As Death Draws Near (11 page)

“And you're only interested in the Lord's justice?” I guessed.

The corner of her mouth quirked. “Ah, but I didn't say dat now, did I?”

“But as a nun . . .”

“I'm to seek the Lord's will and righteousness? Aye. And I do. Dat's why I said I wouldn't share Miss Lennox's professions
yet
. First, I must pray.”

I watched as she turned to pick up a stack of sketchbooks from the shelf of a bookcase, and began to stroll through the tables, laying them out. For her, it seemed the matter was closed, at least for the moment, but not for me. I fisted my hands in frustration, deciding to try a different tactic.

“It bothered you that Miss Lennox's veil had been removed, didn't it? I could see it in your eyes.”

She did not look up from what she was doing, but her mouth pressed into a line. “Yes.”

“Why? It somehow seemed quite significant to you.”

“I was wishin' I knew whether she'd removed it herself, or if someone had removed it for her.” Her eyes lifted to meet mine. “Either would be significant, but for different reasons.”

I could see what she meant. If Miss Lennox had removed it, it could mean she was having second thoughts about her calling to be a nun, or more puzzling, that she had been trying to conceal her position as a postulant. But if someone else had done it, their motives were just as suspect. Were they trying to remove this reminder of who she was, and what her intentions were? Did they believe her unworthy? Or was it snatched away by accident, ripped from her hair as they grabbed for her when she ran?

Mother Fidelis was right. It could be significant. If nothing else, it might give us insight into the emotions roused just before the murder took place. Unfortunately, there was no way for us to know. Not short of a previously unknown witness coming forward or the killer confessing.

Two students entered the classroom then, stumbling to a halt at the sight of me next to Mother Fidelis. From the look in their eyes, you would think I was planning to force confessions out of them of their darkest sins.

“Find yer seats, girls,” the sister said.

They hurried to comply, but never took their eyes from me, memorizing every detail to recite to their classmates later, no doubt.

“I should take my leave,” I murmured, lowering my voice so that we could not be overheard. “But if I may, do you believe Miss Lennox told the truth about why she left the abbey grounds?” It was a rushed question, blunt and to the point. I'd asked it that way on purpose, as I'd hoped Mother Fidelis, being unprepared for it and half distracted by the students, would give me an honest reaction.

In her own infuriating way, she did, barely blinking an eyelash as she stood tall and still, staring down at me. “I shall pray on dat, too.”

•   •   •

T
he students seemed to make it a game to dodge my gaze whenever I caught them looking at me as I encountered them in the corridors hurrying to class, as if by meeting my eyes they might suddenly come down with the plague. I knew much of it was adolescent nonsense. After all, I had been their age once, too. I recalled the anxiety and uncertainty, the fascination with that which was different.

However, with these girls there was something more. I detected genuine apprehension beneath some of their furtive glances and hurried walks. It was possible that one of them had discovered my scandalous history and reputation. That would explain some of it, but not all. Some of these girls' faces were stamped with near dread. Why? Did they know something they were afraid to share, something pertaining to Miss Lennox's death? Or were they worried I would ferret out another infraction, something they didn't want the sisters to know about? All I could do was try to look reassuring and hope that if whatever they were hiding had to do with Miss Lennox, eventually they would come forward.

Of course, there was one brazen girl—there always was—who approached me purely for the purpose of solidifying her
reputation among her friends. I recognized the tactic, for it had been used often enough among the debutantes during the months I'd spent in London both before and after being wed to Sir Anthony. Speaking with me was some sort of dare, some sort of challenge to be met to prove their mettle, their refusal to bow completely to their mothers' authority, who warned them away from me. It was ridiculous and tiresome, and in a London ballroom I could have walked away. But here at the abbey that wasn't an option if I ever wanted the other girls to trust me.

Mother Paul witnessed the end of my exchange with the girl before stepping in. “Miss Walsh, you're late for French, are you not? And don't think I don't see you as well, Miss Donnelly and Miss Burke.”

The girls stiffened where they stood, hiding in the shadows at the bottom of the staircase.

“Get yourselves to class, and do not bother Lady Darby again unless you have something worthwhile to inform her of.”

They hurried to scamper off, but her next words, spoken in the same steady voice, momentarily brought their feet to a halt so they could hear them.

“I'm sure Mother Mary Aloysia will wish to discuss your tardiness later today during your study hours.”

The students' shoulders deflated, but they did not argue as they disappeared from sight.

Mother Paul turned to me with a small smile, clearly accustomed to adolescent behavior. “Reverend Mother asked me to invite you to join her for tea in an hour.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

She nodded, tilting her head. “In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you?”

“Actually, yes. Would it be possible to see Miss Lennox's room?”

“Of course. I'll take you up myself.” She turned to usher me toward the carved staircase. “Besides, I believe you wished to speak with me.”

“I did,” I replied, grateful she had remembered. “I wondered if you might have some insights into how Miss Lennox was feeling since you yourself are also a convert to Catholicism.”

A small pleat formed between her eyes as we climbed the stairs side by side. “Well, I cannot speak directly for Miss Lennox. But I do know that religion is a very contentious thing.” She glanced at me sideways. “Especially here in Ireland, you may have noticed.”

“I have.”

We followed the staircase around, resuming our climb to the next floor as I waited for Mother Paul to gather her words. “It isn't easy leaving one's family and turning your back on the way of life to which you were raised. I was brought up in a strict and prejudiced Anglican household, and for many years I was as intolerant as all the rest. But then I met a friend who made me begin to see differently, and after a great deal of study and reflection, I realized I had been wrong.”

“What made you decide to become a nun? If that's not too impertinent of me to ask,” I hastened to add, worried I'd overstepped myself.

