CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The 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.”

I grimaced, acknowledging her point.

“All our efforts cannot be in the pursuit of beauty, of higher things. Sometimes it is because of our struggle with earthly matters that we are able to aspire to beauty, to higher things at all. To provide our children the opportunity to aspire to them.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” I admitted, contemplating what she’d said. I’d begun to feel so worried about the ugliness of what I did, that I’d forgotten some of the good that was wrought from it.

“As for your guilt, you need to let it go. Once and for all.” She leaned forward, staring intently into my eyes. “Holding on to it after you’ve already asked for forgiveness is like saying you don’t trust in the Lord’s ability to wash us clean of our sins. Perhaps that will help you to see it in a different perspective. It’s not a badge proving how sorry you are, but a weight pulling you into further sin.”

That certainly gave me a new outlook. She was right. I had been carrying it around like a heavy badge of honor, as proof that I hadn’t wanted the knowledge Sir Anthony had forced on me, but what good did that do? Some people were always going to look at me askance whether I felt bad about knowing the things I did or not. Possessing that knowledge in and of itself was not shameful, particularly when put to good use. So why not stop apologizing for something that was not my fault, and be grateful for the greater understanding it gave me. Why not accept the good that had been made from my first husband’s cruelty.

I looked up as the reverend mother’s hands released mine. “Thank you.”

She nodded. “Sometimes the truth of our actions eludes us. Sometimes we require others to point it out.”

Her words caught at a thread in my mind, unraveling it from the rest of the facts and questions stored there. It must have been reflected on my face, for she lowered her head in concern.

“You’ve thought of something. What is it?”

“Miss Lennox,” I began slowly. “I was just wondering why she agreed to come here. To play out this farce and gather information for the government. From what I’ve learned about her, she didn’t seem the type of person to do such a thing. So why?”

“I would agree with you. That’s one of the reasons I found it so shocking. Quiet and considered. Not out for adventure.” She pressed a hand to her chest over her pectoral cross. “Maybe her family had been wronged by a Catholic in some way, or she believed they had.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think this was about revenge, or anything of the like. I don’t think she would have been able to hide her feelings so well had it been that. But something definitely motivated her. I only wish I knew what.”

•   •   •

The promised blue skies of earlier that morning continued to prove true, I noted, as I descended the steps of the back portico into the garden. It was the type of day Gage and I would have spent lounging on some lower fell, watching the clouds stream by had we still been on our honeymoon. It was nearly as lovely here in Rathfarnham, except for the weighty matters that occupied my thoughts.

I turned my steps toward the orchard, wanting another chance to search the box we’d found Miss Walsh hiding in. If all of the students and sisters had alibis for the time of Miss Lennox’s murder, then it was also unlikely that any of them murdered Mother Fidelis since it was a logical assumption she had been killed by the same person. Which meant that if what Miss O’Grady had heard while searching for the sister was someone scrambling to hide in that box, then it was someone who knew the abbey grounds well, but was not a sister or student. Perhaps one of the hired staff.

I frowned at the thought as I hurried down the central walk toward the summerhouse. I wasn’t far from the white wooden structure when I heard the sound of voices. Were the students out here sketching again for their drawing class? Except it was Sunday, and I believed the reverend mother mentioned that this would be the girls’ recreation time.

Almost immediately, I recognized the distinctive pitch of Miss Walsh’s taunt, but this time it was not aimed at Miss Cahill or any of the other girls, but Davy. He stooped over to pick up a pile of cuttings which must have fallen out of the wheelbarrow before him, clearly flustered by the cluster of girls seated on the steps of the summerhouse. Miss Walsh stood next to the wheelbarrow, twirling a length of thorny stem she must have plucked from his pile.

“Who’s goin’ to be yer sweetheart now, Davy?” she teased with a cock of her hip.

His face burned a bright ruddy shade. “She weren’t my sweetheart,” he bit out in a rough voice, his mouth contorted with discomfort.

“No? Well, if you’ll be bringin’ me flowers like ye used to bring Miss Lennox, I’ll tink about it, to be sure.”

I opened my mouth to interrupt, but Miss Cahill surprised me by speaking up first. “Leave him be, Eliza. Yer bein’ cruel.”

Miss Walsh swiveled toward the girl where she’d emerged from a spot farther down the path. Her eyes narrowed maliciously. “Oh, I see now. Yer sweet on ’im, too.”

Miss Cahill glared at her over the sketchbook she clutched to her chest, while Davy hurried to push the wheelbarrow restacked with its burden away. As he was about to see me anyway, I decided it was best to make my presence known.

“Miss Walsh,” I snapped in a cool voice, which made everyone but her jump as they turned my way. I nodded at Davy’s wide eyes as he scooted by. “Have you nothing better to do with your free time?”

“Not since you took my book,” she declared cheekily.

I arched a single imperious eyebrow, refusing to be spoken to in such a manner. Before I could deliver her a set-down, Miss Cahill spoke again.

“She’s s’posed to be workin’ on her drawin’.” She shot a defiant glare at Miss Walsh. “Since she missed class the other day.”

Miss Walsh’s gaze promised retribution. “’Tis finished.” She lifted her chin into the air in challenge.

I held out my hand. “Then let me see it.”

She hesitated a moment, and then climbed the stairs to the summerhouse to snatch her drawing from where it lay on the top step. I noticed none of the other girls came to her defense. The sketch she triumphantly handed me was an abominable mess. But as much as I wanted to tell her so, I bit my tongue, recognizing I would be behaving no better than her if I humiliated her in front of her friends.

