CHAPTER TWELVE

I head downstairs, intending to take some tea—hot and appropriately sweetened with cream or possibly a single lump of sugar rather than the monstrous iced brew of the American South—on the front porch. I think it's a good idea for me to be seen outside of my room and not snooping. There's little more I can do today, anyway, and I'd rather not be alone on the grounds with Christopher the only family member home.

I make it down the stairs and run straight into a priest. Sincerely, a priest. The man who jumps back, startled as I am at the near collision, wears the dark clothing and white collar of a Catholic priest. "Oh!" he cries. "I'm so sorry. Are you all right?"

His voice is mellow and smooth, a trait seemingly shared by all priests. Do they train to speak like that, I wonder? The rest of him is just as stereotypical. He has well-combed silver hair and kindly eyes that sit behind wire-rimmed glasses. He looks at me with the benevolent expression of one who has dedicated his life to the Church. That expression is a lie just as often as it's the truth, but it will take more than just a first impression to know how truthful this man's benevolence is.

"I'm quite all right, Father," I assure him. "I assume you're here to visit with the family?"

"Yes. I typically hear their confessions on the third Tuesday of every month." He smiles wryly. "I should say, I typically arrive to hear their confessions on the third Tuesday of every month. Whether they happen to be here to keep their appointment is a surprise every month."

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."

"Of course He does. People often confuse justice with righteousness, but Jesus made it clear that an eye for an eye was a poor system and one designed for a people who didn't have the Holy Spirit to guide them."

"Yes, yes, I know," I snap. "We're to love those who persecute us and pray for those who spite us. But are we to just accept that the wicked go unpunished?"

"The wicked are punished, my child."

"Oh yes, in a lake of fire and brimstone, right? And we must accept at face value that such a place exists?"

"The wicked are punished on this Earth, Mary, long before they reach their eternal torment. We may not see their punishment, but sin tortures the evildoers. It follows them like a specter and haunts them everywhere they go."

I've just about had it with these allusions to ghosts. "I've done with specters, Father. I'm tired of seeing through a glass darkly. I am lied to by those who should love me. I am asked for answers I can't give. I am accused of abandoning those I love when they are the ones who abandoned me. I am so tired of feeling guilty. I'm so tired of feeling responsible for the actions other people take. When am I to think of myself? When does my pain start to matter and that of others stop?"

I close my mouth and stare ahead at the wall of the booth. How did this happen? I came here to find answers about the Greenwoods, not to unload my personal trials. I am not Catholic. I haven't been for more than half my life. I didn't come here to confess, so why is that exactly what I'm doing?

"The wicked flee when no man pursues," Father Doyle replies. His calm is both soothing and infuriating. "But the righteous are as bold as a lion. Understand I don't mean to accuse you, Mary. I only wonder, is it truly the actions of others that cause you to feel persecuted, or is the guilt you carry your own?"

I don't reply. It seems I've finally regained enough self-control to keep from blurting out any more dark secrets.

After a long moment, Father Doyle suggests, "Why don't you come to Mass this Sunday? There is a daycare at the Church for the younger children and a Sunday School for the older children. The servants here are all parishioners. They won't mind if you take their children to Mass, even if they don't attend as often as I like. Perhaps you'll join me in the booth at the Church, and we can talk a little more about what truly concerns you. Or perhaps you won't. Either way, I think you would benefit from knowing that at least one Ghost truly loves you and wants what's best for you. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this thought: guilt can consume you if you're not careful. But if you give guilt nothing to consume, it will waste away."

I hear more shuffling, and a moment later, the door opens. I take a breath and open my own door. Father Doyle is kind enough not to stare at me as I walk out of the chapel and hurry to the stairs and out of the suffocating basement.

I don't understand what happened to me down there. I am not the sort of person who loses self-control like that.

But there's no denying that I was under the spell of forces greater than myself. It remains to be seen whether those voices intend good for me as the father suggests, or whether the hostility I feel when the basement door opened was more genuine than any love the Church ascribes to God.

Either way, do I really want to surrender my will to a Ghost, Holy or otherwise?