Once the boys finish taking communion and Poole dismisses them for their hour of reflection, Andrew makes sure to catch Peter before he goes upstairs to the dorm where, like most of the others, he’ll likely take a late morning nap, something Andrew himself would very much like to do.
Alas, that will not happen today.
“Peter!”
A head taller than most of the others, Peter is easy to spot in the crowd of children exiting the chapel. He turns back toward Andrew—who points meaningfully to the foyer—and nods in acknowledgment. Andrew gathers his things and hastens out, meeting up with Peter outside the doors.
“Good morning, Father,” Peter says, suppressing a yawn.
“Good morning. Tired?”
Peter shakes his head, but his heavy eyes counter the lie. “I’m okay. The last couple days have been . . . odd.”
Andrew understands why Peter would think that about Friday night, but is confused as to why he’d mention the last “couple days.” Did something occur yesterday Andrew isn’t aware of? He decides to dig deeper on the subject.
Later, when there’s more time.
“I see,” he says, letting it go for the moment. “Listen, I hate to ask, but the weather is turning against us more quickly than we expected, and I’m afraid I can’t wait another day to make a run for supplies.”
Andrew tries not to smile as Peter’s face lights up, his tired eyes suddenly wide and alert. Even his pale cheeks flush, albeit slightly. “So,” Andrew continues, “I need to go this afternoon. Or, rather, this morning . . . to put a finer point on it, I need to go now. The snow is only going to fall harder, and by this time tomorrow we might be looking at a foot or more, double or triple the day after that.” He puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder, winces inwardly at how frail it is, at the feel of jutting bone through the thin shirt.
We must find a way to feed the boys better, he thinks, for what is probably the thousandth time. Peter waits silently, expectantly, for the question he wants to hear, and Andrew can’t suppress a small sigh. Boys will be boys.
“If you’re able, I’d like you to come with me. I can always use the help.”
Peter is already nodding. “To the Hill farm.”
“That’s right.” Andrew tilts his head, gives Peter a wary look. “But Peter, you will be helping me, you understand? We’ll need to hurry. I’ve no desire to push through heavy snow with a wagon filled with supplies. It’s not a social visit.”
“Of course, Father. Should I get my things?”
Andrew pauses a moment, weighing whether the boy needs more recrimination, then nods. “Yes. Bring your coat, and a hat. It’ll be cold on the road.”
Peter is already backing away, eager to turn and run up the stairs to the cloak room.
Andrew knows Peter is excited for the trip and, hopefully, the boy is looking forward to some quality time with his teacher （or so he’d like to imagine）。
But mostly, Andrew knows, he’s eager to see Grace Hill.
“Go on,” he says, waving a hand. “Fifteen minutes, out front.”
Peter walks briskly toward the stairs, and Andrew admires his restraint at not breaking into a gallop. Andrew is not a stupid man, and he realizes the dangers of putting coal too near an open fire, but he also doesn’t want to hide the boy from the world only to have it revealed to him later, when he’s already a priest and his life decisions, forever finalized, are based on limited experiences.
If Peter is to become a priest, Andrew wants him to make that decision with eyes wide open. Being a priest is a calling, but it’s also a choice. And, in Andrew’s mind anyway, it should be an educated decision. If you choose the priesthood, the knowledge of what you are sacrificing should not be something ethereal, something told to you or that you read from a book, but something you’ve experienced. Perhaps even loved.
Loved . . . and then purposely let go of.
Only then would the decision be whole; strong enough to withstand the many years, the countless temptations. Still, he hopes Peter will make the choice to be a priest, to forego so much of what the world offers in order to be a pure vessel of the Lord.
And if he doesn’t—if he chooses the love of worldly things over the love of the Lord, if he accepts earthly treasures instead of heavenly rewards—then Andrew will support him. He loves the boy, after all, like he would his own son, and his happiness is paramount.
Pondering all these thoughts, and worried about the oncoming weather, Andrew slips through the large double doors and into the whispering cold. He walks brusquely toward the barn to ready the wagon. Light snow flutters around him, but the ground is still easily passable. He smiles to himself as he thinks of Peter, of the grand decision which lies ahead of him.
Yes, he’ll let the boy make up his own mind.
But he doesn’t plan to make the decision an easy one.
18
GRACE!
I try to temper my excitement. I haven’t been to the farm in several months, and my anxiety is surpassed only by my desire to see Grace once again.
Andrew took me to the Hill farm for the first time when I was only twelve. He’d already taken me under his wing by then, begun my early lessons that would eventually lead to the path of priesthood, especially once he saw my affinity for scripture, for the spiritual. That first trip to the Hill farm was—and still is—one of the greatest days of my life. Most certainly since the death of my parents and my bequeathal to the orphanage. It was exhilarating. It was an adventure.
The farm is owned by John Hill, a man Father Andrew already knew well by the time I was introduced, and had been supplying the orphanage with supplies even prior to Andrew’s arrival. There are other farms, of course, but none as close as Hill farm, and none as well-stocked with the necessities of feeding and housing thirty-two growing boys. The city of Chester was forbidden to any of the children, including me, so the Hill farm was as close to the real world as I would likely ever get, at least until I turned eighteen and was able to leave the orphanage as an adult （or hired out to a needy workhouse or factory, the fate for many of the children, especially the more unruly ones）。
Being so young and sheltered at the time, I was eagerly looking forward to meeting Mr. Hill, to seeing animals I’d only read about, to exploring a new world.
And then, something incredible happened.
I met Grace.
Being a single child from a reclusive family, I’d never interacted with a female other than my own mother. And, as an orphan in an all-boys home, the opportunity was even more implausible. But fate intervened, and at the age of twelve years, there I was, meeting my first real girl.
John and Andrew were openly amused by my response to Grace Hill, herself only ten years old at the time. I recall being tongue-tied, and shy at first. But she was kind, and funny, and wasn’t put off by my sullen, confused demeanor. Looking back on it, I wonder if John and Andrew had perhaps discussed it with Grace, meeting one of the orphans, and if John prepped his daughter not to take offense if we acted, well, peculiar.
Or maybe it was just the way Grace was—forthright, open, energized. Blazing.
That first magical afternoon, while Andrew and John discussed matters of no interest to children, Grace took my hand and pulled me, without preamble, toward the farmhouse for a tour. She showed me their neat, modest home, all of which was amazing to my naïve eyes. They had so many things! I wanted to pick up every item and study it! Lamps and vases and painted bowls, a carved wooden pipe, an entire stack of magazines. And toys! It was dizzying. When she led me into her room I gasped, dumbstruck.