“Before we got married, I let him do things I shouldn’t have, the kinds of things husbands do to their—” she broke off, unable to continue. “I trusted him. I thought he loved me, and I loved him. Now I realize I did all those—those things with him, and all the while, I was nothing but a plaything to him. Papa accused him of exactly that, straight out, and even then Luke didn’t deny it or say he loved me. Just that he was sorry, and that he’d make it up to me if he could. That must mean it’s all true!”
“So ye feel ashamed?”
She cupped a hand over her eyes. “Wouldn’t you? I soiled myself. Made a laughingstock of myself. He didn’t just try to make me his whore, as Papa keeps saying. He succeeded!”
“I can remember a time in the no’ so distant past when ye did no’ know the meanin’ of that word, lass.”
Cassandra lowered her fingers slightly to look at him. “‘Whore,’ you mean?”
Father nodded. “’Tis a filthy word. I guess I hate it most because ’tis used to describe a human being, one of God’s children. The world is full of people, all of ’em walkin’ different paths. I believe God loves us all. What, exactly, is a whore? A bad woman? Or is she only someone whose life has led her to walk a path different from our own? Does God love her less for that? Or does He love her more? Maybe He looks down on her and sees, not a sinner, but only someone who’s lost her way.”
“Someone like me.”
“Aren’t ye bein’ a little hard on yerself, lass? How could ye be on guard against somethin’ ye did no’ know existed? Until meetin’ Luke Taggart, did ye even realize some women sold their bodies?”
“No. But I knew there were certain intimacies that were forbidden, and that if I let anyone touch me like that, it was a sin.” She forced herself to meet the priest’s gaze. “Luke said it wasn’t, that nothing we did was wrong, but I knew better, and I let him. Even worse, I wanted him to. I sinned with him, Father. Make no mistake!”
Father fell silent for a good long while, then finally nodded. “Ye’re right. ’Twas a terrible, terrible thin’ you did.”
“The worst part is, everyone knows!” she said thinly. “When Papa and Ambrose look at me, I can see it in their eyes—that they’re ashamed for me. I think that’s what hurts most of all—that they’ll never think of me quite the same again. It’s done, and I can’t ever undo it. The taint will stay with me the rest of my life.”
He nodded again. “Trustin’ the man, givin’ yerself to him, lettin’ him touch ye before marriage, lovin’ him, believin’ in his lies.” He heaved a weary sigh. “Ye’ve dug yerself into a black hole, that’s fer sure.”
“To be toyed with like that. Thinking I was something special to him and letting him—letting him use me. I wish I could die,” she said with a sob.
“I do no’ blame ye.”
“I can’t face Luke again. Never. Not after all we did, and him not loving me the tiniest bit! If he so much as looks at me, I’ll crawl under a mopboard!”
“The scoundrel. He should be horsewhipped.”
“And me along with him!”
Father shook his head, his expression even more sorrowful. “Actually, prostitutes are stoned. Traditionally, at any rate, ’twas the chosen punishment.”
“Stoned?”
“Maybe I should tie ye to the front porch railings and send out notices to all the sinless, so they might come to throw rocks at ye.”
Cassandra blinked. “Rocks?”
“Big, sharp ones. It takes a while to die. A nice, slow, very painful death. Ye’d be sure to pay for yer sins that way to pave yer way to heaven.”
“You’re teasing, right?”
Father cocked an eyebrow. “Teasing? Not a bit of it. ’Tis a terrible thin’ ye’ve done, lass. Ye’ve committed a mortal sin.”
“But I confessed.”
“That, ye did.” He rubbed his chin. “I momentarily forgot.” He sighed and shook his head again. “Technically speaking, then, ye wiped the slate clean, and what ye did after the weddin’ was no sin, but the partakin’ of a sacrament. Of course, a smart girl like ye knows all of that is hogwash.”
Cassandra was starting to feel a litle lost in this conversation. Father was talking in circles, and strange ones at that. “Hogwash?” she asked carefully.
“The sacraments. Hogwash, all of ’em. Confessin’ yer sins, bein’ sincerely sorry, receivin’ absolution, doin’ penance. Marriage vows makin’ physical intimacy a sacrament. All of it hogwash.” He hooked a finger under his white clerical collar, gave a hard jerk, and pulled it off. After gazing at the collar for a moment, he threw it on the floor. “Good-bye to that, and good riddance.”
