Jordan stood silent as though waiting for more of an explanation, but she couldn’t tell him about how St. Agnes worked or Mother’s reasoning. She had told Margaret Mary to stay safe and to stay away from men. As though she needed to be told that!
“Um…as to help, I think I will be fine on my own. Thank you.”
“Okay. I will have papers for you to sign, so I’ll check in with you tomorrow or the next day. Will that be all right?” He glanced up through the encroaching twilight toward heaven and then looked at her and smiled. “I promise to come at a more reasonable hour the next time. And I apologize again for not meeting your train.”
“Thank you for coming,” she said. He got back to his car, backed up slowly to turn, and left.
Nice man. Surely Mother Superior wouldn’t mind her talking to him. He was her attorney, after all. And there was no way he would do anything to jeopardize her well-being.
Back inside the house, she found linens, made the bed in the only bedroom, and prepared for sleep. She knelt for prayers and climbed between the sheets. After both the excitement and weariness of the day, she’d thought she would be out when her head hit the pillow. Instead, she lay awake seeing in her mind’s eye her attorney’s intense blue eyes. The image stirred something in her, something both comforting and troubling. For the life of her, she didn’t know which emotion disturbed her the most.
Chapter Two
Margaret Mary knelt in the wooden pew of the humble church early the next morning. Deep in prayer, she didn’t notice the priest standing beside her until he tapped her shoulder. Quickly, she stood, head still bowed out of respect.
“Sister.”
“Good morning, Father.”
“It’s not six o’clock yet, Sister.”
She nodded rather than speaking.
“Mass is at six thirty. Have you eaten anything?”
Eyes wide, she looked up and shook her head. The man looked more than six feet tall, slim with a shock of white hair and weak blue eyes with crow’s-feet. Frown lines bracketed his mouth.
“I thought as much. I understand you’re from a cloistered convent.” He waited for her quick nod. “I suppose you’ve been up since five o’clock praying?”
She stared at the floor again and said nothing.
“And with nothing in your stomach.” He made a grunt of disgust. “I’ll be lucky if you don’t pass out before the end of Mass. Next time eat something as soon as you rise so I won’t have a sick nun on my hands.” He strode off, his cassock swishing.
Margaret Mary knelt once more and bowed her head, closing her eyes against sudden dizziness. She was used to a regimen of rising during the night for prayer and then meeting for Mass at five thirty. As was her practice, she’d woken twice during the previous night, climbed out of bed, and spent half an hour on her knees. What she wasn’t used to, and what no doubt contributed to her dizziness now, was the several-mile walk to the little whitewashed church at the edge of town and the wait for the service.
A person knelt in the pew behind her and brought her back to herself. She didn’t turn her head to look around, but three people sat in pews in front. Shortly, the priest—he hadn’t given his name—walked to the altar and began the service.
Before she knew it, she’d received communion at the altar railing and made the sign of the cross at the final blessing. Remaining on her knees, she waited until the church emptied then made her way to the door.
“I suppose you didn’t bring anything to eat with you, either?” The priest waited at the door. She said nothing. He huffed out a breath. “Silly woman. Lonnie,” he called out, “can you run Sister…”
“Margaret Mary,” she supplied in a low voice.
“Will you run Sister Margaret Mary out to the cottage?”
Margaret Mary looked up to see Lonnie, lean and broad shouldered, standing at the end of the sidewalk. His coveralls matched those he’d worn the previous day except that these were clean. He dipped his head at the priest but said nothing to her.
“His old Nash makes us all hold our breaths, but he seems to keep it going.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Don’t thank me. If you’re going to be coming to Mass every morning, Lonnie will pick you up. Eat something,” he admonished, shaking his finger in her face. With that, he spun on his heel and re-entered the church, leaving her to follow the closemouthed Lonnie to the blue vehicle.
