Chapter Sixty-Nine: A Need


“…the love of the Father. In that line, grace is sufficient. It by definition must cover all manner of….”

My mind was elsewhere, bathed in joy of an irreverent kind. My heart sang. It had worked!

I had taken the risk to keep from becoming a prisoner to my own body and it had worked.

Baby Anne was at home with the maid and the cook. It felt good to be out and about, even if it was only to church.

A cough from Mrs. Fenuiel beside me brought the elaborately carved pulpit back into focus. The Reverend Drummond smiled benevolently upon his congregation from his lofty perch. He paused as he turned another page of his sermon notes.

When only his head is visible above his robes, he makes quite the pleasant visage.

I shifted in my seat, testing. I could not feel it inside, even when sitting for long periods of time on a hard wooden pew.

Each day that passed the pessary was less noticeable until I lost track of its presence entirely.

Well, maybe not entirely.

I had inserted a finger to feel its shape while lying on the bed in my shift that night and every night thereafter. It was a solid metal pillow with a central hole. I was not certain what exactly it was constructed of, as I was too afraid to pull it out. There was no telling if I would be able to get it back in properly and having to explain to the good doctor how it had “fallen” out would be too mortifying.

Furthermore, I had no intention of keeping my appointment to follow up with the doctor on Tuesday next. Looking him in the face after he had examined and felt of me down there was too much. The device was working. That should be sufficient.

“Let us pray.” The Reverend’s eyes fixed on mine for a moment. Did I look distracted? Surely he was used to distraction. I bowed my head dutifully.

What would it be like to be naked, body entwined with his in a passionate embrace?

My cheeks reddened. Why did that pop into my head? Here? In God’s house? Was what the doctor warned true? Was I becoming a whore? And then a new reality dawned on me. With a pessary occupying space, I could not make love to any man even if I wanted to.

I must not allow myself to want it.

I focused on the rise and fall of his voice, eloquent words masking their own intent.

Reality. I could never be a vicar’s wife. That was not me. I lacked the faith and fortitude. I lacked the innocence and capacity for love of humankind. I could not be his lover.

But protection. I longed to feel loved, safe, protected. God alone could not provide me with these very carnal, human things. Bernini had been wrong. I was fairly sure that even Saint Teresa in her ecstasy probably still felt unfulfilled. I felt the rocking of a ship in the dark. My face on his chest. His heartbeat. I could remember the intense pleasure of the very moment Anne had been wrought, but his features, the details, were lost to me already. Sadness stuck in my throat.

A hand touched the cold, hard oval pinned to my bodice.

There you are.


No. I did not want to leave this darkness…

Swells of organ music.

I must remain faithful to his memory.

Dutifully, I filed out of the pew, into the aisle, and out the door with Mrs. Finueil on my arm to exchange brief pleasantries with the Reverend Drummond. As we set foot on the steps the sun caught in my nostril and I sneezed.

I smiled.

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 derrière?

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.