One Candle Read online

  Other Books by

  Gale Sears

  The Silence of God

  Belonging to Heaven

  Letters in the Jade Dragon Box

  Christmas for a Dollar

  The Route

  The Missing Christmas Treasure

  The Autumn Sky trilogy

  Autumn Sky

  Until the Dawn

  Upon the Mountains

  Interior Images: keyplacement/Shutterstock.com and HN Works/Shutterstock.com

  © 2018 Gale Sears

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, at [email protected] or PO Box 30178, Salt Lake City, Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book Company.

  This novel is based on a true story and contains real historical figures, facts, and places, in addition to fictional characters, places, and events, which are a product of the author’s imagination.

  Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.

  Visit us at DeseretBook.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Sears, Gale, author.

  Title: One candle : a historical novel / Gale Sears.

  Description: Salt Lake City, Utah : Deseret Book, [2018] | Includes bibliographical references.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017041040 | ISBN 9781629723945 (paperbound)

  Subjects: LCSH: Waldenses—Fiction. | Mormon missionaries—Italy—Piedmont—Fiction. | Mormon converts—Italy—Piedmont—Fiction. | Piedmont (Italy), setting. | Eighteen forties, setting. | Eighteen fifties, setting. | LCGFT: Historical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3619.E256 O54 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017041040

  Printed in the United States of America

  Edwards Brothers Malloy, Ann Arbor, MI

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To George.

  Hai reso il cammino una gioia.

  To my forever family of Roma 3.

  Vi voglio bene!

  Contents

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Author’s Endnote

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgments

  Preface

  In researching and writing books about pioneering individuals who have gone against their religious traditions or cultural norms, often stepping forward into unknown territory and its subsequent hardships, I have found myself challenged and uplifted. Such is the case with the characters living within the pages of One Candle: from the fearless Catholic reformer Peter Waldo, to the resolute missionaries of the fledgling Mormon Church, to the persecuted and visionary Waldenese of Northern Italy.

  My journey began with an interest in the October 1849 call of Mormon Apostle Lorenzo Snow to preach the restored gospel of Jesus Christ to the people of Italy. He was accompanied by Joseph Toronto, a member of the Church originally from Sicily. Historical accounts of visions, miracles, and revelation surround their endeavors as they are led to an obscure Protestant enclave based in Northern Italy. These people were known as the Waldenese: followers of the Catholic reformer Peter Waldo (Valdo, Valdes, or Waldes). Although pockets of Waldensian faithful existed throughout Europe in the twelfth century, a large population found refuge from horrific persecution in the Alpine valleys of the Piedmont area of Northern Italy. (These people of faith were also called Vaudois or Albigenses.) Their founder, Peter Waldo, was a wealthy merchant of Lyon, France, who, in the twelfth century, gave away his possessions to live a life of poverty and commitment. He followed the example set by the apostles at the time of Christ. His followers became known as “The Poor Men of Lyon” and later as the Waldenese or Waldensians. Peter Waldo questioned many of the practices of the Catholic Church. He and his followers were later excommunicated from the Orthodox Church and treated as heretics because they became lay preachers (including women) who taught from the Bible and encouraged its reading by all. His break with the Catholic Church predated the reformation of Martin Luther by 300 years.

  In the seventeen and eighteen hundreds, many followers of the Waldensian faith saw a departure from and diminishment of original dogma as taught by Peter Waldo, and were looking for a return to the doctrine and practices of the original Church of Jesus Christ. The 1850 arrival of Mormon missionaries onto Italy’s shore, with claims of the restoration of the primitive Church of Christ, makes for an intriguing storyline.

  Chapter One

  Torre Pellice, The Piedmont, Italy

  February 17, 1848

  Perhaps he could chant a prayer to the Blessed Mother and she would warm the stone walls of his chamber and the ache in his hands would lessen. Perhaps the thin mattress on his bed would give some comfort and the stiffness in his back would drain away. Perhaps the kind sun would walk an unnatural course and slant through his window to dry the phlegm from his lungs. Perhaps. Or perhaps after eighty-one years of life, Father Andrew had learned not to expect.

  The priest rolled onto his side, put his legs over the wood of the bed frame, and sat up. He opened his eyes, struggling to focus on something, anything: the wall with its crucifix, a rough-hewn chair and table, the nightstand with its tin cup and shallow food bowl. Ah, my bowl. He reached for it, fumbling at its edge a few times before his crooked fingers latched on. He drew it down beside his leg and banged it on the side of his bed. The sound echoed against the stone walls.

  Andrew’s mind went back seven decades to a voice and a place that would never leave his memory, to a name that hadn’t belonged to him for a long time.

