by D. L. Bogdan
She was beautiful.
She had not realized it before.
She put a slender hand to her face, taking in a slow breath. “Please send for Father Alec,” she ordered.
“But we’re expected to go down soon,” Cecily returned.
“I said send for him!” she cried as the child retreated. Mirabella was agitated with the little girl. As sweet as she was, Mirabella lost patience with her even, affable attitude. She was so accepting, so content. Why could Mirabella not be content? Why could she not accept the life her parents would no doubt choose for her? It was exhausting, this constant fighting.
Yet it was a compulsion. It was as natural to her as breathing, as eating. She needed to fight. She would serve her Lord. She would not get caught up in these trappings. She would escape. And once free, she would learn contentment, acceptance. She would have what Cecily had.
“Lady Mirabella.”
Mirabella turned to find Father Alec standing in the doorway of the nursery. He filled it up with his presence. Her heart clenched. She did not understand the feelings that stirred in her belly whenever she was in his presence. Perhaps it was his youth; at twenty-eight, Father Alec possessed an allure that was undeniably attractive. His well-muscled build seemed inconsistent with his calling; Mirabella could imagine him in a suit of armor or the finery of a courtier—imagine how hose would hug his legs ... oh, what was she thinking? Mirabella squeezed her eyes shut, reopening them to find Father Alec bedecked in the humble robes of a priest. She lowered her head, feeling as though it were a sin just to look at him, as though somehow he would know she had involuntarily imagined him without his robes or a suit of armor or courtier’s finery for that matter.
“Father, I need to confess,” she said.
“You just confessed this morning, my child,” Father Alec told her in his ever-patient tone. “What could have possibly transpired within the last three hours?”
“I have been vain,” she said miserably. “I looked in the glass and saw ... I saw that I was ... well, I thought I—”
“That you were beautiful?” Father Alec asked, his lips twisting into a gentle grin.
Hot tears stung Mirabella’s eyes.
“Lady Mirabella,” Father Alec cooed as he held out his hands. Mirabella took them, trembling at the heat of his palms. “It is not vain to acknowledge your beauty. By recognizing it, you can demonstrate your gratitude to God for bestowing it upon you. I hardly think you will become as Narcissus, my dear.”
“But nuns do not need to be beautiful,” Mirabella said.
“Why? Don’t they deserve beauty as much as anyone else?” Father Alec asked with a slight chuckle. “God made everyone beautiful, for His pleasure. It is not vain to appreciate it. Are flowers vain? Is a sunset vain?” He shook his head. “No, Lady Mirabella. They just are. Do you remember how God referred to Himself as I am? It is the same with the beauty He created. Beauty is. Do you see? Be, my girl. Just be. And find contentment in it.”
Contentment. That word. It seemed so elusive here. Why was it she could only glimpse it at the abbey?
“It is hard to be at this celebration,” Mirabella said. “It just is not who I am, Father.”
“I know that,” Father Alec said. “But you will find that in life there will be many occasions that are not tailored for you. We have to adapt to our circumstances; in adapting, but not yielding ourselves over completely, we can retain our true selves and endure the rest. Can you do that?”
Mirabella considered. Then nodded. “Yes,” she said as she realized how simple he made things sound, how easy it could be. She did not have to like what was going on around her; she only had to be. She could exist in this world and be happy without conforming to it so long as she remained true to herself, to her Lord. “Yes,” she said, brightening. “I believe I can.”
Father Alec proffered his arm. “Good, then. Now. Let’s go down and forget this nonsense about confessing. Save me a real sin.”
Mirabella laughed before she could help herself and allowed herself to be escorted on the arm of Father Alec to the entertainment.
She murmured a little prayer thanking God for him.
No one understood her like he did.
The May Day revels were held out of doors in the garden under an elaborate tent strung with lanterns. Lilies and roses were entwined about all the supports and a wooden floor had been constructed special so that none of the dancers’ slippers would be spoiled by the grass. A table laden with the finest foods was set up; trays of pheasant, prawns, cheeses, breads, stuffed capons, and comfits assailed the guests with their aromas and any number of people could be seen nibbling throughout the evening.
Ladies in golden masks danced in gauzy white gowns trimmed with green to the assembly of musicians who entertained the guests, who were all dressed in their spring best. The dancers’ costumes were indeed quite revealing, baring their creamy shoulders and arms, which were encircled in gold bracelets.
Grace was pleased with the children this evening. Little Cecily was dressed to match Brey in the blue ensemble Grace had designed with her. Grace watched with fondness as the little baroness rubbed the cool satin sleeve against her cheek. She and Brey made the perfect pair. Grace’s heart contracted with wistful delight. Even Mirabella seemed happier than usual. She could not imagine what inspired the child to cooperate. Whatever it was, may it only continue!
