The Sumerton Women (12 page)
He pulled away. “My girl ...” He cleared his throat. “If I have in some way led you to believe—”
Mirabella had backed away from him, covering her mouth as though her lips had been set aflame. “Forgive me, Father! I do not know what possessed me! Oh, Father, I am out of my head! Please forgive me!” She fell to her knees. “Please, grant me absolution. I had no right... . I am no better than the Boleyn creature. Oh, Father!”
Father Alec knelt beside her. “Lady Mirabella, collect yourself,” he said gently. “Your emotions are running high right now given your remarkable circumstances. It is both expected and acceptable for you to be a little out of sorts. You are forgiven. But,” he added, bowing his head as his cheeks flushed in embarrassment, “you must realize that this cannot happen again. I am a priest.”
“Of course, Father,” Mirabella said. “I also wish to take vows. As I said, I do not know what ... I just ... I suppose I just wanted to feel the nearness of someone, the comfort... . Is that strange?”
“Not at all,” Father Alec said. “We are human beings. And God said it is not good for man to be alone. We need each other. Now and then there is a special nearness that a man and woman cherish. But for those of us called to serve God alone, we sacrifice that nearness for a different kind of fellowship and take comfort in something a little more abstract. It is a hard life and not one to be entered into lightly. That being said, we still cannot deny our humanity. Now and then we need to be embraced, to feel a sense of closeness to another human being just as anyone else. There is nothing wrong in it, Mistress Mirabella, as long as it is done in chastity.”
Mirabella nodded, averting her head. “Yes, Father.”
Father Alec rose. The room had suddenly become stifling and he longed to leave it. “Bless you, my child. I pray peace will find you.”
Mirabella said nothing.
Once certain he had retreated she drew her knees to her chest and sobbed. How could she have betrayed herself like that? Was there not enough to grieve over?
No matter how he would try to pretend, it would be different now.
She had lost him as well.
Cecily had watched Brey’s casket be slipped into its dark crypt and shuddered. The image would not flee, stalking her even in dreams. It swirled relentless before her mind’s eye; the grating sound of the casket scraping against the stone of the tomb was chilling, causing goose pimples to rise on her flesh.
Brey was gone. Lady Grace was gone.
She almost expected the latter. For years she had prepared herself for it as she watched Lady Grace’s health decline. But for her to die like this ... it was a tragedy she could not grapple with.
And if she could not grapple with that she could not begin to make sense of Brey’s death. One moment there, the next gone. Something inexplicable, a stupid stomachache. And gone. She would never hear his infectious laugh. They would never again ride together through the lush forest of Sumerton, never hawk together. She could never tease him about his poor aim with the bow. He would no longer be there to conspire with, to dance with, to play games with, to talk to, to accompany her to entertainments in their silly matching ensembles.
He was her best friend.
And soon he would have been her husband.
They had kissed at the joust. Her first kiss. A little kiss it was but a kiss nonetheless, the first of what she had imagined would be many more. But Brey took his kisses with him.
They would never marry now. She would never be the mother of his children.
Brey, her Brey, was gone.
Cecily lay in her apartments sobbing until she could sob no more. And when the tears stopped, remarkably they would start again. She would remember something Brey had said, a jest, a story, a song he sang in his off-key voice. And the tears rolled down her cheeks in a hot torrent.
The house was empty without him. She, Mirabella, and Lord Hal lived in separate worlds. No one interacted. No one commingled. They ate separately. They prayed separately. The joy had been sapped from the house, and Cecily, who had once been so adept at spreading joy, could not summon forth the strength to bring it back.
Father Alec attempted to comfort her but at last gave up.
“There is nothing I can say or do,” he told her at last. “Simple answers will not suffice, not for one as astute as you. I hate being helpless. I hate watching all of you suffer like this. All I want is to be here if you need me.”
“Many thanks,” Cecily whispered. “Just stay beside me,” she told him. “You don’t have to say anything. Just be here.”
So Father Alec stayed beside her. Sometimes she fell into a dreamless slumber. When she awoke he was still there.
At least he did not fail her. At least he would always be there.
Not only had Hal lost his wife and treasured son but all hopes of a dynasty. He was the last of the Pierce line. The future had rested on Brey’s slim shoulders, it shone out of his bright blue eyes.
Hal wondered how it was his grief had not killed him. Grace ... how he had hurt her over the years. But he could not abandon his daughter, not for anyone. He had to do right by her. And in doing right he had done so much wrong... . Grace’s happiness was sacrificed, his family was compromised, and all for a night of uncontrolled lust.