  “Lucien Anton Guy! Put down those pots! They are for cooking, not noisemaking!”

  “I am the Duke’s lead man, Mama! I announce his coming!”

  A slap on the side of his head.

  “I will give you Duke Savoy. Give me those pots!”

  “But Mama—”

  Another slap, and an ear pull.

  “Do you want supper or not?”

  The pots are handed over.

  “Now, go find your papa in the field and help him with the haying.”

  “May I take the mule?”

  �
�You may take your legs . . . and a piece of bread.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Go now, before I change my mind.”

  “Father Andrew?”

  Did I close my eyes? He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes. He opened them to look at the young priest in his dark cassock and smooth skin.

  “I have emptied your chamber pot, and will now dress you and take you to morning prayers, honored one.”

  Father Andrew grunted. He was embarrassed by the young priest. What did he know, with his strong legs and perfect eyes? When Andrew was his age he had walked over the great mountains between France and the Duchy of Turin many times. He had written histories for the Duke of Venice. He had—

  “Father?”

  “Yes, yes, I heard you. It just takes time for my body to do what my mind is thinking.”

  The young priest chuckled. He finished latching the old priest’s sandals, then grasped him around his upper arms and pulled him onto his feet. Andrew’s nightdress bunched around his knees and he protested.

  “Father Nathanael, the cloth! The cloth!”

  The young priest untangled the fabric. “Better?”

  “Tchet! That cloth is a demon.”

  Father Nathanael lifted the nightdress over Andrew’s head. “A demon?”

  “Yes, to hinder my progress.”

  “Nothing could hinder your progress, blessed one.”

  “Except an old body and an old mind.”

  “Your mind is a library.”

  “Full of dusty crumbling books.”

  With efficiency and respect, Father Nathanael dressed his superior, smoothing out the fabric of his cassock and placing the biretta on his head.

  “Ready? The bells will be tolling soon.”

  Father Andrew nodded and inclined his body forward to begin the journey. The two men maneuvered the uneven stone floor, Father Nathanael matching Father Andrew’s shuffling pace.

  The bells will be tolling soon. It was a comfort. He loved the Offices of the Canonical Hours. They set a motion and an order to his life. When he was young, the held-to Breviary was not so dear; the bells only sounded in his ears. Now, his heart felt the thrum of devotion. Lauds, the first prayer of the day—the morning Office, was his favorite. He was fond of the evening prayers of Vespers—the lighting of the lamps, but the first gleam of dawn brought remembrance of Christ’s Resurrection. Christ, the true light that comes to dispel spiritual darkness. The first thought of the day—God. The first act of the day—prayer.

  “Tumble stone. Careful,” Father Nathanael warned.

  Father Andrew lifted his foot a little off the floor to avoid the hazard. He grunted. He had been down this hallway a thousand times . . . more. He did not need to be told how to keep his feet. Hadn’t he crossed the daunting Alpine mountains? Hadn’t he navigated the passes of Cenis, Conca del Prà, Bardoneccia—the high pass to his home in Lyon? Home to bury his father. Home again to bury his mother. Hadn’t he traveled the valleys and challenged the mountains of the Piedmont from Torre Pellice to Vaccera and from there to Rodoretto? His feet were the stones, his blood the rivers, his breath the very winds that blew through the thick pine forests.

  Andrew stopped, placing his hand on the cold stone of the wall. Those travels began sixty years ago. Sixty years.

  “Are you ailing, Father?”

  “No, my son. I was walking.”

  “Walking?”

  “In my mind—walking the mountainside.”

  “Ah.”

  They came to the chapel, and several of the priests, already in their places, nodded their heads in deference to Father Andrew.

  He nodded back.

  Father Pious stood and bowed low, placing his hand over his heart.

  Father Andrew grunted and looked away as Father Nathanael led him to his place and covered his shoulders with his shawl. “Will you need help?” he whispered.

  Andrew grinned. “Not today. Praise the Lord.” The same question every morning, and the same answer.

  The bells tolled and Andrew joined his voice to that of his brothers. “Praise ye the Lord. Praise ye the Lord from the heavens: praise him in the heights. Praise ye him, all his angels: praise ye him, all his hosts. Praise ye him, sun and moon; praise him, all ye stars of light.”