Head tingling with the warmth of good wine, Grace threw herself into dancing till the soles of her feet throbbed and ached. When it came time for the ladies to unmask, Grace revealed herself to be one of the bare-armed dancers! Lord Hal’s eyes widened in mock astonishment as he toasted his wife.
“You are full of surprises,” he told her, drawing her close.
“I have to keep up,” Grace answered before she could stop herself.
Hal’s eyes lit with sadness. He averted his head. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
Grace squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Hal,” she said in gentle tones. “Isn’t Brey charming? Look at him dancing with little Cecily and the others. They are splendid together. She’s such a dear child.”
“Indeed,” Hal returned, his face soft as he regarded the children. “And Mirabella. Your choice of gown was exquisite. I have never seen such a stunning creature.”
Grace stiffened. “No, I suppose not,” she said blandly.
From across the tent she eyed her decanter of wine. She began to pull away.
“Grace, please, I didn’t mean—” Hal attempted to seize her hand, but Grace jerked away from him like a horse gone skittish. “Grace. Don’t.”
“What?” she asked him. “Have I not the right to enjoy my own revels?” She sauntered toward the table, lifted the decanter, and held it to her lips. At once a collective thrill of murmuring was heard among the gathering.
Grace had forgotten to use a cup.
It did not matter to her. Face flushed in a mingling of rage and embarrassment, she tilted it back and drank. And drank. Her throat burned, her gut ached.
Still she drank. She would drink till it went away.
But it would come back, in spite of everything; it always came back.
Cecily watched the night unfold in frightened fascination. It had all been so magical at first—the golden hue of the lanterns playing off the masked ladies, the gauzy costumes that clung to their forms so rounded and splendid, capturing the very essence of spring and fertility, all those things that were woman.
The food had been delicious. Cecily and Brey had stuffed themselves, then hid under the table afterwards to play with the pile of caterpillars they had collected throughout the evening and feed them crumbs. The children were hoping to build a house for them to keep in the nursery that they might watch the caterpillars’ transformation.
Even Mirabella was having a good time. She danced, favoring the guests with her rare smile that was a transformation as stunning as that of the caterpillars, which Cecily and Brey anticipated with such eagerness. Her solemn,
earnest face was made radiant with that smile, her eyes shone like emeralds, infecting Cecily with the need to laugh. She was thrilled to see her so happy.
Then something went terribly wrong.
The ladies unmasked, revealing Lady Grace to be the lead dancer. This in itself was a thrilling display and Cecily clapped at the sight. The countess was beautiful, as intoxicating as a faery with her white-blond hair falling around her shoulders in ringlets made limp from the dew of evening.
When she took to Lord Hal’s side, the night that had begun as a fantasy faded into a horrific charade. Words were exchanged; Lady Grace pulled away. She strode toward the high table, seized a decanter of wine, and drank straight from it.
This was not unusual to Cecily. She had seen Lady Grace do it many times. But she knew it was not something Lady Grace would ever do in public. It was forbidden. It was unseemly.
Cecily and Brey had been searching out more caterpillars and heard the murmurs of the guests—unkind, snide remarks muttered with cackles of laughter.
People liked to see such things, Cecily realized with a heavy heart. She could not imagine such a display bringing pleasure to anyone. Yet they laughed.
“Why feign surprise?” one gentleman could be heard saying as Cecily and Brey returned to their spot beneath the table. “We know the woman cherishes her wine above all else.”
Brey’s lip began to quiver.
Cecily’s cheeks flushed in anger. How dare they criticize the hostess while they stand at her table and make pigs of themselves! They probably drink out of wine decanters all the time!
“Don’t worry, Brey,” she told her companion, handing him the caterpillars that had been squirming in the lap of her dress. “We’ll show them.”
Cecily poked her foot out from under the table as the man who had uttered the rude comment walked by, tripping him clean on his nose, withdrawing her foot before he could be the wiser.
Blue eyes twinkling, Brey covered his mouth with his hand, and the two shared a conspiratorial giggle.
But it provided little relief. Lady Grace’s breach of etiquette was only the beginning.
From beneath the table Cecily witnessed Lady Grace as she began to twirl about the floor, decanter in hand. While other guests were acceptably tipsy as well, Cecily knew with heart-pounding certainty the countess’s antics were to be remembered. She had bypassed acceptable long ago. She was in a realm no one could reach. No one tried. They either derived amusement from it or were too shocked to move.
Lady Grace twirled about. “Prepare to be stunned, Hal!” She was laughing as her wine spilled down the front of her white chiffon gown, staining it crimson, as though she were bleeding from the heart.