He had never stopped punishing himself for a night he could not remember. Ever since he learned of his shame he wore the hair shirt, save for those few weeks before his ill-fated trip to London when he and Grace had embarked on their “new start.”
New start.
Hal’s throat constricted with tears. Imagine how many tears a body could hold!
He had killed her the same as if he had thrown her into the river himself. A slow, agonizing death soaked in water and wine.
Grace was no more.
And Brey ... his triumph, his beautiful boy. His blessing, his redemption. . .
But he did not deserve blessings or redemption. God knew that. So He took Brey from him. He took him away. And he was not enough, so He returned for Grace.
Now Hal was alone.
He could not face Mirabella’s angry stare or Cecily’s bewildered one. He did not speak to Father Alec much. There was nothing to say.
He remained in his room. He shuffled his cards. He rattled his dice.
He cried.
Until at last one day Mirabella came to him.
They embraced. Hal held her fast, thrilled at the contact with another human being, thrilled that it was his daughter. Surely this was some sign that forgiveness was possible... .
“I cannot promise things will ever be the same for us,” she told him. “But I thought to seek your blessing. I would like to take my vows now. It was my hope you could arrange the dowry.”
“Of course,” said Hal, his heart sinking. Of course she would want that. It was all she had ever wanted. Now, despite or because of the knowledge that her mother resided at the cloister, she was more determined than ever to get there. “I will make the arrangements directly.”
Mirabella offered a low curtsy. He detected a trace of mockery in it.
“Thank you, Father,” she told him.
He inclined his head as she left him.
Alone.
7
“Y
ou are leaving now?” Cecily cried, furrowing her brows in consternation as she regarded Mirabella. “Now, when everyone needs you so?”
ou are leaving now?” Cecily cried, furrowing her brows in consternation as she regarded Mirabella. “Now, when everyone needs you so?”
“How could I stay?” Mirabella returned. “The arrangements have been made. Father is offering a generous dowry and I will be entering as a postulant. At last. You know this is all I dreamed of, that it is my calling. Can you ask me to deny what God ordained?”
Cecily wiped her tears away with her sleeves as she sank onto Mirabella’s bed. She shook her head. “No, I cannot. I know that. And I would never try to stop you. I know how long you have waited for this. But, oh, Mirabella, what’s to become of me? I am so alone!”
Mirabella’s lip quivered as she sat beside Cecily. She gathered Cecily in her arms, cupping the back of her head. “Oh, darling, I am so sorry. Would that I could stay. But I cannot. I just cannot. If I stay I will be poisoned with bitterness. I must leave before that happens, while there is something in me to salvage. I feel it creeping in every day. This house, this terrible place ... I cannot abide it, the sins of the past are too great. They choke me. You can understand that, Cecily, can’t you?”
Cecily offered a miserable nod. “I suppose I am being selfish. But I am so alone,” she repeated brokenly. “There is no one in the world for me, no one but Father Alec, perhaps. And I am not fool enough to believe he will remain here forever. Oh, Mirabella, what will become of me? Where will I go? Before my future seemed so assured. I was to marry Brey ... my Brey... .” Her shoulders quaked with sobs. “I am thrust into this world of uncertainties. Perhaps I will be married off to one of the men you told me of, someone who will take mistresses or hit me. Someone who will always put me last. I am so afraid, Mirabella!”
“Oh, darling!” Mirabella cried, rocking with urgency. “You mustn’t be afraid. For whatever Father’s past sins, I know he will choose you a fine husband.”
“No one like Brey,” Cecily said with fervency. “There will never be another like my Brey.”
The girls clung to each other, sobbing for what was lost and what was yet to be.
Both were filled with gut-wrenching helplessness.
Despite Mirabella’s momentary guilt over leaving Cecily behind, she was at peace the moment she entered the convent, no longer as a visitor but as a postulant. Her hair was cut. The long black locks that had been such a stunning feature were abandoned and what remained was tucked beneath a coif. She was unadorned, free of the stares of wicked lusting men, free of her own startling desire for a man she could never have. Free to
be.
be.
Her days were devoted to prayer and chores. For the most part silence was observed. She learned she had been an exception to the long-preserved rule that few visitors enter the convent.
She was there two months before she approached Sister Julia. Mirabella had skillfully avoided her, stealing glances at her whenever she could but never allowing herself to speak to her. Sister Julia offered confused glances of her own but never approached her, respecting what seemed to be an obvious wish to be let alone.