As soon as he pulled to a halt at her front door she opened the door and exited the car. The day’s heat already infused the town, but here a freshened breeze blew her veil into her face. She brushed it back and leaned down to Lonnie’s open window. “Thank you,” she said.
“Six fifteen tomarra,” he said.
“That’s really not necessary,” she replied hastily.
He put the car in gear and started backing away. “Tomarra,” he called out the window.
Margaret Mary entered the cottage and put together a breakfast of oatmeal and hot tea. Like the previous night’s dinner, she took her meal outdoors. Sunlight glittered off the water far below. Peace filled her.
“Thank you, Lord, for this view, for guiding me through the darkness to the church this morning, and for Lonnie and his Nash.”
With a renewed sense of vigor she entered the cottage to do her duty, to her mother who by God’s grace had lived a good life for many years in the face of her illness, to God, and to her order. She couldn’t wait to return to the convent. Or, maybe…Maybe I won’t go back to Ohio. Maybe Mother Superior will send me on to California to help Sister Celeste. She’d never been anywhere. To travel and explore different places would be—
She stopped midwish. What she did with her life was not for her to decide. Where she went, where she lived was up to God, through his servant, Mother Superior.
“Thoughts not dedicated to God are thoughts available to Lucifer,” she quoted under her breath, appalled that she’d let her mind wander. One of the first things impressed upon postulants was the importance of keeping one’s thoughts focused in prayer. Here she was after a couple of days outside the convent reverting to behavior she’d thought bred out of her.
Wasting no more time, she withdrew her work clothes from her suitcase. She pinned back her veil and rolled up the long sleeves of her gown. She donned a long white apron and protective coverings for her lower arms and the white chemise she wore under her gown.
Earlier, she’d noticed garments in the hamper in the bathroom. Now she gathered everything and took it to the wringer washer in an alcove off the kitchen. Then she filled a bucket she found stored under the sink, picked up a scrub brush and rags, and went back upstairs. Dropping to her knees, she dipped the brush in the water, scrubbed a small space of floor, and then cleaned it with the rags, as she’d been taught years before. With the familiar chore, her mind slipped into a pattern of prayer.
When she finished the upstairs bedroom and steps, she refilled the bucket with fresh water and began scrubbing the downstairs flooring. Intent on her work and prayer, she didn’t notice the shadow fallen over the room until she changed sections of floor.
A man stood in the front doorway, one hand on each side of the frame. With the sun at his back, his face was hidden. Quickly Margaret Mary scrambled to her feet and faced the stranger.
“Yes?” she asked, hiding her hands under her apron. The man stared, a small smile curving his lips. “Sir?” Margaret Mary asked in a low tone.
Finally he spoke. “Hello, Catherine.”
Catherine? Then from the deep recesses of her mind, memories made their way to the surface. “Catherine, would you like a story before bed?” “Catherine, not so close to the edge!” “Good-bye, Catherine. Don’t forget Mama.”
She had been Catherine. At least before school, where she’d been only Miss Jacobsen. Then she’d welcomed Christ as her husband and took her vows and her new name, Margaret Mary. At that point, her former life died so that she could dedicate herself totally to God.
“I am
Sister Margaret Mary. And you are…?”
He coughed out a laugh. “Don’t you know?”
She shook her head, trying to picture Sister Celeste or Mother Superior in this situation. Had either of them needed to deal with a strange man from a past they didn’t remember? Talking to a man was hard enough in itself. Lacing her fingers together and crossing her thumbs, she said a fleeting prayer for strength. “No, sir, I’m afraid I do not know.”
“Brendan Tipton,” he said curtly and walked into the living room.
Margaret Mary took an involuntary step back, gasping when she caught sight of his face. If the Archangel Michael came to Earth, he couldn’t have been more beautiful than the stranger who had just entered her mother’s house.