“You need to add some shading. I cannot tell from which direction the sun is shining.” I lifted my gaze to glare at her. “And do not simply draw a circle in the top corner and call that done.” The mutinous gleam in her eyes told me she had been prepared to do just that. “These proportions are also off. That flower is as big as your classmate’s head. Fix it.” I passed her drawing back to her, ignoring her scowl. I waited for her to take her seat on the summerhouse steps, not trusting her to do a thing I said once I turned my back to her.

However, I also did not have time to stand about monitoring troublesome girls. Were any of the sisters keeping an eye on the students, or was this their recreation time as well? I lifted my gaze to survey what I could see of the gardens from where I stood.

It was then that I caught Miss Cahill’s eye. She was watching me through her eyelashes, but she did not flinch and look away as she had done so often before. I glanced at the ever observant, ever spiteful Miss Walsh, and the other girls who were now whispering with one another, their anxious gazes on me. If Miss Cahill wished to speak with me, this was certainly not the place to do it.

I pretended to ignore Miss Cahill as she strolled past me, but I saw which path she disappeared down. Then I fastened one final glare on the girls at the summerhouse and turned to walk off. Miss Walsh was not cowed, I knew that, but perhaps some of her friends would think twice before laughing at her mockery of others again.

I did not have to go far before I rounded a bend in the path and found Miss Cahill perched on a bench among hedges dappled with Japanese roses. She looked up at me, still clutching her sketchbook to her chest.

“Might I sit with you?” I asked lightly, and she nodded. I arranged the skirts of my deep charcoal riding habit next to her on the stone bench, and watched a pair of bees flitting through a patch of yellow irises across from us. “I thought maybe you had something you wished to tell me, and you didn’t want to do so in front of the other girls.”

She lowered her book to her lap and stared down at it, clearly struggling with herself over something, perhaps gathering the courage to speak.

“May I see them?” I asked, gesturing toward her book, thinking this might distract her from her anxiety.

She blinked at me and then slowly handed me her sketches. I flipped through the pages, making casual remarks of praise as well as a few helpful suggestions. Though she still didn’t speak, I could tell she was listening intently, while at the same time her mind worked furiously, deciding what, if anything, to say to me.

Finally, she licked her lips and gasped. “One of the girls, she . . . she told us we shouldn’t talk to ye. That you and yer husband were no friends to Catholics.” Her eyes lifted to meet mine, as if she was afraid what she would see. “Are you?”

I met her gaze squarely, trying to decide how best to answer. “Miss Cahill, do you trust the reverend mother?”

Her eyes widened. “Of course.”

“Then do you think she would have asked us here, allowed us inside the abbey, if she did not trust us to conduct these inquiries into the deaths of Miss Lennox and Mother Mary Fidelis with integrity?”

She stared up at me as if this realization had escaped her.

I smiled gently. “She could have demanded we leave at any time.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It’s true.” I glanced back toward the irises. “Is that why all of the girls have been afraid to confide in us?” I tilted my head. “Other than the fact that when they confided in Mother Mary Fidelis, she was then killed.”

She gave a small hiccup of surprise. Apparently, Miss Walsh had not relayed my message. I sighed, unsure why I was surprised by this.

Miss Cahill’s hand tightened in the folds of her dull gray skirt before she suddenly blurted out, “Miss Lennox, she told me she’d been engaged to marry before she came here. Before she decided to become a nun.”

My heart kicked in my chest at this revelation. Marsdale had mentioned he’d gotten the impression she was engaged the last time he’d spoken to family members about her a year earlier, but I’d dismissed it as nothing. Even Marsdale had admitted to being confused on that point, and neither Lord Gage, nor Wellington, nor even her parents in their letter had mentioned anything about a broken engagement.

“When did she tell you this?” I asked.

“A few weeks ago, she confided in me because I’m facin’ a similar choice. Me parents have arranged a marriage for me, but I don’t know if I be wantin’ to go through wit it.” She glanced up at me with eyes that pleaded for me to understand. “She was tryin’ to help me, and I didn’t want to be betrayin’ her trust by tellin’ her secrets when I’d no right to do so.”

“What made you change your mind?”

Her eyes dropped to her lap, where she was worrying the fabric of her pinafore.

“Her fiancé, her former one. He lives here in Rathfarnham.”

I blinked in shock. “You’re certain he lives here? He didn’t just pay her a visit?” But then I remembered that the mother superior had already said she’d never had visitors to the abbey.

She nodded resolutely. “She said he lived in a great house not far from here, wit tall white pillars like a Greek temple.”

I caught myself just in time before I gasped. There might be more than one home in Rathfarnham with white pillars, but at the moment I could think of only one. And there just happened to be a young man living there, recently returned from Oxford, who would be of the right age to wed Miss Lennox.

Knowing what I did now, I had to wonder who had broken the arrangement. Had the wedding already been canceled, or had Miss Lennox jilted her fiancé in order to join this convent and spy for Wellington? How had her ex-fiancé felt about that?

“Did I do the right ting by tellin’ ye?” Miss Cahill asked anxiously. “Is it all right I shared her secret?”

“Yes. It most certainly is,” I told her, pressing a hand to her arm. “You did the right thing.”

I only wished she’d done so sooner, but I could not berate her for her loyalty to Miss Lennox. Not when this matter had clearly tormented her. The smile she gave me was filled with such relief, that I forced myself to smile back.

“Did she tell you anything else about her former fiancé or their broken engagement? Had she seen him?”

She shook her head. “I don’t tink so. She just explained how she knew ’twas a tough decision, for me an’ everyone involved. That whatever I did decide, I might have to live wit the repercussions the rest o’ me life.”

That statement sent a chill down my spine. For Miss Lennox had been speaking from experience, and whatever repercussions she’d been living with, they had been far shorter lived than she could have ever known.