She smiled softly, almost in amusement, and I suspected this wasn't the first time she'd been asked such a question, probably by a curious student. “It was less a matter of choice, and more of a . . . giving in to the Lord's calling, His plan for me.”

Her answer surprised me. Of course, I'd heard the Bible verses about God making plans for us preached in church on Sunday, but they were presented as if we should each follow the prescribed procedure for our station, not that we had a particular plan intended specifically for each of us. “Is that how all the sisters came to become nuns?” I asked.

“I cannot speak for everyone, but the majority of us, yes. It is not an easy undertaking without one's absolute conviction that it is what the Lord intends.”

I nodded, wondering if I'd ever felt that same sort of courageous certainty. I wanted to ask her more about this conviction, but now was not the time. Not if I wished to find out the truth about Miss Lennox's death.

“And Miss Lennox?”

“I don't know how or why Miss Lennox came to the same conclusion,” Mother Paul said. “But I would presume it was something similar. Were her family and friends angry at her for converting? Undoubtedly. But angry enough to follow her here and kill her? That is far more difficult to answer. If they were like my family, they washed their hands of her and now pretend she doesn't exist.”

She spoke without emotion, as if her family's rejection did not concern her, but my heart squeezed in sympathy all the same.

“I'm sorry,” I told her, though the words seemed wholly inadequate.

“There's no need,” she turned to say, forcing a smile that allowed me to see she wasn't completely unaffected, even if she thought she should be. “Their actions are not yours. In the end, we are only responsible for ourselves, no matter how much we might wish otherwise.”

I suspected she was thinking of her family again, and I decided to move beyond them. “What of the local Protestants? Would any of them be enraged enough by her conversion to harm her? The chief constable said there's been a great deal of unrest between Catholics and Protestants.”

“I do not know much about the recent struggles outside this convent, except where it touches on our students or the abbey's well-being, but I do know that it has always been so. Perhaps Catholic emancipation, and O'Connell's election to Parliament, and now this matter of the tithes has riled even the more modest of men. It is possible. But to attack a young woman simply because she has chosen to become a nun? That is quite extreme.”

“I agree. But until we understand more, I don't think we can say it's outside the realm of possibility.”

“No. I suppose not,” she admitted cautiously as we reached the top floor and turned left.

I had not been able to tell from the outside, but I could see now that the top floor was a new addition to the house.
What had been carefully disguised on the exterior was not so well hidden inside. The floor and walls were built from different materials, and the bare stairway and hall still smelled of new construction. The space had been divided into tiny bedrooms, barely large enough for a small bed and dresser, similar to the arrangement of servants' quarters, except I knew from Bree that those were belowstairs. Some of the nuns were lucky enough to be assigned a room with a window. Miss Lennox had not been so fortunate.

Her tiny cell, as Mother Paul called it, was situated down a side corridor which stretched toward the back of the building. What possessions she'd had were meager, and seemed all the more stark being lit only by candlelight. The bed had already been stripped; the sheets washed, refolded, and placed on the bare mattress. Two more dresses exactly like the one she had been wearing when she died hung on a small hook on the wall behind the door. The dresser contained a few sets of undergarments and nightclothes, as well as a Bible and one or two other books, whose titles suggested they'd come from the abbey's library. I thumbed through all three, but found nothing. There were no letters or loose pieces of paper or even page markers.

“Are the sisters allowed to receive correspondence?”

Mother Paul's voice was humored behind me. “Yes. We live in a convent, not a prison. Though as I understand it, even prisoners are allowed to write and receive letters.”

“Do you recall whether Miss Lennox ever did?” I asked, hoping that would be explanation enough for my previous query.

She fell silent, and I glanced over my shoulder to see if she was considering the matter. “I don't know. If her family and friends repudiated her, then, of course, it's possible no one ever wrote to her. Mother Mary Fidelis might be a better person to speak to about that.”

I bit my lip, wondering if that was something else Mother Fidelis would need to pray about before she could answer.

The top drawer contained a few more personal items—a
hairbrush with strands of light brown hair still woven through the bristles, a toothbrush, a simple bar of soap—but nothing of real interest. I searched behind the drawers to see if anything had fallen through or been stuck behind, and under the mattress, but I didn't expect to find anything. There were no other places in which to hide something, so I abandoned the effort.

“I'm sorry you did not find what you were looking for,” Mother Paul said as she closed the door behind us.

I glanced up at her distractedly. “What? No, it's not that. I only wish there had been something there to tell me more about the type of person Miss Lennox was. Some indication of her thoughts and feelings and hopes. Even a suggestion that she preferred lavender instead of roses.”

“Well, I should think the fact that she was willing to live a life with so few possessions should say something in itself.”

It was not spoken in scolding, but perhaps it should have been, I realized with chagrin.

“Yes. Yes, you're right. It does.”

She smiled gently, as if to remove any sting I might be feeling. “I've always believed actions speak more loudly than words. Perhaps, in regards to Miss Lennox, that shall be your guide, as she has not left many words behind to assist you.”

Truer words may never have been spoken.

•   •   •

S
ince many of the sisters and students were in various classes, I elected to settle myself in the parlor to wait for tea with the mother superior. As it was, I needed a few moments to myself, to collect my thoughts and sort through my impressions from the day. At least, that was my plan, but I had not realized until I sat down how tired I was. Between the soft cushions and the warm breeze softly rustling the curtains as it blew through the open windows, I was fighting a losing battle to keep my eyes open.

I must have dozed for a short period, for when next I looked up after what I thought had merely been a long
blink, it was to find the reverend mother smiling down at me, her hands folded before her.

“
A leanbh
, you are exhausted,” she crooned, sitting down on the settee across from me.