But one night when Sister Julia was grinding grain in the courtyard Mirabella approached her. They were alone, a rare enough occasion, as the convent teemed with silent females, greatly restricting one’s freedom to speak. It was Mirabella’s natural inclination to be silent. But she would have years for that.
Now was a time for words.
She only said, “I know.”
Sister Julia ceased grinding. The mortar fell to the ground. She did not raise her head. At last she sighed. “I thought you might.” At last she regarded her, her eyes filled with tears.
How could Mirabella not have seen it? She was looking into a mirror, a mirror that had aged her seventeen years. On impulse she reached out, touching her mother’s face. She knelt before her.
“You do not have to explain a thing,” she assured her. “I know what he did, how he stole your gift to God. How I wish you could have been spared the pain—”
“You must not say any more,” said Sister Julia, averting her head, clasping Mirabella’s hand. “You do not understand.”
“But I do!” Mirabella insisted. “Oh, how did you ever find it in your heart to forgive him?”
Sister Julia shook her head emphatically. “But, Mirabella, he needs no forgiving! The only one who he betrayed besides God was Lady Grace! For what he took I gave to him!”
“Wh-what?” Mirabella sank to the ground, her knees unable to support her. “B-but he said ... he said—”
“My father convinced him of that, to be sure,” Sister Julia said. “Poor Hal was so intoxicated that night it was a wonder he could remember his own name. It was the only way I could ... I could—”
“You mean you
seduced
him?” Mirabella cried in a hoarse whisper, withdrawing her hand. “Was this before or after your decision to become the bride of Christ?”
seduced
him?” Mirabella cried in a hoarse whisper, withdrawing her hand. “Was this before or after your decision to become the bride of Christ?”
Sister Julia shook her head. “It is never that simple. I knew I could never be a wife to him, not only because of our difference in rank but because I was inclined to the Church. But I could not take the veil until I had one night,
one
night of humanity. I could not think of a better person to share that with than Hal; we were on friendly terms as it were, having grown up together, though I cannot say either of us harbored any romantic feelings toward the other.” She shook her head in awe. “I never imagined that night would lead us to this. Yet despite it all I thank God it did.”
one
night of humanity. I could not think of a better person to share that with than Hal; we were on friendly terms as it were, having grown up together, though I cannot say either of us harbored any romantic feelings toward the other.” She shook her head in awe. “I never imagined that night would lead us to this. Yet despite it all I thank God it did.”
“You have no idea the misery you caused,” Mirabella breathed, awed and nauseated by the revelation. “Lady Grace’s life was ruined; all the while I resented her not knowing I was the cause of her pain. Now she is dead. Did you know that? By her own hand, though to save face the family claimed it was an accidental drowning.” Mirabella’s brows ached from furrowing them in frustration. “Do you not realize the impact your night of—of careless lust had on my entire family? My father has punished himself ever since! And you thank God for it!”
“Do you think that is what I was thanking God for? Do you believe that I meant for such tragedy to unfold?” Sister Julia cried. “I was seventeen, Mirabella. I was passionate, I was impulsive. But I was devout, despite the image of me you may have now. I did feel a calling. But to know for certain which world I was to give myself over to I had to experience what it meant to be a woman.” She lowered her eyes in shame. “My quest for certainty destroyed more lives than I could have ever in my darkest fantasies imagined. And living this life has been as much penance as calling now.” She regarded her with tearstained cheeks. “Mirabella, is there enough compassion in your heart to understand any of what I have been telling you? Have you never felt these emotions? Can you honestly tell me that in your almost twenty years of life you have never longed for the love of a man?”
An image of Father Alec swirled before her mind’s eye. She blinked it away, bowing her head. “I—I have loved. But I cannot ... I cannot have him,” she said softly, her heart pounding in shock that she should reveal this vulnerability to Sister Julia knowing all she knew of her now. She raised her head, resolute. “And even if I could I would not. I accept the sacrifice I must make without having to dabble in the forbidden.”
Sister Julia gazed at her, her expression filled with tenderness and something Mirabella could not discern. Pity? Fear? Both? “Then I commend you, Mirabella. Some are clearly stronger than others. I gave in to my weakness and I have paid the price along with many others ever since. You will never be able to fathom the depth of my regret.”
“I am weary of people’s regrets,” Mirabella sighed. “It does no good now. It is too late for it.”
