“When will you receive your assignment?”
“Merchant navy sailors are the last to be placed.”
“So we have time?”
“It depends upon Italy.”
Domenica winced. She loathed the Fascisti and the evil intentions of their leader. Mussolini had been appointed by the king—he was not elected—and yet his will would decide the fate of her people. She despised him for keeping her from returning to Viareggio.
“Will you take me back to Viareggio someday?”
“Of course.”
“Not for a visit, to live there.”
“I would be happy to live anywhere in the world you want to be.”
“Sometimes I wish we could go somewhere and start over again. I like the idea of America.”
“Do you, now?” McVicars smiled.
“We could discover a new country together. I’ve heard wonderful things about it. They say the brass rings on the carousels are made of gold.”
He looked around for spying eyes before pulling her close. “You know what I love about you? You believe that claptrap. But if you want to see for yourself, I will take you. I have a cousin in New York. He works in the shipyard.”
“Could you do that kind of work?”
“I’d do anything to provide for you. When we marry, your nursing days are behind you. No more washing soot off old men and bandaging their bloodied meat hooks and sewing up their wounds. That’s over. I want you having my babies.”
“The captain orders it and it’s done?”
“Usually,” he said sheepishly.
Domenica smiled. “Would you give up the sea for me?”
“You decide about your nursing,” McVicars grumbled. “I won’t ask you to give up anything you love.”
“Nor will I,” Domenica promised.
* * *
John McVicars watched as the procession in honor of the Feast of Corpus Christi passed by. The gold monstrance, swathed in a white satin talis, was held high in the air by the priest. The Mother Superior followed behind, carrying the pyx, a gold box that held the hosts to be served at Holy Communion. The girls of the school followed behind them, wearing white dresses, carrying small bouquets of red roses. Domenica, along with the teachers, followed the girls.
The groundskeeper let down the velvet rope separating the procession from the onlookers. The guests, including the captain, entered the church. The good Protestant had never set foot in a Catholic church. This was proof he would do anything for love, for Domenica Cabrelli.
John waited for Domenica when the service ended. In his pocket were the two gold wedding bands he had purchased at Mattiuzzi’s that morning. Sister Matelda was to arrange a military wedding, Vatican-approved, with the priest for the next morning. Domenica had moved to the guest lodge of the convent. McVicars would join her there once they married.
John didn’t like the look on his fiancée’s face as she came toward him through the crowd after the service.
“He won’t do it. The priest refuses to marry us.”
“What do you mean? That’s his job. There’s four shillings in it for him. All right, I’ll make it five.”
“He’s serious.”
“Can the Sisters help change his mind?”
“Sister Matelda said we should go to Manchester.”
“That’s three hours by train.”
“She called the priest there. If we leave now, we’ll get there by nightfall. Don Fracassi is waiting for us.”
* * *
Don Gaetano Fracassi closed the ledger on his desk. The priest looked around the vestry of Saint Alban’s, Ancoats, with a heavy heart. No matter how hard he tried, he was in arrears on every bill owed by the poor church. The boiler was shot, the roof leaked, and the stone wall that hemmed the cemetery was crumbling from age and exposure to the elements.
The church needed funds. The bishop left it to the local priests to raise the money through tithing and events. In desperation, last fall, Fracassi thought to rent out the church hall for civic meetings. His best customer had been the local brotherhood of the Fascisti, whose membership was mostly comprised of English locals who followed Oswald Mosley, but there were also parishoners, English citizens of Italian descent, who attended, filling the church hall to capacity. Fracassi kept out of politics, but he did not keep the politicians out of his church hall if they were willing to pay.
The priest got up from his desk, accidentally kicking over the empty tin he had placed there earlier to catch the water that leaked through the hole in the roof. He grabbed the broom behind the door, tied a rag over the bristles, and swabbed the stone. He walked around the periphery of the wet floor and sat down next to the fire to wait for it to dry, reaching into the pocket of his cassock and peeling the orange he had saved from lunch. Fracassi savored the peel first, even though it was slightly bitter. He ate the sweet quarters slowly, releasing the nectar between his teeth. The fruit tasted of his native Italy, where oranges and lemons grew plentiful in the heat. The first thing he learned in England was that citrus fruit was hard to find and expensive. When he was done, he threw the seeds in the fire and rubbed his hands together. The oil on his hands from the orange peel released in the air like perfume on a beautiful woman. He sat back in his chair and placed his sore feet on the grate.