Page 21 of One Last Breath

I laugh politely at that and say, “Christopher is here, or at least he was a half hour ago. As for the others, I’m not sure. I rarely leave my room.”

He blinks, and his eyes widen. “Oh, I’m so sorry. How rude of me not to introduce myself. I’m Father Jacob Doyle.”

“No need to apologize, Father,” I reply. “I was too startled to introduce myself either. I’m Mary Wilcox, the new housekeeper and part-time governess.”

“Ah yes,” he says, taking my hand. Fortunately, he is a shaker like Christopher and not a kisser like James. “I recall Elizabeth mentioning that she was going to hire more help. How are you enjoying it here, Miss Wilcox?”

“Please, call me Mary,” I reply. “As to your question, I am enjoying it well enough, I suppose.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You suppose?”

“Well… every new position is an adjustment. This is my first time as a housekeeper. I’ve done cleaning work before, but never as part of the contract. It’s quite a bit of work. Not that I don’t enjoy it. It’s just an adjustment.”

I wonder why I am so clumsy when I lie to men. It's been quite some time since I've been plagued by the whimsical fantasies of girlhood, and anyway, he's a priest. Even if I were the sort of woman he’d be attracted to, he wouldn’t. I suppose some weaknesses never disappear.

Needless to say, he sees straight through my deception. “Perhaps while I wait for the family, you’d like to confess.”

“Oh, no,” I reply quickly. “I’m afraid I’m quite a lapsed Catholic.”

The truth is that I’m a Catholic who’s been an atheist for the past thirty-two years, but I think it would strain the limits of propriety if I tell the father that.

“Even lapsed Catholics need confession,” Father Doyle presses. “In fact, one could argue they need it more than the devout.”

I am about to refuse again, but then the curious kitten inside me realizes that Father Doyle, perhaps more than anyone else, could hold answers to the secrets this family possesses. He can’t share them with me, of course, but if I ask the right questions, he might give enough of an answer to allow me to find the rest on my own.

So, I smile and say, “Well, why not? Perhaps I’ll feel better if the burden on my soul is a little lighter.”

“I am quite certain you will.”

He falls silent and looks at me expectantly. When I don’t say anything after a moment, he starts a little. “Oh, of course. You wouldn’t know where the chapel is if you’re a lapsed Catholic.”

“They have a chapel on the grounds?”

“They have a chapel in the house. It’s quite unusual in a Southern home, but the original owners of this estate were Catholic. Savannah is unusual among Southern cities in that it hosts a cathedral, which, I suppose, makes this home somewhat less unusual. Anyway, I’ll lead the way.”

He leads me to the stairs, but this time, rather than heading up, he opens the door leading down to the basement. I hesitate on the landing. I don't quite know how to explain what I feel other than that a certain hostility seems to emanate from the lower floor of the Greenwood home.

Father Doyle makes it halfway down the stairs before realizing I’m not following him. “Don’t worry,” he assures me. “There’s nothing down here that can hurt you. Only ghosts and old secrets.”

I think of reminding the father that ghosts and secrets very much can hurt me, but something in his voice calms me. And anyway, I need the answers I seek. I smile and follow him down.

He flips a switch at the bottom of the landing, and a series of lights flicker on. They are strong compact fluorescent bulbs, and the strong light combined with the fact that the basement is clean eases much of my worry. It is windowless, which gives the place a rather hospital-like feel, but the hostility I feel at first is gone.

We reach a small room that is little more than a confession booth and a bench with a statuette of the Virgin to serve as an altar. Father Doyle enters the priest’s cloister and says, “I know it’s been a while since your last confession. Don’t worry so much about the formality. Just tell me what’s on your mind.”

I take a moment to think about what exactly is on my mind. Rather, I try to decide which of the many things on my mind I wish to share at the moment.

When the words finally leave my mouth, they feel almost pulled from me, as though an unseen force were guiding my actions and not my own will. It’s not a comfortable feeling at all.

“I feel as though I am surrounded by ghosts here, Father. They all accuse me of being the reason they are denied justice, but I’m only one woman. How am I supposed to help all of those who have been wronged? How am I supposed to seek vengeance for others when I can’t seek vengeance for myself?”

I fall into shocked silence at that. What on Earth am I talking about?

Father Doyle shifts position, and the bench creaks. I can only see a faint silhouette through the grating of the booth, but I can imagine the confusion on his face.

Perhaps it’s only my imagination, though. When he speaks, he doesn’t sound confused at all. “It is God who seeks vengeance, my child.”

“Well, He’s not very thorough on the job, is He?” I protest. “Some deserve His intervention, and others disappear, and no one cares.”

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