“Father, what are you doing?” Cassandra straddled the tub, pushed up from the chair, and bent to retrieve his collar. “What are you—? Why did you—? Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m quittin’.”
“Quitting what?”
“Me job, lass. After listenin’ to ye, I’ve realized I’m no’ fit to be a priest.”
Panic raced through her. What had she said to make Father behave like this? “Oh, no, Father. I never meant to make you feel that way!”
He waved the collar away when she tried to press it on him. “Don’t ever be tellin’ anyone this,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, “but I once fornicated meself.”
Cassandra felt her eyes go round. “You didn’t!” she whispered back.
“Oh, yes. With a young miss in her father’s hayloft. Ah, but she was a pretty girl. That was way back when, of course, when I was still young and foolish and hadn’t yet realized ’twas me callin’ to be a priest.”
“You, Father? I didn’t think priests ever did such things.”
“There, ye see? I’m no’ fit to wear the cloth.”
Horrified, Cassandra looked down at the starched band of white in her hand, thinking of all it represented. “Oh, but, Father. Surely you went to confession and—and did your penance?”
“Aye, I did at that. But as ye pointed out, none of that matters. Like ye, I committed a terrible act.”
She gaped at him. “But you can’t mean to quit your job. Not over something you did years ago!”
“Time is to God but the twinkling of an eye. Me ‘way back when’ is like a second ago to Him. So, ye see? I’m as guilty as ye are.” He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. “We’re a sorry pair, are we no’? Sinners, both of us. Lost souls, with no hope of salvation. I’m quittin’ the priesthood. Ye’re hangin’ yer head. Ah, but I suppose there’s no help fer it, the two of us doomed sinners as we are.”
Father Tully was one of the sweetest men Cassandra had ever known. “You’re not doomed. You’re a—a priest!”
He winked at her. “And ye’re a good, sweet girl who had stars in her eyes fer a wee bit of time.”
She sat back down, the collar still clutched in her hand. “You’ve been having me on.”
“A wee bit.”
She touched a hand to her heart. “Thank goodness. You scared me to death!”
“Good. I always like to return a favor.”
“I’m scaring you?”
“Out of me skin, lassie. Clear out of me skin.” He settled a kindly gaze on her. “’Tis no sin to love, Cassandra. Nor wrong to trust someone. And when we’re truly sorry, it does wipe the slate clean. What went before yer marriage? ’Tis o’er. God forgives ye. Now ye’ve only to forgive yerself.”
He tugged the white collar from her fingers. “I think I’ll be takin’ this back now, if ye don’t mind. I feel a little naked without it.”
Cassandra felt tears welling in her eyes. “Oh, Father, if what went before doesn’t matter, why does it hurt so much?”
“Sometimes lovin’ hurts.” He shrugged. “And sometimes ’tis glorious. One never knows how it’ll go, from one day to the next. Ye just trudge along, takin’ the good wi’ the bad.”
“In this case, lots of bad.”
“Ye’ll recover, and ye’ll go on. There’s n
o question of that. I only ask that ye do so with yer head held high. Luke is the one who has trespassed against ye, not the other way ’round. He’s the one who should feel ashamed. He took somethin’ very precious—yer love—and dragged it through the dirt.”
At the back of the rectory, Cassandra heard voices approaching. “Papa’s coming,” she whispered.
Father Tully glanced back over his shoulder, then fixed her with his gaze again. “Cassandra, one more thin’ before yer papa comes stormin’ in, talkin’ a mile a minute.” He leaned closer, so as not to be overheard. “I know ye need time to lick yer wounds, lass. And maybe a lot more time to heal. But remember one thin’, please?”
“What’s that, Father?”
“We Catholics don’t have a corner on forgiveness.” His mouth kicked up at one corner. “Ye told me Luke said he was sorry, and by that, ye condemned him. Is that what ye learned in yer catechism, child?” He reached out to pat her hand. “I’m not sayin’ ye must face him right now or go back to him. Only yer heart can tell ye to do that. But ye absolutely must forgive him. If ye don’t, the person ye’ll hurt the most will be yerself.”
