XXII
They tiptoed around each other for over a week. Both polite and conciliatory and distant in a way they'd never been before. Mrs. Beazley came to the rectory and did her tasks in the kitchen and in the garden and in the church and then left. Lucien did not speak to her unless directly relevant to the task at hand. And God did he hate it.
He had felt so much better, initially, for having told her the truth. He had found it within him to trust someone, to share his burdens with one who did not scorn him for his weakness. But the trust and affection between them had already passed too far beyond that of a priest and parishioner. Certainly past an employer and employee. Even past a pair of friends. He was drawn to her in a way that was so unspeakably dangerous. And when she had touched him, when he had felt her hands and lips on his bare body—on his scars, of all places—he had quite nearly snapped right then and there.
Now, his resolve was still weakened beyond what he had imagined possible. He forced himself to remain sober at all times. The first night had been the worst, as the withdrawal had nearly killed him. But by the time she had come to make breakfast for him, he showered the sweat off his body and hid his trembling through breakfast and was fine after that. The nightmares were still present. He barely slept. But without the whiskey in his veins, he knew he could remain stronger for them both. Mrs. Beazley was a good woman and would not initiate anything between them, he knew. If he remained as he needed to, she would follow his lead. It would only be if he showed her his weakness again that she might do the same.
Funny how nothing had gotten him to stop drinking before this. He hadn't even stopped when a stranger found him passed out under the willow tree. Mrs. Beazley had taken care of him after that, after he'd realized he needed help. But he'd not given up the whiskey. Now, though, the situation felt much direr. It wasn't just his reputation that would be besmirched if he was found drunk. No, he needed to protect more than just that. He needed to protect her.
But Christ, did he miss her. He'd gotten out of the habit of using the Lord's name in vain, but it was certainly warranted here, in his mind. For those months that they had spent together, growing ever closer, Lucien had gotten to have a friend for the first time in such a long while. He'd had a companion to share his time and his tasks and his humor. He liked talking to her, liked sitting with her while he had breakfast and she drank her tea, liked teaching catechism with her, liked debating subjects for his homilies. She still sat with him at breakfast and still assisted in catechism, but the spark between them that had made all of that so enjoyable had been snuffed out by the both of them. And he missed her very much.
His wandering thoughts were interrupted by a parishioner opening the curtain to the confessional. He needed to focus on what he was supposed to be doing. In helping others he could at the very least distract from his own worries.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."
The sound of that voice took him by surprise. He'd never heard that voice say those words before. And he was so caught off guard that he forgot his place. "Jean, what are you doing here?"
She sighed audibly. "I don't know why I bothered. If you'd listened to my confession like any other priest, I think I'd have been more upset."
"I am sorry, should we start again?" he offered.
"No, no. It was silly of me to try," she said sadly.
"Would you like to tell me what's bothering you, Mrs. Beazley?" It was the least he could do, after all, to allow her to speak her mind. Though he had some sense of what she had wanted to confess.
"I think you should call me Jean," she said, not quite answering his question.
"Oh, I don't know if that…"
"Do you know why I've never confessed to you before?" she asked, cutting him off.
"No, but I have wondered," he replied.
"I know that all sins are sins, but I've never felt particularly guilty over the little ones. Envy and pride and such. That's just part of being human, isn't it? And if we view our very humanity on par with theft and murder and adultery, how can we be forgiven for one and not another?"
"Yes, I quite agree," he said softly.
"I had a feeling you might. I have gone to Confession before, when I was young and didn't know the difference yet. And I have confessed my greatest sins. Christopher and I, before we were married. The anger I felt over his going to war and then after his death when I knew it was my fault."
Lucien nearly interjected to ask what she meant by that, but this was not the time.
She went on, "But I've not done anything in a very long time that I thought warranted Confession. Until…until now."
"Oh?"
Jean raised her hand and pressed it against the thin wooden screen that separated the confessor from the priest. Her fingertips curled over the sides. He could see that one of her red-painted nails was chipped, something he'd never before seen on her hands. "Lucien, the way I…" Her voice shook and she paused, reconsidering her words. "You are a priest," she said desperately. "And the way I feel about you is…"
He could not stop himself. He raised his own hand to touch hers, his fingers atop hers. "I know, Jean. I know. And I don't know what to do."
"We crossed a line that night," she said, and he knew precisely what she meant. "We crossed a line and we've tried to take it back, but I don't think we can."
"I have hated the way things have been between us. I've missed you so much. The way things were…before," he told her.
"But it's a sin, isn't it? I don't quite know what to call it. Lust, maybe, but it's…it's more than that."
Lucien's heart thundered in his chest. To know, in plain words, that she felt just as he did, that she was struggling as he was. "It is much more than that," he agreed. It was love, he knew. But he did not dare to say it. It would not be right to tell her that, not now, not when they were both so troubled and they were in the church and in the confessional, of all places.
"And it is a sin," she added.
That, he did not agree with. Sins were things that hurt others. That violated the laws of God, not just the laws of the Church. It had taken him a long time to fully understand the distinction. He had a feeling that Jean would understand, though, again, this was not the time to bring it up. But the love he felt for her could not be a sin. Who did it hurt? What law were they breaking? Love between two people was a divine gift. That, he believed more than anything else. Its rarity and its power and its beauty…love could be nothing short of divine. If nothing else, he had to hold on to that.
"Lucien, should we…should we pray?" Jean asked nervously. Her hand was still beneath his and he had been silent far too long for her comfort, it seemed.
"I know I am not the one who is supposed to be confessing, but I think you should know that I have not prayed outside of Mass for my own purposes in over a decade," he told her.
"What?" she asked in surprise. She took her hand away from his, and the loss of her touch wounded him.
Lucien swallowed hard and said, "God has never answered my prayers since I became a priest. Not once. I don't think He listens to me. If He even exists."
"Don't say that, Lucien," Jean whispered.
He knew she was probably just afraid of the lack of direction, of his failure to ease her discomfort. But her rejection of his words, her lack of compassion with what was perhaps his most shameful secret after his failures during the war, her reaction was a hot knife through his heart. "Perhaps I shouldn't have bothered to confess anything."
"Perhaps I shouldn't have either."
With that, she stood up and left the confessional. He heard her shoes on the marble floors get quieter and quieter as she left. And in a fit of frustration, Lucien balled up his fist and slammed it against the wooden screen. It was delicate wood, and his force was great. It shattered on impact and the splinters cut his knuckles. His hand bloomed with pain and blood. Lucien just sat there and stared at his wounds.
