Read Online Thunder On The Right by Mary Stewart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Stewart
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her—catmint and crushed thyme, and the sharp sweet smell of apricots globed among glossy leaves; the homely friendliness of lavender and sage over whose silver leaves poppies dangled their sleep-drugged scarlet heads. A cicada, hidden in a peach tree, purred softly. Jennifer let go of the gate, straightened up slowly, rubbing her hands together, and began, reasonably enough, to think.
And her first thought was the sufficiently overwhelming one that she had been right.
What had started as premonition, grown through uneasiness into downright suspicion, had flowered now, unmistakably, as fact. There was something wrong.
Whether or not her wild, hope-driven guess had been right, whether or not the business of the gentians could be explained away, the demeanor of Doña Francisca at the second interview, no less than Celeste's patent fear, showed that there was, indeed, something wrong. And she must find out what it was. That the bursar had no intention of letting her interview Celeste alone was certain: what was equally certain was Jennifer's determination to do that very thing.
The chapel bell had stopped. She glanced toward the archway that gave on to the tunnel to the courtyard. The bell rope was looped up, and still swung slightly. The tunnel was empty. Everyone would be in chapel, and, afterwards, Doña Francisca would talk to Celeste and warn her to answer no questions. It was also possible that, forewarned as she was, the Spaniard might be able to prevent Jennifer from seeing the Reverend Mother at all tomorrow.
Jennifer bit her lips again, this time in thought. Then she made her decision. For her own peace of mind, as much as for any other reason, she must make what inquiries she could today. She would stay here, hidden in the garden, until the service was over, and then, if it were possible, she would seek out the Mother Superior straight away, and question her frankly. Quite frankly—because, said Jennifer firmly to herself, I refuse flatly to believe that the whole convent can be implicated in these lies. Sister Louisa is as honest as a daisy and as simple as God, and even Celeste seemed genuine up to a point; until, in fact, I asked her about the gentians. No, the Reverend Mother can't be in it whatever it is —that would be pure Mrs. Radcliffe. . .
. I'll see her after service, and find out what she has to say. At least she can let me see the "papers" and whatever else Gillian is said to have brought with her. . ..
The chanting from the chapel had stopped now, and the organ was weaving its way through something massive and slow, which reached the garden only in a series of vibrations surging through the ranked richnesses of herb and vine. Jennifer flattened herself once more against the gate as a shuffle of footsteps in the tunnel told of the worshipers going quietly across from the chapel to the refectory. She bent her head forward to peer through a masking vine. There were the blue-clad orphans; there were the white novices and the somber nuns, filing across the tunnel in an orderly silence. The refectory door shut on the last nun. The watcher in the garden heard the children's voices singing grace, and then the scrape of chairs as the company sat down to table.
She slipped quietly back through the gate into the graveyard, and made her way over the grass to the chapel door. If she went through the chapel, she had every chance of gaining the upper corridor without being seen, and she was sure that the big door she had noticed at the end of that corridor must be that of the Mother Superior's room.
It seemed likely that the Reverend Mother would come out of the refectory first, and once Jennifer had approached her even the ubiquitous and apparently powerful bursar could hardly prevent an interview.
What exactly she hoped to gain by that interview was by no means certain, but, in her present state of bewilderment and suspicion, any sort of plan was better than none. It was with a lifting feeling of
And her first thought was the sufficiently overwhelming one that she had been right.
What had started as premonition, grown through uneasiness into downright suspicion, had flowered now, unmistakably, as fact. There was something wrong.
Whether or not her wild, hope-driven guess had been right, whether or not the business of the gentians could be explained away, the demeanor of Doña Francisca at the second interview, no less than Celeste's patent fear, showed that there was, indeed, something wrong. And she must find out what it was. That the bursar had no intention of letting her interview Celeste alone was certain: what was equally certain was Jennifer's determination to do that very thing.
The chapel bell had stopped. She glanced toward the archway that gave on to the tunnel to the courtyard. The bell rope was looped up, and still swung slightly. The tunnel was empty. Everyone would be in chapel, and, afterwards, Doña Francisca would talk to Celeste and warn her to answer no questions. It was also possible that, forewarned as she was, the Spaniard might be able to prevent Jennifer from seeing the Reverend Mother at all tomorrow.
Jennifer bit her lips again, this time in thought. Then she made her decision. For her own peace of mind, as much as for any other reason, she must make what inquiries she could today. She would stay here, hidden in the garden, until the service was over, and then, if it were possible, she would seek out the Mother Superior straight away, and question her frankly. Quite frankly—because, said Jennifer firmly to herself, I refuse flatly to believe that the whole convent can be implicated in these lies. Sister Louisa is as honest as a daisy and as simple as God, and even Celeste seemed genuine up to a point; until, in fact, I asked her about the gentians. No, the Reverend Mother can't be in it whatever it is —that would be pure Mrs. Radcliffe. . .
. I'll see her after service, and find out what she has to say. At least she can let me see the "papers" and whatever else Gillian is said to have brought with her. . ..
The chanting from the chapel had stopped now, and the organ was weaving its way through something massive and slow, which reached the garden only in a series of vibrations surging through the ranked richnesses of herb and vine. Jennifer flattened herself once more against the gate as a shuffle of footsteps in the tunnel told of the worshipers going quietly across from the chapel to the refectory. She bent her head forward to peer through a masking vine. There were the blue-clad orphans; there were the white novices and the somber nuns, filing across the tunnel in an orderly silence. The refectory door shut on the last nun. The watcher in the garden heard the children's voices singing grace, and then the scrape of chairs as the company sat down to table.
She slipped quietly back through the gate into the graveyard, and made her way over the grass to the chapel door. If she went through the chapel, she had every chance of gaining the upper corridor without being seen, and she was sure that the big door she had noticed at the end of that corridor must be that of the Mother Superior's room.
It seemed likely that the Reverend Mother would come out of the refectory first, and once Jennifer had approached her even the ubiquitous and apparently powerful bursar could hardly prevent an interview.
What exactly she hoped to gain by that interview was by no means certain, but, in her present state of bewilderment and suspicion, any sort of plan was better than none. It was with a lifting feeling of
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