Anne Perry - The Angel Court Affair

“Is it kind to tell people lies because it’s what they are comfortable hearing?” Jemima stared at Charlotte challengingly. “I’ve never heard you do that! In fact when Grandmama tells me I am too candid to people, she says I am just like you.” There was satisfaction in her voice, even a touch of pride. As they passed under another streetlamp Charlotte could see that her daughter was smiling. With the mixture of strength and softness in her features, she did look startlingly like Charlotte had at that age. Charlotte felt a sudden welling up of emotion, and blinked rapidly to hide tears.

“I am not always right,” she said, staring straight ahead. “There are ways of letting people know what you think is the truth. Some are destructive. Some are ill-phrased, too soft or too hard. We need time if we are to change, and gentleness.”

“I know,” Jemima replied. “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. You are always telling me, just as Grandmama does.” She hunched her shoulders a little and her voice was quiet and very serious. “But when is it the right time to tell people something they don’t want to know? If you wait until they want to hear it, it’s probably too late. You’re always telling me what to do, and even more, what not to do.”

“You’re my daughter!” Charlotte said quickly. “I love you! I don’t want you to be hurt, or make any mistakes that matter, or-”

“I know,” Jemima interrupted, reaching across and touching Charlotte lightly on the arm. “It upsets me sometimes, because it sounds as if you think I’m really silly. But I know why you do it. And…and I think I might be frightened, and a bit lonely if you didn’t.” She smiled ruefully. “And if you ever remind me I said that I’ll never speak to you again!”

Charlotte wanted to put her arms around her daughter and hold her tight, but she thought at this moment Jemima was too grown up for that, and perhaps too full of her own emotion to deal with Charlotte’s as well. Instead she gently put her other hand over Jemima’s, and they rode on in silence.

Charlotte was seeing Jemima and Daniel off to school when the maid, Minnie Maude, brought in the newspaper and handed it to Pitt. Her face was wary because she could read, and she had already seen the headline of the article. Her usually cheerful expression had darkened and she was now watching him unobtrusively, pretending to be busy putting the same things away over and over again, so she could keep him in sight. Uffie, the stray dog she had adopted, was sitting in his basket near the stove, his head swinging around each time she passed. He had begun his life secretly in the cellar, and was permitted to remain in the kitchen only if he stayed in that corner. The rule had lasted less than a month.

Pitt opened the paper and found the piece immediately. He began to read, forgetting his tea and allowing it to go cold. It was well written, which he would have expected from his conversation with Laurence in the street the previous evening. What surprised him was the approach.

Laurence described Sofia vividly. His words brought her presence back to Pitt as if she had only just left the room: the sweep of her hair; the challenge of her eyes, probing, almost intimate; above all, the energy in her.

“Is this woman a saint as her admirers claim?” Laurence wrote. And then he answered his own question. “I have no idea, because I don’t know what makes a saint. Am I looking for sublime goodness? Which is what? The absence of all sin? Sin in whose judgment? Or is it mercy, gentleness, self-effacement, humility, generosity with worldly goods, and with time? Meekness?”

Pitt could hear Laurence’s mellow voice in his ears as he looked at the printed page. He could hear the amusement in it, the echo of self-mockery. He read on.

Or are saints people who see further than the rest of us, catch a glimpse of some brighter star? Should they make us feel at ease, comfortable with what we have? Or should they disturb us, make us question, strive for more? As Señora Delacruz demands, reach for the infinite and strive to become like God Himself?

Are saints perfect, or do we permit them to have the same flaws as the rest of us? Why do we want them, or need them? To tell us what to think, and make our decisions for us?

Again Pitt could hear the mockery in Laurence’s tone. And yet the questions were seriously meant. People said “saint” easily. It was a catch-all word with different meanings, or none at all.

He turned back to the paper.

Señora Delacruz is going to do none of that. She demands that we “grow up,” that we begin now on the infinite journey to become like God, somewhere in the regions of eternity. She even claims that God Himself was once like us! That I find far more troubling. I do not want a God who was even as fallible as any of us. Is that blasphemy?

And I am not at all sure that I want so much responsibility myself, even in the “forever”! The punishment for failure would be small. A little while in purgatory, and then an endless peace.

Doing what, for heaven’s sake? I should die of boredom, if I were not, apparently, already dead!

Am I then irreverent, a blasphemer? Should I be punished for such thoughts? Perhaps I should even be silenced? By force if necessary? I think not. I am a questioner, and I am not at all sure that Saint Sofia Delacruz has the answer. But then neither am I sure that she does not. The only thing I am certain of is that she has disturbed my peace of mind, and that of a great many others. And for that, many will wish to punish her.

Pitt could not argue with a single thing Laurence had written, and yet he expected there would be a torrent of letters from all manner of insulted, angry, frightened and confused correspondents the next day.

“Is it bad?” Charlotte had come into the kitchen while he was reading, and was watching him with a frown of concern.

“As an article? No, it’s very good,” he said honestly.

“You look worried.” The slight furrow between her brows deepened.

“He’s reported what she said accurately, but he’s asked a lot of questions. What is a saint? Have we the right to remain ignorant, or the responsibility not to?”

“Did she say that?” Charlotte asked doubtfully.

“Didn’t she?” he asked, turning the question back.

Charlotte thought for a few moments. “Yes, I suppose she did, but more subtly than that. I thought the real trouble would be that she said we all had the same chance of becoming divine.”

Pitt considered for a moment. “You’re right. Most people won’t like that.”

“Just about everyone thinks they have a better chance than others, either because they’re cleverer, or believe the right doctrine, or are just more humble and generally virtuous.” She bit her lip and smiled at him with a steady probing gaze. “And I suppose that excludes us pretty well from real virtue, doesn’t it? If we loved others we would be seeking to find a way of including as many as possible, not as few!”

“Laurence didn’t say that,” he replied thoughtfully. “Perhaps he should have.”

The letters were there the next day, as Pitt had expected. Passions were ignited both for and against Sofia Delacruz, with considerably more against than for.

Pitt read them methodically at the breakfast table. Some simply defended their own faith and felt Sofia had made grave errors of understanding. Those were to be foreseen, and were largely harmless.

Others called her outrageous and demanded that she be silenced. A few suggested God would act to destroy her, if man did not. Various biblical punishments were suggested, more colorful than practical.

Pitt was aware of Charlotte watching him read, concern in her face.

“It’s only words,” he said, smiling at her, trying to defuse the sense of unease he felt. There was an ugliness to the tone of so many of the letters. They expressed not so much a defense of faith as a wish to punish Sofia for the offense of disturbing their certainties and awakening doubts that had been long asleep.