Galore - Michael Crummey [31]
Dodge smiled at his superior. It was early yet, he felt, to judge.
—I half expected, Waghorne said, we might lay eyes on the priest you speak of in your correspondence.
—You can trust Phelan won’t show his face anywhere an English soldier would see it.
—I had a most curious visit from the prefect vicar apostolic before I left St. John’s, Reverend Dodge.
—The Catholic archbishop?
—It seems the Romans are as anxious to be rid of Father Phelan as yourself.
—Well, they make a poor showing of their anxiety.
Waghorne pursed his lips. —He’s a rogue, I’m told. Defrocked by the Dominican Order after he was ordained. And gallivanting through the country all the years since as if it was ceded to him by God.
—And how exactly does the archbishop plan to deal with the man?
—As you are aware, Reverend Dodge, the Romans are not keen to discuss their internal problems. I’m surprised he spoke to me at all.
—He must have wanted something?
—Just an eye, Waghorne said casually. —A line or two now and then to say when Phelan is here, what he’s doing. Who he’s closest to.
Dodge turned to set his plate on the table. —I hardly thought when I was ordained, he said, that I would be asked to spy on behalf of the Catholic archbishop.
—Come now, Waghorne said gently. —Think of it as a neighborly gesture. A Christian duty.
A tall girl wandered by with an empty plate, offering a cursory bob in their direction as she passed.
—Mary Tryphena Devine, Dodge whispered.
—Is that the young one half the men of Newfoundland are heartsick for?
—The same.
Waghorne tilted his head in appraisal, his lips pursed. —Well, the girl has fine posture, he said dismissively.
—I expect you will have noted the relative lack of female company about you.
The vicar glanced around the yard and even by that casual assessment he could see the women were outnumbered at least three to one.
—Hunger is the best sauce, Your Worship.
After Mary Tryphena had taken her fill from the tables she heaped a plate with food for Olive Trim, then entertained the baby so the woman could eat her meal in peace. Happy to be distracted from thinking of Absalom who was still nowhere to be seen. Olive was leaning back on a pillow of straw in her truckley beneath the weight of her belly, finally pregnant with a child of her own after taking in the orphan they’d christened Obediah. She was only days from delivering and looked like a creature trapped under some obstruction she was helpless to move.
—Jabez is certain it’s a lad we’re having, Olive said. —Wants to call him Azariah.
Mary Tryphena looked at Olive to see if she was meant to laugh at this. —Obediah and Azariah.
Olive said, Too many hours with his head in the Good Book if you want my opinion, may God forgive me. She shifted slightly, reaching a hand to change the position of one of her lifeless legs. —Don’t know how I’ll manage to chase two of the little buggers around.
Mary Tryphena was watching Selina’s House distractedly and only nodded.
—Have you seen Absalom since he’s been home? Olive asked.
Mary Tryphena smiled across at her and shook her head, embarrassed to be caught out. She saw Judah and Lazarus wandering through the crowd with the wood dog at their heels and she called them over to show off the youngster. Lazarus took the tricorn from Judah to place it full over Obediah’s head and the filthy darkness set the child to bawling. Mary Tryphena thought to say something to Olive about the ridiculous proposal from the sailor she’d turned down that morning but didn’t see how she could avoid more discussion of Absalom with the subject and let it lie. She took the hat off the baby’s head, tossing it back to Jude, and he offered up a fool’s dance to try and quiet the youngster.
Captain John Withycombe almost missed the garden party altogether, retreating to his quarters following the disastrous proposal to Mary Tryphena, shutting himself away with a chair against the door and a bottle in his lap.