City of Dreams (95 page)

“Hoc est enim Corpus Meum.”
This is my Body.
The scrawny, gray-haired priest lifted the consecrated wafer above his head, and Josie Harmon’s pimply-faced nephew, looking more than ever as if he thought he was the focus of everyone’s attention, rang his little silver bell three times.

And yet. And yet. It didn’t matter how unlovely any of them were, not the priest or the altar boy, or Josie or any of the others. However stained they were with sin, Jesus Christ his very self had come to them in the most blessed sacrament of his Body and his Blood.

Roisin was trembling when she knelt to receive Holy Communion and the priest put the wafer on her tongue. Not an hour since she’d made her confession in this very room, taking her turn to come in alone and kneel beside the old Jesuit, who kept his face turned to the wall and his eyes closed.

“Bless me, for I have sinned. It’s been five years since my last confession.” She didn’t have to tell him about Cuf or Morgan, or that Clare had been born a bastard. She’d been shriven of those sins in ’68, the last time a priest came to New York. Of course that priest told her lying with Cuf was a sin because she wasn’t his wife, and that she had to promise to do it no more if she wanted absolution. And she had assured him she understood, knowing all the time that she’d made a separate arrangement with the Holy Virgin. The Virgin understood Cuf’s need for her, understood what a good man he was.
If it’s all right for me to go on giving myself to him, Blessed Lady, make it be that his seed never reaches my womb. Then I’ll know.
The Virgin had given Roisin the sign she asked for: Cuf’s child never grew in her. So Roisin knew it was permitted for her to not mention again the sin of lying with a mulatto man to whom she was not married.

This time she confessed to impatience and vanity—didn’t she on occasion wash her hair with a decoction of sumac to cover up any strands of gray that were showing themselves in this her thirty-second year—and to having aborted a woman who had quickened.

“You’re speaking of the grave sin of murder, child. You do realize that?”

“I do. But the Holy Virgin be my judge, the woman told me she was in her ninth week, and I believed her. That early and the thing’s not ensouled.”

“You believe that, child? Truly?”

“Indeed. Most truly. With all my heart.”

“No soul until quickening? The blessed Saint Thomas Aquinas considered the possibility. Of course, he was a Dominican, but perhaps… You think the babe had grown beyond the ninth week?”

“Yes. When I saw the thing as I scraped out of her”—Roisin was whispering; remembering the horror of it made her shudder even now—“I was sure of it.”

“Murder,” the priest said. “The sin of Cain. But if you honestly didn’t know she’d quickened—“

“I swear I didn’t. By the Holy Virgin.”

He paused. “Where did you learn your healing arts, child?”

“From my mother, sir. And I’ve taught them to my own daughter as carefully as I can. That’s the way with the Women of Connemara.”

The priest’s eyes remained shut, but he’d nodded knowingly. “Yes, the Women of Connemara. I thought as much. I trust you do more good than harm, child. And if there was murder committed, it wasn’t your intention and the blood isn’t on your hands. For your penance say the litany of the Blessed Virgin a dozen times….”

So now, clean of any sin, she could open her mouth and receive her God. And with the wafer melting on her tongue and her whole body singing with the joy of it, beg Him to keep Cuf safe. He’s a good man, Lord Jesus, kind and strong and loyal. Protect him. And then the prayer she almost felt ashamed to pray, the one dredged from the depths of her secret heart. And please, Lord Jesus, please keep Morgan safe as well. Let Morgan Turner live, because if I can’t see him even occasionally the way I do, from a distance or with Cuf in the Fiddle and Clogs, I shall die, Lord. I know I shall.

The new recruits to the King’s army were sent to sleep in a Staten Island field. There were few guards. There was no need for them; the black men had yet to be issued weapons. Besides, most had risked everything to get here. Over on Manhattan, on the rebels’ side of the line, they were runaway slaves, subject to flogging or worse.

There was only a sliver of moon. Cuf managed to position himself at the edge of the clearing. Then, when everyone was asleep, it wasn’t difficult to crawl into the trees and disappear.

The Mass was over. Nearly everyone had left Josie Harmon’s Wall Street house, slipping into the night in twos and threes, careful to let a few minutes pass between each departure. The English opposed the Catholic Church for reasons of politics. The American rebels had no official quarrel with the True Faith, but there were plenty whose heretic hearts burned with hatred of it.

After twenty minutes only Roisin and Clare and Josie were left in the attic room. The priest had been escorted downstairs by Josie’s nephew. “Well,” Roisin said softly, turning to her daughter, gently pushing a strand of hair off her forehead. “What did you think of the second Holy Mass of your life?”

“It was beautiful.” The girl’s eyes were full of tears. “I felt the Virgin so close to me.”

Ah, whatever else she’d done, she’d done that much right. “I’m glad. And I hope you prayed with all your might for the rebels to win. Then we can have Mass and the sacraments without hiding.”

“Clare”—Josie leaned forward, still fanning herself, sweat making grimy tracks down her pudgy, powdered cheeks—“go downstairs and see that Mr. Steenmayer is given a mug of the best ale as soon as he’s finished his devotions.”

