As Death Draws Near (28 page)

“You may think so, but to be certain, I would like you to remain close to the Priory or inside the abbey walls.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“I don't care if it isn't. I want you to listen to me in this. And I'm going to ask Anderley to stay with you.”

I frowned. “So you're going to ride to Dublin alone? Now how do you think I feel about
your
safety?”

“No one is going to harm me on my journey to visit Anglesey. Any trouble is far more likely to occur here. And I do not want you left without protection.” His eyes searched mine before they briefly dipped to my abdomen.

I flushed, feeling that sickening swirl of sentiments rise up inside me. “Sebastian, I'm not . . . That is . . .”

He pressed a hand to my cheek. “I know.” His eyes were soft with unspoken things. “I'm merely thinking of the future.”

I swallowed. “Oh.”

His smile was gentle. “It will happen in time. There's no need to rush.”

I could feel that my answering smile was somewhat brittle as I tried to hold back a tide of emotions. My mind churned with doubts and questions, none of which I could utter.

He pressed a kiss to my brow. “Which is why I want you to listen to me. Please.”

I laughed breathlessly. “Well, when you ask that way. All right. I'll stay at the abbey or near the Priory.” After all, his request wasn't unreasonable, just irritating.

T
he following day, the mother superior and Mother Paul were both waiting for me when we arrived at the abbey. I tried not to feel alarmed, but after everything we'd learned the day before, I'd begun to anticipate the unexpected.

Gage had departed for Chief Constable Corcoran's house and then on to Dublin a few hours earlier, but it being Sunday, those of us going to the abbey dawdled, waiting for mass to end. After all of the difficulties of the week, rather than risk offending either religious faction further, we'd elected not to attend services at the Anglican Church, instead observing our own prayers and devotions at the Priory.

Once we'd learned that Mr. Scully had been moved to his cottage the evening before, I sent Bree and Anderley to call on him. At first, Anderley resisted, but I'd argued I was safe within the abbey walls and it was more important they discover if Mr. Scully was coherent enough to explain what he knew about Miss Lennox.

Fortunately, the reverend mother's opening comment was not unsettling news of another dead body or trouble from the previous day's unrest spilling over into the abbey. Instead, her words were ones of concern.

“In light of everything that's happened, I wonder if we haven't placed you and Mr. Gage in danger,” she said after we'd settled ourselves on the settees facing each other before
the hearth. “You told me about those riders threatening you in the middle of the night, and then the violence yesterday at the cattle fair. I do not wish to see either of you harmed.”

“I appreciate your concern, but we've taken precautions,” I assured her. “We're not going to be driven away so easily. Not when we're closer than ever to solving these murders.”

“You've uncovered something.” Mother Paul's voice was colored by surprise, and I found myself studying her face, trying to discern what that meant.

“Yes. We found Miss Lennox's letters.”

She didn't even flicker an eyelash at this revelation.

“You did?” Reverend Mother remarked. “Where had she been keeping them?”

I turned back to her, watching Mother Paul out of the corner of my eye. “In a hole in the beech tree that stands next to that pond beyond the abbey's walls.”

Both nuns' brows furrowed, but Reverend Mother was the one to voice her confusion. “I don't understand.”

“We believe she was using the tree as a sort of letter box, leaving and receiving messages there rather than at the abbey. Which obviously means she had been leaving the abbey grounds far more often than you realized, even given her activities with the tithe protestors.”

The nuns exchanged a look of what seemed to be mutual puzzlement.

“Did Mother Mary Fidelis know about this?” Mother Superior asked.

“I don't think so,” I replied hesitantly. “Not given the letters' contents.” I informed them of Miss Lennox's deception, of her true reasons for being here, and her connection to the British government. Mother Paul stared at the floor in stony silence, displaying little reaction other than a taut frown.