TWENTY-THREE
The drapes were drawn, and the lamp had long been extinguished. The study was cloaked in shadows that deepened to an icy darkness in the corners of the room. Sprawled in his big leather chair, his booted feet crossed at the ankle and propped carelessly on the edge of his desk, Luke leaned his head back and took another long pull from the whiskey bottle. Though the liquor had long since lost most of its bite, his throat still burned after he swallowed—more from shame, he suspected, than from the drink.
But what the hell. He’d lived with shame for most of his life, from that awful moment when he’d been five and gone running outside to play ball with two other boys in the street in front of the brothel. He hadn’t understood the names they’d called him, but he had felt the sting of rejection. He still felt it, no matter how rich he became or how many men he hired to do his bidding.
Distantly aware of voices coming from the foyer, he wiped his mouth with his knuckles and exhaled with a whistle. He was drunk, all right, he decided after a moment’s careful reflection. But not drunk enough.
Soon, he knew, the sting of the whiskey would vanish, replaced by a stuporous oblivion. Oh, yes. He wanted to guzzle so much skull-popper, he couldn’t think, let alone feel. So much that he forgot ‘Little Miss Sunshine’s’ name and had trouble recollecting what she looked like.
To hell with her. To hell with all of them. So he was a lying, conscienceless bastard. What else was new?
The study door creaked open. Luke narrowed an eye. “I said not to disturb me, goddammit!”
The figure silhouetted in the doorway was short and plump, the outline of clothing too refined for that of Milo Zerek, the first person who came to Luke’s mind. It definitely wasn’t Pipps, who was skinny as a scarecrow and beanpole-tall.
“Who the hell is it?” Luke inquired with a growl calculated to send faint hearts scurrying.
The door swung closed, snuffing out the daylight that had spilled briefly into the room. Luke watched his shadowy visitor walk toward his desk. “Ah,” said a familiar voice he couldn’t quite place, “imbibin’ a wee bit, are ye? Care to share wi’ a friend?”
Luke squinted to see, and Father Tully’s round face came into focus. Leveling the priest a glare, he took another long gulp of whiskey. “I prefer to drink alone, thanks.”
“Well, now. I’m thinkin’ mayhap we should have a wee talk, if it’s all the same to ye.”
“If you’ve come to tell me my marriage is going to be annulled, save your breath. Frankly, I don’t give a shit.”
“I can see ye don’t.” The chair at the opposite side of the desk groaned in protest as the priest settled his considerable bulk onto the leather cushions. “Back to yer old habits, I see.”
“Damn straight, and fine habits they were, too. I haven’t felt this good in a month.” Luke plunked the bottle down at the center of the desk. “Help yourself, if you aren’t afraid you’ll burn in hell.”
“Fer havin’ a wee snort?” Tully chuckled. “I’ll pint with ye, Luke Taggart, the devil take his flames. Jesus turned water into wine at the wedding at Cana. ’Twas His first miracle, ye know. I’ve always taken that to mean He would no’ hold a wee snort again’ a man.”
“Protestants will tell you the ‘wine’ referred to in the Scriptures was actually only grape juice,” Luke replied with a sneer.
The Father took a hearty belt from the bottle, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve as he gasped for breath. “God forbid I should ever listen to a Protestant!” He shuddered. “’Tis good stuff ye’ve got here. Mighty good stuff, indeed!”
Ordinarily Luke might have laughed. He liked the old fart, starched collar and all. “How’d you ever wind up a priest?”
Tully laughed softly. “’Tis a question I’ve asked meself a few times. Some days I’ve a good mind to quit.”
“Why don’t you, then?”
Father took another generous slug of whiskey, then returned the bottle to the blotter. “Ah, now, there’s a question.” He seemed to consider his answer for a moment. In the shadows, his eyes appeared to twinkle uncommonly brightly when he met Luke’s bleary gaze. “I reckon ’tis because I occasionally stumble across some damned fool who needs me help, and lending a hand makes it all seem worthwhile.”
Luke shook his head and grabbed the bottle by its neck, sloshing a little liquor as he dragged it across the blotter toward him. “Seems a high price to pay. No gambling, no skull-popper, no snatch. Jesus, Father. Why not just shoot yourself?”