  Father Andrew had taken the thick spectacles from his eyes, laid down his pen, and abandoned the tall desk and stool for the comfortable chair by the library fire. The two younger priestly scribes had left hours before for prayers and other assignments, moving quietly past the sleeping legend so as not to disrupt his dreams. They wondered if his visions were of the Duke of Venice whom he had served or the thousands of pages of parchment that were inscribed with the perfection of his pen. If the two could have joined their mentor’s mental wanderings they would have found him at his boyhood home, a simple farm on the outskirts of Lyon. Andrew smiled in his dreams. He liked to be home—home where he worked and played. Andrew saw himself sitting up high on a haystack, gazing intently at the distant mountains of the Savoy or Mont Blanc. He would dream of climbing those towering peaks to discover what was on the other side. His thoughts swirled to another scene as he watched his mother trap their prize white goose and pluck a tail feather. He saw his father laughingly take the quill and fashion it, removing the bottom fluff until only a flag of white remained at the top. His father winked at him as he took the knife and carefully trimmed and notched the quill tip. His father’s large, weathered hands handed over the pen.

  “Here, Lucien, a gift for your birthday.”

  His first pen. And his uncle Jacques from Paris had sent ink. It was on that day Lucien knew he would not share his father’s life. He knew his younger brother, Tristan, would contentedly plow and harvest, but Lucien Anton Guy would live in words.

  With the tolling of bells, his vision shifted to the city of Lyon. As a young man he stood inside the Cathédrale Saint Jean-Baptiste, watching the sunlight shimmer through the stained-glass windows. He wore the robes of a scholar, his hair long and tied back, his fingers permanently stained with ink. He was here to make a sacred decision, but . . . what was it? He could not think. His heart twisted in his chest and he felt a great weight on his shoulders. His knees buckled and he fell to the floor. The sound of bells drowned out thought and reason. He pressed his hands to his ears to block out the jangling in his head.

  Father Andrew’s mind lifted out of sleep. He frowned as his home and youth slid away. He opened his eyes and saw a blur of movement at the fireplace. He forced his eyes to focus and saw Father Nathanael placing a log onto the fire.

  “What . . . what are those bells?” Andrew grumbled, struggling to sit straighter. “What time is it?”

  “Four of the clock.”

  “It is not time for Vespers.”

  “No.”

  “Then why are our bells tolling?”

  “They are not our bells. They are from the Waldensian temple.”

  “Why?”

  Father Nathanael came to his side. “I do not know. But perhaps your visitors can tell you.”

  “Visitors?”

  “Yes, I was just coming to wake you.”

  Andrew liked visitors. “Well, bring them in! Bring them in!”

  Not as many important people came to see him now as used to come: the children of the Medici, bishops from far away, and men from the newly formed country of America. Now if he wanted to visit with his friends he must meet them in heaven.

  “Uncle?” A lilting voice called.

  Andrew squinted towards the doorway at the far end of the darkened library. All he saw were two small spots of light dancing in the gloom, then a halo of light illuminating an angel face. Andrew’s heart jumped. “Mother?” The sound of tinkling laughter met his ear, and Andrew shook his head to clear his mind. “Ah, no! It is my Albertina! Albertina Marianella!
” He saw his great-niece’s face clearly now in the light of the fire.

  Albertina set her candle on her great-uncle’s work desk and took his wrinkled hands in hers. “I would need to be very old to be your mother.” She laughed again and bent down to kiss both his cheeks.

  “Ah! My old brain plays tricks sometimes.” He turned his head as another young woman shyly approached. “And you have brought your friend Claire.”

  “Madeleine.”

  “Madeleine? Yes, yes, of course. How are you, Madeleine?”

  Madeleine set her candle alongside Albertina’s. “I am well, venerable father, thank you.”

  His brow furrowed as he thought—My great-niece is fourteen . . . or is it fifteen? Her friend is close to that age. I have seen her before, but when? Where? Something to do with singing—

  “Uncle?”

  He looked up at his great-niece and saw Father Nathanael standing behind her. Andrew did not like the way the young priest was staring at him. “Stools! Bring some stools for the young ladies!”

  “I’ve brought over the small ottomans. Will those do?” Father Nathanael said softly.

  Father Andrew’s bluster faded. “Yes. Good. Thank you.” He looked at the girls. “Sit! Sit, sit!”

  “You’re like an old bear coming out of hibernation,” Albertina said.

  “Yes, true, true. But I will make it up to you with stories, and bread with currant jam.” He looked at Father Nathanael, who nodded and left the room.

  Albertina pulled her ottoman close so she could rest her hand on the arm of his chair.

  Andrew looked at her fondly. How could this delightful girl be the granddaughter of my brother, Tristan? Tristan. He did not like his brother—a man of bitterness and unwarranted envy, who never embraced his life on the farm, or his wife, or his six children. Gratefully, Tristan’s son Rene, the father of this beauty, was a source of redemption. As a young man Rene had left the farm at Lyon and walked over the great Alpine mountains to find his uncle.

  “So what brings you to see me on this cold afternoon?” Father Andrew asked. “And how did you get here? There is deep snow on the ground.”