Chapter Three
She looked up into piercing blue eyes which regarded her with amusement. He stood over six feet, because she herself was almost that height. Mother Superior had often reminded her of her ungainly height when she was still in school. His shoulders could have held the world—even under his jacket there was evidence of muscle. His face was chiseled planes, hard and solid, and his salt-and-pepper hair made him look like the patriarch of a family, wise and respected. Powerful.
“Yes?” She’d heard his name the day before, from the stationmaster. Like this man, he had assumed she would know who Brendan Tipton was.
Tipton shrugged and then walked around the room, picking up things from tables and bookshelves and putting them down again. “I thought perhaps your mother mentioned me in her letters.”
“I haven’t received a letter from my mother since I entered the order. That’s been fourteen years.”
He turned in surprise. “I know for a fact that she wrote you.”
“I have no explanation, then.” She bowed her head. As always when confronted with an unknown situation, she sought comfort in her rosary, but even fingering the well-worn beads didn’t erase the disquiet brought on by Mr. Tipton’s presence. And he seemed in no hurry to leave.
“Well then, we shall have to become acquainted while you’re here.”
No! More than any man she’d ever met, Brendan Tipton frightened her. He was beautiful unlike any other, but his allure came from more than his looks. She watched as he chose a figurine to examine. He plucked it off a side table, his hand large enough to hold a muskmelon, his fingers long, the tips calloused. Yet he caressed the porcelain shepherdess as though she were a real woman, with tenderness and care.
Feelings stirred deep inside her, like a shift in the Earth. The man disturbed her in so many ways, and she had no means of making him leave. More tightly she clung to the rosary. Hail Mary, full of grace…
Tipton looked up as though he heard her thoughts. “Praying, Sister?” He snorted a laugh and then cast a glance around the room. “Perhaps you should. This is not your Father’s house, it’s your mother’s.” He spared another glance for the shepherdess in his hand. “This was your mother’s favorite. It does not belong within convent walls if that is your intention.” His gaze raked her from head to foot. She caught her breath, sensing once again the power exuding from his very pores. She hoped he couldn’t see inside her, that he couldn’t tell the turmoil his examination caused. His hooded gaze came back to her face. Heat flushed her cheeks. His stare softened. She felt almost as though he had reached out and skimmed his fingers across the heat, adding further to her distress. Why didn’t he go?
“No, this little shepherdess does not belong sheltered behind walls with a bunch of withered, sexless old women. And neither, I think, do you.” And then he did leave.
Against her common sense, she stumbled to the door to watch him. He strode to the edge of the cliff, raised his arm, and dashed the figurine to the rocks below. He’d cradled it with gentleness and then destroyed it with such force Margaret Mary felt it even yards away. Without a backward glance, he walked off.
She fell to her knees and bent her head to beg God’s peace. For the first time since childhood, she couldn’t formulate the words or muster the attention that should have come easily. She couldn’t expel the image of Brendan Tipton’s smashing the porcelain figure. She remembered her reaction when she imagined his hand touching her face, and shame flooded her. She hoped Mr. Tipton would never return.
At the same time, to her dismay, she knew he would.
For the rest of the day Margaret Mary maintained a flurry of activity in an effort to keep her mind off her earlier visitor. Or rather, off the disquiet he made her feel. She finished cleaning the floor, this time with the door firmly closed. Then she rinsed the clothes she’d washed and ran them through the wringer. When they hung on the line, flapping in the wind—sheets soft as butter, blouses and skirts, two pairs of slacks, and silk underwear with lace—she had a moment’s pause. Those couldn’t be her mother’s things. She’d been sick, bed-ridden, and unable to get around by herself. For years, Margaret Mary believed that only the peace of living in this remote location by the sea had made it possible for her to hang onto life as long as she had.
Margaret Mary put the conundrum from her mind in order to decide where to start sorting through articles and packing. There was an additional room upstairs beside the bedroom and bath that appeared to serve as a reading area. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a chintz-covered chair with side table and lamp sat near the window overlooking the stretch of hillside that backed the cottage and led up to the main road.
