Chapter Seven

Not long after, the Moniteur Universel printed a notice for a horse show to be held that same day, and I wanted to ask Papa's permission to go. Candace told me all the gentlemen were taking stock in the wine cellar. I recall being in high spirits that day; I fairly tripped down the cellar steps, singing one of the Scottish songs that were then in fashion.

As I reached the foot of the stairs, I could hear Kit making a point, as if in the midst of a friendly discussion: "If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. But...if we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins..."

Papa, Kit and Jerry Reynolds casually stood between the wine racks toward the back of the cellar. I playfully chided them as I approached. "How can you discuss theology so early in the morning? It's like eating a whole hog for breakfast!"

It was at "hog" that I noticed the tiny, fat books in their hands. Recognition made me feel as though I had wandered into church wearing only my stays.

During the silence that followed my outburst, I understood that I was not moving fast enough to distance myself from my scandalous behavior. I spun around, silently lamenting the distance to the staircase. At the same time, everybody broke into good-natured laughter. "Didn't know you were coming to the catacombs, did you, Jannie," Jerry called. The description was appropriate, for, like the early Christians in Rome, they were enjoying forbidden services beyond the reach of the authorities.

"Dearly beloved brethren--" Kit barred my flight with an outstretched arm, then placed his Book in my hand. "The Scripture moveth us, in sundry places, to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness-“

Kit didn't proclaim the text the way priests do from an altar, looking out onto a crowd. He spoke as naturally as if he were indeed in the middle of a discussion. It was almost like fitting one of Shakespeare's soliloquies into ordinary life. Amazed by his manner, I let him gently usher me alongside Papa. Though I had Kit's Book, I clung to Papa's arm, sharing his. Kit continued Morning Prayer by heart.

I forgot about the horse show until later that afternoon. Kit had found time to work on the trompe l’oeil painting in the downstairs parlor. I said I would let Dona know, in case she wanted to help. But Dona was not on the premises. Candace said she had gone to the horse show with Le Maitre’s ebullient young owner, Malachi.

The news hurt and confused me. Why would they go without asking me? Trying not to wallow in distress, I simply told Kit what Candace had told me. Kit innocently added to my discomfort by asking, "Why didn't you go with them?"

"That's why I was in the cellar this morning. It was the last show, and I wanted to ask Papa if he would take me."

"Did you tell Dona you wanted to see it? I'm sure, if she knew, she'd have asked you to go with her."

Kit had a point. I had never told Dona I wanted to go.

But I also considered that she might have asked me to go, anyway. It would have been the polite thing to do, especially as she had appointed herself my guide to Paris. I wondered if she disdained me because I had neither her taste nor breeding, or if she thought I was still the child she knew so long ago. I said nothing, but evidence of the slight seeped through my eyes and stuffed my nose. I listlessly dabbed blotches of green onto the leaves, taking care to face away from Kit, lest he see my tears. He knew, anyway. He appeared at my side, extending his handkerchief.

"The oils can be a bit much," he said, as I attended to my nose. "Come on. Let's take some air."

I had always thought of a bonnet as a necessary head covering for out of doors and church. That day it became an accessory that forced us to keep our heads close together so each could hear what the other was saying over the sound of the traffic. We didn't want to talk loudly, lest we advertise the fact that we were foreigners.

At one point, we came upon three young women in flowing white dresses cinched beneath the bosom with long silken sashes. As they neared, it was apparent that the dresses were made of gauze so sheer you could see the girls wore neither stays nor any other garment to hide their charms.

I had never seen such a display in public, and I was simultaneously fascinated and aghast. Kit wasn’t about to let me ogle. At the first glimpse of the naughty goddesses, he went “Oh, my” in an exceedingly small voice and steered me in the opposite direction.

“How can women show themselves like that?” I asked.

“You’d be amazed at what people here will do if they have the money.”

“Such as…?”

“Anything to show off their ability to afford extravagance. Ruins from Italy. Statuary from Egypt. Private balloon excursions. What’s amazing is that two-thirds of the country’s civil servants are unemployed, people live in the streets, and the currency means little on the world market.”

Thanks to the nearly naked ladies, our route brought us past a hotel resplendent with fully dressed limestone and bas reliefs. Corinthian columns supported the front portico. Kit smiled. “Ah, voila! Chez Donatienne.”

I was afraid I didn’t hear him correctly.

“Dona’s house. Rather, the house where Dona grew up,” he said into my ear. “Shall we go in?”

“We can do that?”

“Of course. It’s an apartement building. Come on--Viens.”

Like so much of Paris, the foyer was a study in the use of expensive stone for mundane purposes: green marble walls, a white-and-black marble checkerboard floor, a white marble staircase with worn, low steps the width of the foyer.

A small office had been constructed to the right of the stairs. A gray-haired man sat with his feet on the desk, nodding over yesterday’s edition of the Moniteur.

“Salut et fraternite,” he muttered, sleepily crushing the paper and sitting up to greet the people who had imposed themselves upon his moment of repose.

Kit returned the greeting and asked the man about possible vacancies. The man advised him there was a waiting list, but if he liked, he could hasten the process with a pourboire. Kit thanked him for the information, and we left.