“Surely your nephew will see to that.” Roisin made the protest without much attempt to sound convincing. Josie clearly wanted an opportunity to speak with her alone. Very well, but she suspected she knew what her hostess had in mind. Better to start the discussion from a position of strength, not weakness.

“You know how boys are, don’t you, Clare, darling?” Josie’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “They forget the most ordinary things. Go on. Off with you. Your mother and I will be down in a moment.”

Clare kissed her mother’s cheek, curtsyed to her hostess, and left. Roisin folded her hands in her lap and waited. Josie didn’t speak until the sound of the girl’s footsteps had faded. “Now,” she said.

“Yes, now.” But not now. Whatever it is, you can choke on it for a time. “Your eyes don’t look well, Josie dear. Have you been bathing them with feverfew the way I told you?”

“Every day. Exactly as you said.”

Feverfew or no, Josie’s eyes bulged out of her head. The symptom went with the swollen ankles and the shortness of breath. The flux it was, and though she administered all the classic treatments, they didn’t seem to do much good. Or maybe they did. The flux, if it had its way, was a killing disease. Josie was still alive, able to delight in gossip and plots and plans.

“I have a proposition for you, dear Roisin. It’s about Clare.”

Roisin knew what was coming. Though she hated the thought she couldn’t afford to dismiss it out of hand. “She’s as sweet and good as she is bonny,” Roisin said, pretending ignorance. “I hope she hasn’t offended you in any way.”

“Oh, no. Of course not. And she is pretty, I’ll grant you that. Even though …”

“Even though what, Josie?”

“Even though she’s part Negro.”

It was the price she paid for the peace and protection she’d bought for them. She’d always known it would be so, only she hadn’t thought hard enough that it was Clare would be paying the price. “A very small part,” Roisin said softly. “You know how small, Josie.”

“No question how light Cuf is.” The fan was waving faster than ever, creating a small storm between them as they leaned toward each other, taking each other’s measure. “But I remember Phoebe before she died two years past. She was his mother, after all. And black as pitch Phoebe was.”

“If you think Clare is black as pitch, you need a new treatment for your eyes, Josie dear.”

“Of course I know that the parts of her I can see aren’t black. But if we were to make an agreement… Well, I’d have to see all of her before I could let it be official.”

“An agreement about what?” The idea was repugnant to her. But if it was Clare’s only chance …

“Mr. Harmon’s nephew. Mr. Harmon and I, we’re the dear boy’s guardians now that his parents are gone.”

“Yes, I know.”

“The lad has a boyish interest in your Clare. Of course, young as he is, it’s entirely innocent. But the years fly by, as we both know, and in a short time he’ll be sixteen—”

“Clare’s nearly a year older.” Don’t give her any weapons she can use later, any way that if things change she can say you fooled her about something like Clare’s age.

“Oh, yes. I know. But surely a single year isn’t important.”

“Oh, no, Josie. I agree. You’re entirely correct about that. A year isn’t important at all, compared to the truly important things.”

“Exactly my point. There’s the matter of their being attracted to each other, for one thing.”

As if a treasure like Clare could ever be attracted to that boy. But he wouldn’t be pimply forever. And if she could make Clare see the other virtues, the good that came with prosperity…

“Of course, God having given us no children of our own, my husband sees the dear boy as his heir. Such a generous man, Mr. Harmon.”

Roisin nodded her head. “Generous to a fault,” she said. Last time she suggested to Josie that she have a few more treatments with monk’s rhubarb, the woman burst into tears and said her husband wouldn’t let her spend a wooden penny more for her treatments, no matter how much better they made her feel. “A fine and generous gentleman, Leominster Harmon,” Roisin said. “Everyone knows as much.”

“And devoted to the True Church,” Josie added. “Though he couldn’t be with us to hear Holy Mass today. Such a grave risk for someone in Mr. Harmon’s position. Still, to have a Catholic bride for his dear nephew …”

The thing Clare offered that, coupled with her beauty and the boy’s lust, was the reason they were having this conversation.

“You understand, Roisin dear, that’s something that would make my husband and me forget about a dowry, or social standing. As long as we could be sure that Clare was as white everywhere as the parts we can see.”

“I absolutely understand, Josie dear. But do tell me, would Mr. Harmon need to see all of Clare as well? Or would he take your word for the whiteness of the rest of her?”

“Oh, my word would be more than adequate, dear Roisin. You can be certain of it.”

“Indeed. Well, in that case …”

“Yes?” Bending forward. Causing a gale with her fan.

“In that case I’ll discuss it with Cuf. He’s her father, after all.”

Oh, Lord, forgive me. Right after receiving your Body and Blood in communion as well. But I couldn’t resist, Lord. Making her swallow it like that. Accept it and swallow it. And wouldn’t I go to my grave before anything would make me tell her it wasn’t true? As if Cuf weren’t worth six of her, and a dozen of Leominster Harmon. And eighteen more of their pimply nephew. But if she married him, Clare would never have to worry about anything again. She’d never have to lift the stone from the hearth and see how many pennies she’d managed to put by to keep them fed.