Tully chuckled again. Then he settled back, kicked his stout legs up to settle his feet on Luke’s desk, and folded his lily-white hands over his black shirtfront. “Is that all Cassandra meant to ye—a wee bit of snatch?”
Luke strangled on the whiskey, fought to get his breath, then bit down hard on his back teeth and blinked, refusing to dignify that question with an answer.
“Well?” the priest pressed. “No’ a bit of snatch, then? A swatch of calico, perhaps? A piece of ass?” He lifted one hand to rub his chin. “It’s been so long, I’m forgettin’ all the vile little names and phrases men use to describe a woman, so forgive me if I stumble about, tryin’ to hit on the right one. Does ‘beaver’ apply? How about ‘honey pot’?”
Luke lurched forward in his chair, his feet hitting the floor with a resounding thud, the base of the whiskey bottle crashing down on the desktop. “Go get yourself screwed!” he grated.
Apparently unalarmed, the priest steepled his fingers over his plump belly. “Sorry, but me vows of celibacy prohibit such activities.”
Luke narrowed his eyes. “Then go screw yourself.”
“Ah…that, too, is forbidden, I’m afraid,” the priest replied with a calm smile that made Luke want to ram his teeth down his throat. “Besides, I’ve heard from several reliable sources that such occupations can make a man go blind. I’ve no personal experience, of course. Is it true, do ye think?”
“You’re pressing your luck, Tully. I’ve asked you politely to leave. If you’re smart, you’ll do it.”
“Politely?” The priest cocked an eyebrow. “Ye’re roarin’ at me, more like. And, mayhap I’m wrong, but I believe ye’re threatenin’ me person.”
“And coming goddamned close to carrying through on the threat.”
“May I take yer angry reaction to me inquiry to mean ye don’t regard the young lady in such base terms?”
“You can take it to mean whatever the hell you want. Just remove yourself from my house!”
“Not until I’m clear on one thing. Purchased whore or cherished wife? Which was she to ye?”
Luke shot up from the chair, reeling for a moment before he could get his balance. “When you’re talking about that girl, keep a civil tongue in your head,” he said raggedly. “Or so help me God, Father, I’ll make you eat that collar you’re wearing.”
The pr
iest cackled. “I’ve chewed on it a few times before, believe me. ’Tis to be expected, I guess, when I go stickin’ me nose in other people’s business. Sit down, Luke, before ye fall down. I meant no insult to yer lady. I was merely seekin’ an answer.”
“To what?”
“An extremely important question. A test, if ye will. Which ye’ve passed. Ye love her, don’t ye?”
Luke’s gut twisted, and he brushed a hand over his eyes. “I don’t love anyone. I’m incapable of the emotion.”
“Horseshit.” Father reached out to slap the desktop. “Sit yer ass down, Luke Taggart. I’ll not be havin’ yer face in mine while I’m tryin’ to talk sense into ye.”
Luke had little choice but to obey. His knees gave out, and he folded like a hinged chair onto the leather cushion behind him. Propping his elbows on his thighs, he buried his face in his hands. “Are you sure you’re a priest?” he finally managed to croak. “You talk like a damned sailor from the docks.”
“I once was a sailor from the docks. As fer me speech, I’ve learned o’er the years that wi’ certain blockheaded addle-brains, talkin’ polite is like tryin’ to drive a spike with a tack hammer.”
“Are you implying that I’m a blockheaded addle-brain?”
“Did I stammer, or are ye deaf as well?”
Luke gave a choked laugh. After a long moment, he asked, “How did a sailor from the docks end up celibate? That must be one hell of a story.”
“A longer one than we have time fer, to be sure. Suffice it to say that durin’ the great famine, I left home to get any job I could find, hopin’ to send coin back to Ireland to feed me mother, brothers, and sisters. They all died while I was aboard ship, some from starvation, some from a contagion that struck the area. ’Twas a black time in me life, and afterward I stayed wi’ the sea fer a time until I realized I had a callin’ to the priesthood.”
“How could you bring yourself to devote your life to God?” Luke sighed and sank back in his chair. “Pardon me for saying so, Father, but that doesn’t make a lot of sense. If there were a God, how do you explain the tragedy that befell your family?”