“Do you want to live there?” I asked as we stepped back into the street.

“Oh no! I was just justifying our reason for being there.”

“When you married Dona, did you ever think you’d be living in Paris?”

“Never! Funny how things work out, isn’t it?”

I dared ask him if he had asked for the mission.

“God help me, no. I had no idea any such thing was in the working until I was summoned to Philadelphia. And I still didn’t know until the bishop told me.”

“It’s an immense honor, Kit.”

We strolled a little longer before he said, “I’d rather not have it, Jan. But what I want isn’t necessarily what I’m called to do. What’s the Milton your father’s always quoting?”

I thought. “’Let me not rashly call in doubt Divine Prediction’?”

“Ah, yes,” Kit said, and continued: “What if all foretold had been fulfill'd but through mine own default?’”

“Whom have I to complain of but my self?” we said together, and laughed.

“What is that from?” I asked, only then aware that I had never tried to find it among Papa’s library.

“Samson Agonistes.”

“Ah, a Roundhead interpretation of Samson and Dalilah…”

“Which means it takes the Dalilah out of Dalilah! It’s incredibly ponderous. ‘Promise was that I Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver,’” Kit quoted like a deliberately bad actor. “’Ask for this great Deliverer now, and find him Eyeless in Gaza at the Mill with slaves, Himself in bonds under Philistian yoke.’-- Not to mention overwrought and short of hair. Or had his hair grown back by then?”

Our dialogue lapsed into musings about long hair and short hair and how long it would take for the current French fashions to reach America. Before I knew it, we were back at the Refuge, better fit to face the rest of the working day.

My walk through the Marais with Kit had not escaped Papa's attention. That evening, as we sat over a dinner of roasted chicken we had bought from a local eaterie, he chose his words with care.

"I know we all go back a few years, sweetie, but are you aware that you could not have done that in Philadelphia?"

"Done what?"

"Taken a walk with a vicar who is also a married man."

The admonition took me by surprise. "It was Kit, Papa. He's like a brother to me."

"He is not your brother, sweetie."

"What are you worrying about, Papa? He wouldn't do anything immoral. Neither would I."

"I know that, Jannie. What troubles me is what certain members of the community would think if they saw their vicar entertaining a young woman who is neither his wife nor remotely related to him."

"But, Papa! He's an old family--"

"--friend," Papa said with me. "Yes I know, but you're not the little girl he guided through the woods, and he's not the youth who had only his studies to worry about. Jannie, he's a young man with tremendous responsibility. The Church expects fine things of him. The community looks up to him. He mustn't do anything to betray everybody's trust and esteem."

My unshed tears blurred papa's face. "You make me feel like a fallen woman," I grumbled.

"No, no, no, sweetie! I know you're not at fault. I want you to understand that you cannot act as though this is still Ninety-Three. You're both older. You have your stations in life to consider. Remain friends. God knows, I'm not trying to destroy a friendship, certainly not one that goes way back when. All I'm asking is that you think, and do nothing to destroy anybody's integrity, including your own."

Though Papa plied me with chocolate and offered me the last slice of cake, I could eat no more. I had never suspected an innocent walk through the neighborhood would be fraught with so much insinuation. I resolved to clean up quickly and go to bed, and read. I was clearing the table when there was a knock on the door. Within a moment, Papa was asking me to come into the parlor. Kit stood with his hat in his hands, looking more philosophical than upset.

"Yes, Jan, I too was read the Riot Act. And I must say, your father is a wise man. He suggested I speak to you here tonight, in private, instead of at the Refuge."

"I certainly hope nobody saw you come in," I retorted.

Kit winced. "Please don't be angry at your father. If you must be angry, be angry with me. I should have known better. Forgive me. Please."

"There's nothing to forgive--" This is absurd, I thought. Without waiting for Kit's reply, I turned to Papa. "You said I wasn't at fault. I'm sorry, Papa, you were wrong. It was my fault. Kit walked with me because..."

I was about to say "Because his wife slighted me, and I acted like a little girl, and he took pity on me." All at once, it sounded childish, and I realized that I was about to further embarrass Kit by inferring something nasty about his wife. I claimed, instead, "The vapors from the paints were making me unwell. He told me to go outside. He came with me to see that nothing happened to me."

"Is that so, Kit?"

"Don't be silly, Papa. He wouldn't lie. Lying is a sin. He can forgive us our sins, but there's no other priest around to forgive him his own sins."

"Jannie, for someone in his position he had better not do so much as button his coat the wrong way."

"He's old enough to know better, Papa."

"Of course he's old enough to know better. What troubles me is that he's still too young to do anything about it."

The three of us were in the center of the room, arguing in whispers, lest we be heard by the neighbors. With narrowed eyes, Papa turned to Kit, who silently waited, still clutching his hat, his face painfully red. "If you have any reason to be in public with a female who's not your wife, make sure you're not alone. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

The acknowledgement wasn't enough for Papa. Showing Kit to the door, he advised, "It's a terrible thing when a man must tell his own priest to go and sin no more. I don't mean to threaten you, Kit, but know this: If I see the least hint of impropriety, I myself will put you on the first mail coach out of here."