Marianne made good time to Town and was warmly greeted by Caroline and Rebecca Buford. The three ladies sat in the parlor, and the topic immediately turned to Caroline’s pregnancy.
“The illness in the morning has passed, much to my relief,” Caroline reported, “but I have such cravings now! Pickles—anything pickled, and I must have it. Is that so very strange? I do not recall my sister Jane having such desires.”
Marianne laughed. “For me it was sweets.”
Rebecca said, “I cannot remember any unusual foods every time I was with child, but I did want to consume my portion of my dinner and my husband’s too.”
“How many children do you have, Mrs. Buford?” asked Marianne.
“I have three, and if you are to stay in this house, I must be Rebecca to you.”
Marianne thought that a rather strange request, as the two ladies had just made each other’s acquaintance. Caroline had warned her that her new family was unorthodox, and Marianne had to agree. Rebecca Buford was the most informal person she had ever met. At least it was a pleasant form of peculiarity. “Very well, please call me Marianne, Rebecca.”
Caroline smiled at the interaction. It was amusing to watch others react to her relations.
“Well, if you would excuse me, I must prepare for our visit,” announced Rebecca.
“Really?” inquired Marianne to both ladies. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Oh, I am sorry, I forgot to tell you. We dine at the Matlocks’ today. Miss de Bourgh invited us.”
“Good!” cried Marianne. “I long to see Anne again.”
“I am looking forward to it,” Caroline replied, anticipating how diverting the earl’s response to the unorthodox Bufords might prove.
Buford wandered the afternoon streets of the Dutch capital in despair. As he walked up grand boulevards and down small lanes, the magnificent historic buildings and small modern shops passed by his eyes without recognition.
In the last four and twenty hours, he had read and re-read each of Caroline’s letters at least three times. His guilt and remorse battled with his delight at the news of Caroline’s pregnancy, but after reading the initial news, Buford’s self-disgust grew.
Weekly! She had been writing to him weekly while he had closed himself up in his rooms feeling ill-used. He was not worthy of her love and devotion! Damn the army! Why could they not forward the letters before now— before Thursday—before that deuced ball? Roxanne had seduced him, the whore, but he could have—should have —resisted her. How could he be so weak?
His thoughts flew in a thousand directions, mainly focused on recriminations against the army, postal clerks, and Roxanne—but eventually his reproaches returned to the one most at fault—himself. He had failed his wife, his unborn child, his uniform, and his own promise to himself. He hated Roxanne de Pontchartrain, but he hated himself more.
Just past the
It was early afternoon, well before Vigil Mass, so the sanctuary was empty, dark, and unwelcoming. The only light was from a few candles burning before the statue of the Virgin Mother. The structure was unusual. The three aisles of the nave were built at an angle to the chancel. Buford looked up and spied a cannonball, of all things, embedded high up in the third pillar on the left of the nave. Obviously, the parishioners had kept the gruesome memento of some long-ago bombardment as a badge of honor.
While he was looking at the odd ornament, a priest entered the sanctuary and genuflected before the large crucifix above the altar. As he turned, he noticed the British officer standing in the middle of the church and cautiously approached Buford.
“Good afternoon, my son,” he said in English. “I am Father Amadie. May I help you?”
“
“
“I do not know. I should not be here. Certainly, I am keeping you from your work.”
Father Amadie, no admirer of the tyrant or of the revolution that he represented—the revolution that had sent so many of his brothers to the guillotine—warmed to the young defender of his country. “Forgive me, but I can tell you are troubled. Please, share your worries with me.”
“Surely I am keeping you from your duties.”
“I am only preparing to hear Confession.”
A sudden idea came to Buford. “Father, would it be possible? Would you hear my confession?”
Father Amadie frowned. “My son, are you Catholic?”
Buford shook his head. “I am no Papist. I mean, no, I am not Catholic.”
“Do you understand what you ask of me?”
“Father, my mother was a French Catholic. My aunt was of your faith, and she would take me to Mass when I was young. I know your sacraments; I know what they mean.”
“Then you know that I cannot give you absolution,” Father Amadie explained gently.
“I know, but… but my heart is heavy with regret. It would be a comfort. Please, I know I ask much of you.”
The priest reflected for a moment. He knew he should ask the English Protestant to leave, for to his bishop, the soldier was no better than a heretic. He knew countless Catholics had died at the hands of the Church of England during the Reformation and that Catholics still did not have full rights in Britain.
Father Amadie believed in God and His Holy Church with all his heart, yet he knew that both sides had engaged in religious warfare. The Inquisition in Germany was matched by the Inquisition in Spain. Catholics and Protestants had heaped unspeakable acts upon one another in the name of salvation. Did being right justify such behavior?
Amadie had joined the Church to serve God and the people—and serve he would. Besides, what his bishop did not know would not hurt him.
“Come with me, my son.” He gestured to a side wall of the church where a small door was flanked by two curtains. The priest opened the door and sat in his familiar chair, where he heard so much of the pain of this world. By the time he slid open the window, the English colonel had already taken his position on the kneeler.
Buford bowed his head. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Buford returned to his room to write a letter.