However, Reverend Mother's heart was clearly in her eyes as she shook her head. “I suppose that explains the uncertainty I sometimes sensed in her. All postulants display it to some degree. After all, joining a religious order is not a decision to be taken lightly. But Miss Lennox's insecurity
was different. It's why I asked Mother Mary Fidelis to pay her particular attention, to help her discover the truth of what she was meant to do.” She glanced at her assistant. “Did you have any inkling of this?”

Mother Paul lifted her head. “I suppose, in a way, I did,” she replied softly. “Not the part about her being here at the behest of the government. But I didn't feel the passion from her that I expected in a convert. I wondered if perhaps her zeal was simply more self-contained than mine had been. I worried I misjudged her.”

Reverend Mother offered her a gentle smile that spoke of private matters to which I was not privy, and then turned back to me. “In any case, I would not have allowed her to move forward, to be clothed, until I felt these . . . inconsistencies had been addressed, had she even tried to. But I must admit, I am troubled by all of this.” She pressed her lips together. “I shall have to think and pray on this.”

I didn't suppose there was a precedent for such a thing as being intruded and spied upon by one's own government.

Her dark, solemn eyes lifted to study me. “Has this new information allowed you to uncover who the killer is?”

“Not precisely. But it has given us a different angle to pursue, with a different set of suspects.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to figure out a tactful way to question Mother Paul's potential involvement. I needn't have fretted, for she proved to be as astute as ever.

“Such as me,” she replied calmly.

I glanced up in surprise, and her lips curled into a tight smile.

“I'm also a convert. Perhaps you're wondering if I found out Miss Lennox's secret and took offense at her betrayal of our trust and care. If I sought to handle matters myself.”

I felt myself begin to flush, discomfited by my having entertained those exact thoughts, even if they were necessary.

She shook her head. “I did not know. This is the first I've learned of it. And I would never have harmed her. It is not my place to sit in judgment of such things.”

“Besides, Mother Mary Paul was at chapel and then in the refectory with the rest of the sisters and our students,” Revered Mother interjected. “The only one absent that evening was Miss Lennox. And before chapel, Miss Lennox met with Mother Mary Fidelis. So you see, Mother Mary Paul had no time to confront her, even if she wanted to. No one at the abbey did.”

Somehow I had forgotten that fact, perhaps because I had not made certain of the times when she first informed us. We'd not suspected the sisters or students then. I nodded in agreement. She was right. No one at the abbey could have committed the crime without their absence being noted.

“I'm sorry,” I told Mother Mary Paul. “I did not want to consider you a potential suspect, but when one deals with such delicate matters, one cannot give one's personal wishes credence over facts and logic.”

She graciously accepted my apology, and then excused herself. I supposed even nuns had difficulty forgiving someone for suspecting they were capable of such a heinous act. Who could blame her?

I slouched lower in my chair, feeling the weight of this inquiry, and all the other ones I'd assisted Gage with, settle on my shoulders. We sat silently for so long as I contemplated the empty fireplace and all the unattractive things I'd been forced to confront, I almost forgot the reverend mother was still there.

“Something else is troubling you,” she murmured. “And do not tell me it's merely this inquiry. I can perceive the difference between mere frustration and the uneasiness of the spirit.” She tilted her head. “Will you tell me what it is?” Her voice was calm and measured, inviting my confidence.

So much so that before I could allow myself to reconsider, I found myself confessing. “As nuns, you speak of being called to your vocation, to devoting your life to Christ by living in a convent, and professing vows, and performing acts of faith and charity. Noble aspirations.”

She waited patiently as I struggled to find my words.

“I wonder . . . I wonder if what I do—examining corpses, and questioning people's motives, and delving into the sordidness of murder. I wonder if I'm treading where I was not meant to. Whether . . . my involvement is displeasing to God.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could snatch them back. They were so raw, so private, and once I voiced them, once I put shape and definition to them, they became very real, tangible. They sat on my chest, pressing down, until I felt I couldn't breathe.

She frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“As women, we're taught that our calling is to hearth, and home, and husband. That we should wish for nothing more.” I dropped my gaze to my lap, where I was worrying my hands. “When I first began assisting with these inquiries, I had none of those things. But now I do. Now I'm wed and . . . and someday soon I'll likely have children to care for. To cherish and protect.” I blinked up at her. “Does that mean I should give up the rest? Is that what is sensible? Is that what the Lord would want of me?”

Her eyes were kind. “First of all, what does your husband say about all of this?”

I swallowed. “He says he's happy to have me assist him. That he understands it is part of who I am.”

“Then I should trust he means it.”

“Yes, but once I'm expecting, doesn't that change things? Won't he expect me to stop?”

“That is something you will have to ask him.”

I exhaled a shaky breath. “Yes, of course. You're right.” I had known that before I'd even asked her. But part of me was afraid of what his answer would be, of what that would mean.

Her mouth creased into a gentle smile, clearly reading my thoughts. “Mr. Gage seems to me to be an astute, considerate man. I'm sure he will take into account your feelings on the matter.”

“Yes, but I don't know what they are,” I argued.

She sat taller, her gaze turned doubtful. “Don't you?”

“No,” I insisted. “I said it is part of who I am, but is that true? Is it who I am? I didn't want to learn all of these things about anatomy. My first husband forced it on me. And yet, I cannot deny how helpful it has been at times with our inquiries. But I still feel guilty for using what I know.”

“Perhaps it was forced on you, but it has certainly been used for good. ‘But as for you,'” she began to quote from the Bible. “‘Ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good, to bring it to pass, as it is this day, to save much people alive.'”

I hesitated, considering the verse as she rose to her feet. “That's what Joseph said, isn't it? To his brothers when they were shocked to see him alive and prosperous in Egypt after they'd beaten him and left him for dead so many years before?”

She nodded and moved around the table to perch on the settee next to me, taking my hands in her warm ones. “Mrs. Gage, I will tell you what I tell the sisters, what I tell my students, and what I have learned myself.”

I looked up, listening carefully.

“The Lord calls us to simply trust and seek. He will show us the way. But when that way is shown, we are not allowed to say, ‘Enough! Let me settle.' We must go even where we think it is impossible, do those things that we think we are incapable of. For the Lord will make it possible; He will make us capable.” Her eyes gleamed softly. “You may be called to a home and husband, but that does not mean He doesn't also have more for you to do. The Lord does not say, ‘Go this far, only this far, and no further.' He does not only call men to do His good work. Like our institute's founder, Sister Mary Ward, I believe women are equal to men in intellect. So why would He not also call women to broader things.”

I had never heard anyone espouse such beliefs, let alone a woman of such stature as a mother superior. It went against everything I'd been taught in church, among society, and even by my parents. And yet her words rang true, for I had contemplated the same thoughts. However, we weren't talking about running a charity or even painting my portraits.
We were talking about actively pursuing criminals, men and women committing the gravest of sins.

“But these inquiries . . .” I clutched her hands tighter. “They are sometimes dangerous. What . . . what if something happened to me?” I forced the words from me. “What if I died too young, and was not there for my children?”

Her eyes searched my face. “Like your mother died too young and was not there for you?”

I stiffened in surprise. “How did you . . .”

“'Twas merely a guess,” she replied. “How young were you?”

“Eight.”

She nodded. “A difficult age to lose one's mother. Though is there any good age?” she added with a frown.

I smiled tightly, conceding her point.

She pulled one of her hands from my grasp to rest it on top of them. “I cannot speak to the danger of what you do. But I can remind you that avoiding it does not guarantee you a long life. Illness, childbirth, accidents. You can live your life wrapped in swaddling clothes and still not escape danger. So it seems silly to me to deny doing that which you enjoy, through which you can do the most good, as long as you are sensible.”

Her words were logical and sound, and though they couldn't completely erase my fears, they did help me think more clearly. However, I couldn't help voicing one more argument.

“But our investigations are so base, so of this earth.”

“And those things that we as sisters often address are not? Poverty and sickness and ignorance.” She arched her eyebrows in gentle chastisement. “We do not only pray and study and sing requiems.”