steps with word that someone was trapped in the cellar.
By the time the kitchen Sisters arrived and drew back the rusty bolt, the abbess, who had been making her nightly rounds, was herself flying down the passage. Together they flung open the door and discovered Sister Archibald sitting in a chair the abbess had scoured the convent for that morning … wrapped from head to toe in blankets and sipping from a cup of Bordeaux’s best libation.
“Archie! Are you all right?” As the chill-shrouded Archibald proclaimed her well-being, the abbess paled. “What in heaven are you doing here?”
“I did call out, ye know,” Archibald insisted later as she sat in the abbess’s private solar sipping the hot barley water they insisted she drink and regarding that humble brew with a wistful expression. “Again an’ again. I called. And ye can only call out so much before yer throat gives out.”
The abbess gave her a skeptical look. Her old friend’s voice didn’t sound the least bit “given out,” and the wine-warmed glow of her face didn’t make her look especially distressed by her ordeal. The Reverend Mother strode to her writing desk and sat down in her newly returned chair with her jaw hardening. “How could she think she would get away with it? I’ll send to the bishop straightaway and ask for an envoy to ride after them. We’ll haul her rebellious little carcass back to the convent and—”
“I think ye’d best read this first.” Archibald pulled out the letter Chloe had left with her and carried it to the desk. “It may change yer mind.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
But as the abbess read Chloe’s earnest words, the lines of her face softened. She looked up to find Archibald wearing a wistful, enigmatic little smile that she knew to be both an expression of hope and a canny appeal to the highest and best in a human heart.
“I can’t help thinking you had some part in this,” she charged.
“Not me,” Archibald said emphatically. “Surprised me in the cellar, she did. Locked me right in.”
“But you’re not the least bit sorry she did, are you?”
“Truth be told? No. I always thought our little Chloe should go.” She did her best to catch both her friend’s eye and her sympathy. “All the girl wants is some sweet babes of ’er own. Ye know what it’s like, Reverend Mother … wantin’ to hold flesh of yer flesh next to yer heart … needin’ a place to belong.”
The abbess seized a quill and shifted her chair to face the parchment laid out on the desk. In a trice, she had flicked open the ink pot and was stretching back to the length of her arm, tucking her chin and squinting … determined to fill that parchment with frothing hot words. After every letter she had to hold the parchment up and farther away to be certain where to put the next one.
“Sulphur and brimstone!” After a frustrating quarter of an hour, she slammed the inked quill down on the parchment, where it made an ugly blotch. “The chit’s robbed me of my eyes and hands. I can’t even write a letter ordering her brought back!” She pushed back in her chair, stewing in her own incapacity.
“And you!” She turned her frustration on Sister Archibald. “Where is all of that concern for ‘our dear lambs’ that you plagued me with? Who’s going to speak for our maids now and see them properly mated?”
“Chloe.” Archibald folded her hands at her ample waist and adopted a beatific expression, sensing things were going her way. “The girl’s got pluck and she doesn’t miss much—ye said so yerself. Between her an’ the Almighty, they’ll see our lambs settled right.” She moved around the desk to put her hand on the abbess’s shoulder. “Let her go, Reverend Mother. Her destiny’s not with us. Never has been.”
The abbess thought on that. Though her pride and conscience still stung, she heaved a sigh of decision and gave the hand on her shoulder a pat.
“Very well, I shall leave it in
By the time the kitchen Sisters arrived and drew back the rusty bolt, the abbess, who had been making her nightly rounds, was herself flying down the passage. Together they flung open the door and discovered Sister Archibald sitting in a chair the abbess had scoured the convent for that morning … wrapped from head to toe in blankets and sipping from a cup of Bordeaux’s best libation.
“Archie! Are you all right?” As the chill-shrouded Archibald proclaimed her well-being, the abbess paled. “What in heaven are you doing here?”
“I did call out, ye know,” Archibald insisted later as she sat in the abbess’s private solar sipping the hot barley water they insisted she drink and regarding that humble brew with a wistful expression. “Again an’ again. I called. And ye can only call out so much before yer throat gives out.”
The abbess gave her a skeptical look. Her old friend’s voice didn’t sound the least bit “given out,” and the wine-warmed glow of her face didn’t make her look especially distressed by her ordeal. The Reverend Mother strode to her writing desk and sat down in her newly returned chair with her jaw hardening. “How could she think she would get away with it? I’ll send to the bishop straightaway and ask for an envoy to ride after them. We’ll haul her rebellious little carcass back to the convent and—”
“I think ye’d best read this first.” Archibald pulled out the letter Chloe had left with her and carried it to the desk. “It may change yer mind.”
“I sincerely doubt that.”
But as the abbess read Chloe’s earnest words, the lines of her face softened. She looked up to find Archibald wearing a wistful, enigmatic little smile that she knew to be both an expression of hope and a canny appeal to the highest and best in a human heart.
“I can’t help thinking you had some part in this,” she charged.
“Not me,” Archibald said emphatically. “Surprised me in the cellar, she did. Locked me right in.”
“But you’re not the least bit sorry she did, are you?”
“Truth be told? No. I always thought our little Chloe should go.” She did her best to catch both her friend’s eye and her sympathy. “All the girl wants is some sweet babes of ’er own. Ye know what it’s like, Reverend Mother … wantin’ to hold flesh of yer flesh next to yer heart … needin’ a place to belong.”
The abbess seized a quill and shifted her chair to face the parchment laid out on the desk. In a trice, she had flicked open the ink pot and was stretching back to the length of her arm, tucking her chin and squinting … determined to fill that parchment with frothing hot words. After every letter she had to hold the parchment up and farther away to be certain where to put the next one.
“Sulphur and brimstone!” After a frustrating quarter of an hour, she slammed the inked quill down on the parchment, where it made an ugly blotch. “The chit’s robbed me of my eyes and hands. I can’t even write a letter ordering her brought back!” She pushed back in her chair, stewing in her own incapacity.
“And you!” She turned her frustration on Sister Archibald. “Where is all of that concern for ‘our dear lambs’ that you plagued me with? Who’s going to speak for our maids now and see them properly mated?”
“Chloe.” Archibald folded her hands at her ample waist and adopted a beatific expression, sensing things were going her way. “The girl’s got pluck and she doesn’t miss much—ye said so yerself. Between her an’ the Almighty, they’ll see our lambs settled right.” She moved around the desk to put her hand on the abbess’s shoulder. “Let her go, Reverend Mother. Her destiny’s not with us. Never has been.”
The abbess thought on that. Though her pride and conscience still stung, she heaved a sigh of decision and gave the hand on her shoulder a pat.
“Very well, I shall leave it in
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