Sister Julia covered her eyes with her hand, expelling a heavy sigh. “I did not expect your entrance into my life,” she whispered through tears, “and God knows I was not called to be a mother. But I do love you, Mirabella. And you must know how Hal tried to do right by you. Blame us for everything else that happened; I take full responsibility. But know this: You were not conceived in an act of evil. And when I thank God, I thank God for you. Nothing else. Just you.”
Mirabella buried her face in her hands. “Oh, poor, dear Father,” she murmured as she sobbed. “How could he not have known?”
Sister Julia shook her head. “Perhaps he did know, in the beginning. But I imagine between his father and mine, he was convinced. . . oh, if only I had ... but I was kept away from him. I have not seen him since that night. I vowed never to see him again; it is a vow I will adhere to. You must get a message to him.”
Mirabella’s heart was pounding. Tears clouded her vision. It was all too much to absorb. “There is so much heartache... .” She shook her head, sniffling and wiping her eyes. She rose.
Sister Julia caught her hand. “Can you forgive me?” she asked her.
“As God requires,” said Mirabella, defeated by her virtue as she made her retreat, closing her ears and heart to the sobbing woman behind her.
She had come searching for clarity and peace. Instead she was tossed into another turbulent ocean of confusion and unrest. It seemed the running theme of her life.
She entered the chapel, falling to her knees before the crucifix and crossing herself. The familiar image eased the knot in her chest. She inhaled, expelling the breath slowly. She inhaled again, closing her eyes, opening them to find the image still before her, her one anchor in this relentless storm.
Mirabella did not speak to Sister Julia after the night, adhering to the general silence observed by the sisters. They communicated through signs, whispering when necessary. She marveled at the change. It seemed when she visited as a child it had been different, the sisters warmer and more free in their ability to communicate. Mirabella’s infatuation with their lifestyle had shrouded actuality in illusion. In truth it was to one sister that she had spoken in all her years of visiting, besides the obligatory exchanges with the abbess, and that was Sister Julia.
But nothing was the same now. Being housed in the same cloister was not designed to bring them closer together as women; it was instead a place where women could in relative safety be excluded from the outside world, a place devoted to discipline, reflection, prayer, and the personal, individual pursuit of closeness with God.
In order to achieve the closeness they once shared, one of them would have to leave. This was not a world for friendship, not even between a mother and her wounded daughter.
And so they went on. Mirabella’s disillusionment traded itself for the clarity she longed for. Sister Julia was not viewed as a mother but as an equal. They were not friends, they were not enemies. They just were. Somehow, it was enough.
Mirabella gave little thought to her remaining family. Removed from Castle Sumerton as she was, the grief for her brother and Lady Grace began to subside to a dull ache, where once it had been an all-consuming throb. She welcomed a new feeling: hollowness, emptiness. Nothing touched her inside the cloister. It softened worldly pain and disappointments. Life outside began to fade away, hidden behind a misty veil, illusion of another kind, and she would not let herself pass through.
Even had she wanted passage, the rules of the cloister would prevent her. Because of the strictness enforced to uphold and preserve the morality of its inhabitants, Mirabella’s contact with the outside world was limited. But she was able to write her family. Thus far she only had sent one message, a carefully worded letter to her father that told him all he needed to know.
Dearest Father,
I have it on authority that the gift you believed you stole was given to you. I pray this knowledge brings you peace.
Your loving daughter,
Mirabella
Hal reread the letter again and again. The crumpled parchment was damp with his tears. He could not believe it. All of these years ... how could he not remember? That spirit-drenched night was so long ago, so hazy, that to this hour he had little recollection of it, save for the sensations. And though he had convinced himself of the crime committed, never in his years of self-examination had the memory of those sensations resembled anything cruel or violent. Yet, he had thought, it must have been so. His father had told him thus. Her father had told him. He was too far gone in the spirits to rely on his own judgment.
But it was his judgment, that flicker of reason stirring in his gut insisting his innocence, that was indeed correct.
He was not a rapist. He mouthed the words over and over, letting the knowledge settle over him. Relief surged through him like a cleansing river. He had felt some measure of it, even before this revelation, when Mirabella learned the truth of her parentage at last. The knot in his gut had eased somewhat as he realized the charade could stop.
And now this, a sudden gift of mercy from God to assuage the pain of his great losses. To know that he was not All Bad. But the comfort this brought him was transient. His heart still throbbed with pain. It was still too late. Too late for his poor Grace. He could never tell her, the woman who despite it all he had still sinned against, that the sin had at least not been one of brutality. Would it have made any difference had she known, or would her resentment toward Mirabella’s existence still have fueled her every action since the day the child was brought into his home?
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