Part One
She couldn't let anyone else take her laundry this week, she couldn't let any of the scurrying chamber maids or knotty-limbed, lumbering laundresses see the evidence of her fall from innocence, her shame. She was utterly ruined now; no more chances. Any thought of work outside of service, of having her own home and…perhaps…ever having her own family, were now gone like so much ash up a chimney.
And the stain would not come out! As if God was marking her for the scarlet woman she was: how dare she sin in this Holy See! how dare she drag a man of the cloth into her unholy lust! The eyes of the Lord were upon Mary and they saw one word emblazoned: WHORE.
Burn it! She would have to burn this nightgown and purchase another…when? Staff were never paid as regularly here as she had been at home in London, and even those precious few afternoons off were filled with expected prayer meetings and unexpected kitchen duties. But some good hot water—not the tepid wash water supplied by sullen little boys before dawn had ever even crested the horizon—would return the cheap cotton to it's former pristine state: white and clean and the eyes could forget.
888
888
888
Part Two
It had taken her all day but Mary had finally succeeded in sneaking away from Senora Gribardi—the head maid on the fourth floor—to silently creep into the second chapel where soft candlelight illuminated the simple stone room. Monseignor Ambrosius would be in the confessional tonight, a kindly, ageing, hard of hearing sort of priest who listened to the sins and woes of most of the Vatican's lower staff.
Mary took a breath and pushed aside the dark velvet curtain, sitting gently down upon the cushion and tapping lightly on the small window. If she could just get the words off her chest, just explain what had happened even if her confessor would never really hear the story of her fall, then perhaps a measure of this guilt would ease off of her shoulders.
"Bless me Monseignor for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession."
"Eh? And how long has it been since your last confession my child?"
"…Five days Monseignor."
He sounded sick, even with the confusing Italian with which Mary still struggled.
"Monseignor—"
"Eh? And what have you come to confess?"
Mary took a breath, her hands busy twisting her apron, cheeks red in the darkness.
"I-I've made a very bad error—"
"Terror? Eh? What are you afraid of my child?"
"Not terror Monseignor, error! I have sinned very badly."
"Eh?"
"I have lain with a man Monseignor! I have fornicated in this City of God! I've…I've led a man of the cloth to sin! I have ruined myself!"
Mary bowed her head, trembling, pressing the heel of her left palm to her eyes in hopes of stopping the build up of tears. It was a release but she wasn't finished; there was someone else she needed to confess for even if he would never admit it.
"Eh? Say three Benedictions and a Rosary and light a candle to Saint Theresa before you leave."
"B-But I'm not finished Monseignor—"
"Eh! I know all about your sins Mary."
In that moment Mary's countenance portrayed a range of emotions, the worst of which was abject humiliation as she opened the curtain to race away only to face Father Marcus, the collar of his cassock pulled up over his lips to disguise his voice. And now, his laughter.
"Father! How could—"
"I am always surprised at the sorts of things women confess Mary," he let the collar slip down his chin, a chilling smirk coating his face. "Even you my dear. You haven't led me anywhere."
Mary's cheeks burned underneath the drip of shameful tears sliding from wet eyelashes. She gripped the sides of the confessional intending to pull herself up when the bigger man's hand snatched out to grasp her upper arm.
"But I'll be leading you somewhere right now."
8
8
8
to be continued….