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La Belle Christiane
2011 Copyright Lyn Cote
All rights reserved
Chapter Nineteen Scene 2
The intervening day and night had expired at last. Silently, miserably Christiane sat opposite Mrs. Washington in the rocking carriage. Two mornings ago they had departed from Valley Forge. Christiane remembered their leaving again. She had been grateful for the masking of the early light. Still a few friends had ventured out to say good by.
Henry had stood beside the General and the pain in his eyes had split her heart. She knew she would be causing him even more hurt before that day was done. The ring and a simple note she had left him would forever break the formal tie between them, but that was just the surface issue. She knew the ache of betrayal herself. How could she have wounded such a fine man?
Again she tasted the chaste kiss which he had pressed upon her lips in farewell. Never before had she felt so soiled, so unworthy. Because of her ill-considered actions a good man would suffer heartbreak and, worse yet, an innocent child would be born without a father, disgraced. A tear trembled and slipped down her cheek.
“Do you want to talk, my dear?” Mrs. Washington asked sympathetically. They had both been deep in private thoughts that morning.
“There isn’t much to say,” Christiane replied bleakly.
Mrs. Washington was touched by the sadness in the younger woman’s voice, but one could not soothe her like a child. Everything would not be all right. “Christiane, this is not the end of your life–”
Christiane looked up. “In a way it is.”
“How do you mean?”
“The life I had chosen for myself and my son is ended,” her voice trailed off.
“You are not even twenty yet. I will not lie to you. What you have done will leave its mark, but time passes. People forget, a little, if not completely. God forgives. Life goes on.”
Christiane nodded and unconsciously pressed her hand on her abdomen.
Mrs. Washington smiled at this timeless, universal gesture. They both went back to their private thoughts then. By and by, one of their escorts rode up to the window. “We are in Maryland now, ladies.” The women nodded. The lady dozed finally, but Christiane still fretted.
Then she sat up straighter. Maryland? They were in Maryland, the only Catholic colony. Mrs. Washington’s comment about God took on more significance suddenly. She had been in the Protestant colonies for so many years that she had given the Church and God no thought. That she was now guilty of many serious sins was only too obvious. To be free of guilt, to receive absolution would be a blessed release. And now she might. Her heart beat faster. Without thinking further, she motioned out the window to one of the escorts. “Did you say we are in Maryland, sir?” she asked breathlessly. Her companion stirred at the sound.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered politely.
“Would you please ask the driver to be looking for a church? I would like very much to stop at a Catholic church.”
“Yes, madame,” he replied and rode forward to the driver.
“What’s this?” the lady asked, still drowsy.
“Oh, I am sorry. I should have asked you first,” Christiane apologized, “but it just came to me all of a sudden.”
“What did?”
“That we were in Maryland. I remembered that it is Catholic. I would like to stop at a church and speak to a priest.” She stopped, worried that she may have offended her friend. The anti-papist bias was very deep in the Protestant colonists.
But Mrs. Washington only nodded. “Whatever you wish, my dear.”
“Thank you. I won’t take long.”
“Don’t worry. It will take us several more days to reach Mt. Vernon as it is. An hour or two will not make that much difference.”
The long afternoon crawled along while Christiane fidgeted, watching out the small window beside her. The spring had been dry and dust billowed around them. The heat of the day wrapped around them in their layers of proper clothing and flies dropped in occasionally to practice avoiding fans. Finally Christiane gave up and dozed, too. Perhaps Maryland was the Catholic colony, but it had no churches.
The coach stopped and both the women awoke abruptly. “Mrs. Kruger?” The escort was at the window. “Here is a church.” She looked out at a small brick building with a cross. She was so accustomed to white clapboard churches that she could only stare at first. Then she opened the door and he helped her down.
“I won’t be long,” she paused to say.
“Take your time, my dear. I will stretch my cramped legs,” Mrs. Washington answered.
Christiane turned and went directly up the cobbled path and stepped inside the large oak door. Inside it was cool and dark. The late afternoon sun illumined the stained-glass windows. A few candles flickered at the feet of a statue of Mary who held flowers and looked away serenely. A small crucifix hung over the altar. She felt like an alien. No comfort came to her from the stout walls, surrounding her. Images of Notre Dame slid through her mind and teased her heart. Automatically she stepped down the aisle, genuflected and knelt in the last pew. She tried to remember a prayer from her childhood, but none returned to her lips. Minutes passed while tears seeped from her eyes and guilt overwhelmed her.
“Who are you?” a querulous voice demanded from behind her.
Her heart jumped and she stood and turned. A white-haired priest, short and somewhat stout, scowled at her.
“Father?” she asked tentatively.
“Yes, who are you?” he repeated even more querulous.
“Father, I would like to make confession and be absolved.”
“It’s not time. Come back when it is,” he replied and turned to go.
“Father!” she exclaimed, “I am just travelling through. Please hear my confession. I don’t know when I will find another church.”
The old priest frowned mightily. For a long while he just stared at her. Then he motioned for her to sit and he came and sat beside her. “Very well. How long has it been since your last confession?”
“Seven, maybe eight years,” she stammered.
“Eight years!” he bellowed.
“I’ve been in the Protestant colonies,” she defended herself.
“Why?” he asked, unappeased.
Christiane could think of no response. “Don’t you have a confessional?” she asked, trying to distract him.
“Confessional? Why do we need to go into a confessional? We are the only two in the church.” His voice climbed, “Do you want to make your confession or not?”
She twisted her handkerchief. How to say all she had done to this unpleasant old man?
“Well!” he shouted.
She jumped. “I am pregnant, but not married,” she blurted out.
“What!” Then he asked matter-of-factly, “You’re not too bad to look at. Why won’t he marry you?”
“He is already married,” she mumbled.
“An adulteress.”
“He lied to me. He promised to marry me.”
“Good,” he said grudgingly “Good, you didn’t look a complete fool.” He studied her face. In the silent moments she felt her cheeks grow warmer and warmer.
“Well!” He slapped his thigh as though to wake her. “No doubt you think me an unpleasant old man.”
She swallowed, silently agreeing.
“If you do, you are right. I did not become a priest to please people. It seems to me that most confessions I hear are about the same, old, foolish things. At least, yours has the novelty of being serious.” He paused and gave her another searching look. “You are travelling?”
“Yes, south.”
“Well, what I’m going to say will not please you. I am not going to give you any of the ordinary penances. A strong sin needs a strong remedy.” He paused. “Don’t lie,” he said evenly.
“What?”
“Don’t lie. You may think you are leaving your past behind you. Don’t! It is wartime. A husband is easy to manufacture and if he is supposedly killed in battle, so much the better. Don’t do it. Never lie about your sin. That is your penance. Don’t forget it!” Without so much as a prayer or a blessing, he struggled to his feet and walked with stiff knees to the altar and thence to a door behind it and disappeared.
She sat there several minutes in the quiet church. The low candles flickered. At last she rose and walked from the sanctuary. Without speaking, she allowed the escort to help her back into the coach. Mrs. Washington smiled. “Feeling better, my dear?”
Christiane looked up. “I don’t know,” she replied soberly and the carriage lurched forward. She did feel better for confessing her sin, but did that make any difference? She felt around her emotions and her spirit. She had taken a first step but she sensed she need to do more. She closed her eyes and prayed silently, “God, help me do better. Show me the way.”
A slight easing in the tightness around her heart could not be denied. She has asked and now must wait for the answer.
At last! What did you think of the priest’s penance?–Lyn