The lower level held the living room, kitchen, a dining area, and a laundry alcove. Through a door under the stairway, Margaret Mary discovered a study. The room—though barely large enough to be called such—like the reading room upstairs bore a woman’s stamp, whereas the rest of the house showed the darker colors, contemporary styling, and lack of clutter that implied a masculine taste. Two round windows allowed light and air. On a table, flowers had died in a vase next to a bookmarked volume of poetry. The walls had been painted a pastel lavender, and the chair and ottoman beside the table had lush contours and coverings showcasing white and Persian lilacs. A rolltop desk occupied the corner. Impressionist-style paintings, mostly miniatures, dotted the walls, and glass knickknacks of all sizes and shapes jammed every other surface.
The cottage was worlds away from Margaret Mary’s austere cell. The sheer quantity of items in this room alone, to be evaluated and packed for disposal, overwhelmed her. Tomorrow she would ask Father if he knew of a reliable woman who’d be willing to come out and help her. The notion that a woman working with her would also serve as a buffer if Mr. Tipton should happen by again gave her a much-needed sense of relief.
Atop a bookshelf, Margaret Mary found a key. On a hunch, she tried it in the keyhole of the rolltop, and it fit. Inside, the many cubbyholes burst with papers, though the general aspect was one of neatness. In the center of the writing surface, an envelope rested with her name on it. Margaret Mary opened it and sat in the chair to read.
My dear Catherine,
I am gone, and without seeing you or holding you one last time. I believe I am sorriest for that, as sorry as I am for having sent you away when you were only a child and still in need of your mama. I needed you also, my sweet, but it was not for us to be together. I hope you understand and don’t hate me.”
Hate her, why? An illness was no one’s fault. Ever since she left home she’d prayed nightly for her mother’s health and spirits, at first wishing health would be restored so she could go home, but then that her mother didn’t suffer. Knowing her prayers reached a loving God’s ear made her loneliness bearable. She came to view their separation as a test they had to overcome. Now they were at the end, and her mother’s well-earned peace was the reward for them both. She continued reading.
Another thing I greatly regret is that you entered the convent.
“What?” Startled, she read the words again. If her mother felt that way, why hadn’t she spoken up at the time? Why hadn’t she begged Margaret Mary to come home?
I felt I had to send you away, Catherine, but I never intended that
you would lock yourself away from the world. There’s so much you’ve missed, my dear, so much you’re still missing—sampling a soda at the drugstore counter, a drive-in movie with a boyfriend, the freedom to go where you want and do what you want. Having a conversation with a girlfriend. Feeling a man’s arms around you, making love, raising children. I do so wish you could know these things. I would wish for you even the life I’ve had rather than the one you chose.
How could her mother think she was unhappy? Granted, she had been miserable during her school years. Perhaps she would have returned to Oregon after high school if she had felt needed or wanted. Instead, with no actual direction to her life, the nuns had guided her into the order. She found peace there. Too bad she couldn’t reassure her mother.
You might wonder what I mean by “even the life I’ve had.” In many ways, I’ve been alone but not really lonely. In my own way, I’ve loved not one man but two. And if they haven’t truly loved me, they’ve taken care of me—and of you, my dear.
Her mother had fallen in love there in her cottage by the sea? The first man must have been Margaret Mary’s father. But who could the second man be? Her mother hadn’t been able to get around for years.
I might as well cleanse my conscience of everything. I don’t know who your father is, Catherine.
Her hands dropped to her lap, her mind numb, unable to form a thought. All her life she’d believed her father had lived with them until his death. Now, half of her was a mystery. Uneasily, she picked up the letter.
I’m sorry to tell you so bluntly, but I hope as an adult you can understand. That I became pregnant while being with several different men is not something I could explain to a child even if I’d wanted to. You wouldn’t have understood. I was always glad I left that life before you discovered exactly what I did.
Seducing Their Nun [Unlikely Bedfellows 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 2
