angelic in her long, lacy white gown and bonnet.

Please don’t soil your diaper like your mamma just did, angel.

“We will stop by the next house quickly to collect Mrs. Finuiel and then will be on our way?” I said it as a question rather than an order. I was out of practice.

I had selected an elderly, widowed neighbor for godmother. I was not sure of the protocol for such things, being an American and not having been raised in the Anglican faith. I had asked as many detailed questions of the staff as I had dared. I was sure to make major gaffes throughout this process, but with such a small party, hopefully it would not matter. Or at least not would not be so severe as to be remembered. I could rewrite the history later if needed.

We had kept to ourselves since arriving in the town and while I had a few acquaintances, there was no one that I had felt close enough to bring into the family so to speak. So frail old Mrs. Fenuiel, it was. She would not be long for this world anyway.


The carriage shook as the driver pulled up the reigns on our arrival at the Finuiel cottage. The old woman was waiting by the gate. Her slight frame was wrapped in a bright red woolen shawl and she stooped precariously over her cane. Her upper back curved over like the neck of a graceful swan but as a consequence made looking upwards to the heavens overhead virtually impossible.

She was helped into the carriage, grunting with each movement until she too was settled.

Then we were on our way.

There was no need for a godfather, truly. We women were self sufficient after all, weren’t we?

The parish church was nearby and we passed a pleasant, though brief ride discussing the recent damp weather and how it had affected Mrs. Finuiel’s rheumatism. The horses’ hooves beat out a happy staccato as we chatted. We were blessed to finally have bright rays of sunshine today as it had been dreary and overcast for almost an fortnight prior.

“Here you go now, miss…”

I alighted from the carriage.

Brushing the back of my skirt as I resettled my petticoat and the caged crinoline that was now the fashion, I could feel the cold damp spot. Urine had soaked through on the ride over. I surreptitiously patted to see how big the stain was. About the size of a fist. Curse it all.

Really? I must attend my daughter’s christening with a wet urine spot on my derriรจre?

It could not be helped. If I ignored it, surely no one else would call attention to it?

With a now sleeping baby snuggled in blankets in my left arm, I helped the almost godmother into the church on my right arm.

The Reverand Drummond stood by the baptismal font, fingers steepled. He had been left waiting. He smiled gently at me anyway.

I handed over the slip of paper upon which I had written the selected name.

He eyes moved over the letters I had written, then looked up at me and nodded solemnly. In short order Anne was bellowing out her displeasure over waking to the sensation of ice cold water running over her tender scalp.

Holy water or not, it was all the same to her.

After the brief ceremony I turned and retreated down the church aisle, again with Anne in one arm and Mrs. Finuiel on the other. Surely the Reverend saw the now stained fabric of my formerly beautiful new dress. Deep rose colored silk. I wondered if he understood.

13 thoughts on “Chapter Sixty-Seven: Holy Water

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s