She was wounded, Cecily knew. She longed to reach out but remained frozen, transfixed. From somewhere she heard Brey crying. She could not comfort him. She could only watch, helpless, hopeless.
Lady Grace threw the decanter across the floor, then began to tear at her gown. “Stunning, Hal?” she cried as she shed the gown, revealing her white body shining with sweat. She stood there, naked, trembling, beautiful, and terrible.
No one said a word. No one moved. Everything was happening as though underwater, slow, held back by forces too great to resist.
Lady Grace stared at the guests, shocked sober. She collapsed to the ground, drawing her knees to her chest, covering her breasts, and burying her head in them. Her white shoulders heaved with sobs.
The silence hurt Cecily’s ears.
“For the love of God!” a man cried. The husky voice was instantly recognized as Father Alec’s as he rushed forward, seizing a cloak from another stunned gentleman’s shoulders and wrapping it about Lady Grace. He knelt beside her, murmuring softly. “Come now, my child. Let us remove to the house. Come now. You are all right. You are all right.” He all but lifted her to her feet, then turned to the guests. “You’ve taken in your fill,” he said, his voice laced with disgust. “Those of you staying with the Pierces this evening may retire. As for the rest, you best return to your homes. The lady of the house is unwell.”
As Father Alec guided Lady Grace indoors, the world began to move again. Cecily was prompted into action. She reached out, taking Brey in her arms. “There, there, Brey,” she murmured against the golden hair. “She is just unwell. The heat ...”
“Her gown did not have sleeves!” he cried. “She could not have been hot!”
“But she was dancing so much,” Cecily told him. “You know how hot one gets dancing. There, there, don’t cry. She is just tired. She will rest and feel much better tomorrow.”
“They will laugh at her forever,” Brey returned, his eyes narrowing.
Cecily bowed her head. They would. She could not say otherwise. Brey was not stupid.
“Well, then they’re just dense if that’s all they have to laugh about,” she said. “I can think of things much funnier than that. Can’t you?”
Brey furrowed his brow in thought. “I suppose so.” He leaned into her arms again. “Oh, Cecily, why is everyone so sad?”
Cecily swallowed the burning lump in her throat.
She did not know.
Hal did not know who to seek out first. More than Grace, Father Alec had made fools of everyone with his show of chivalry, not that Hal wasn’t grateful for it. God knew he was too rooted in terror to be useful.
As Grace was ushered indoors the crowd began to disperse, shaking their heads and murmuring. Grace had wanted to give them an unforgettable celebration, he thought bitterly. He and Grace would be lucky to be received anywhere after this. He could not imagine how to undo the damage done this night.
He stood a long while, apologizing to the guests as they departed. How he hated that! The pity that lit their eyes as they regarded him, the amusement that was barely hidden in others. May they all fall on the ends of their swords!
His eyes searched the crowd for his children. Cecily and Brey were nowhere to be seen. He could only pray that they had missed the spectacle. As his eyes scanned the mass, he saw a shock of red organza.
Mirabella.
Oh, God. Mirabella.
She was running. He did not know if he could follow her. He could not imagine how to comfort her, how to assuage the terrible anger and shame the girl would no doubt be feeling.
He let her go.
He turned away.
All that was left of the evening was a table full of half-eaten delicacies, a shattered wine decanter, and a stained white gown.
Mirabella ran to the stables, fetching her palfrey. She was too beside herself to ride sidesaddle so rode astride. She could not imagine presenting herself as more offensive than her mother, so it mattered not.
She rode into the night, down the well-beaten trail to the only place that ever gave her any hope and comfort at all. Her convent. She would join them this night. She would leave her worldly life behind. They would hear her story. They could not refuse her. And her father would dare not deny her; he owed her this. He would send a large dowry. The sisters would be so happy!
Mirabella entered the cloister sobbing and breathless. The coos and hushes of the sisters filled her ears as Sister Julia was sent for.
“Mirabella!” the nun cried upon seeing her. “Darling, what is it?”
How could she tell her? It was too scathing, too shocking, for ears so pure. Yet she did. Somewhere God gave her the strength to tell Sister Julia. The story poured forth in all its ugliness. Sister Julia listened in rapt attention, green eyes tearing as she clutched Mirabella’s hand.
When Mirabella finished, she hung her head, covering her eyes with a slender hand. She could not abide looking Sister Julia in the face after such a horrific confession.
Sister Julia wrapped her arms about her, drawing her near. She never found such comfort in anyone. Sister Julia’s embrace was soothing, warm, filled with such tangible love that Mirabella absorbed it, as thirsty for it as the soil was for healing, nurturing rain.
“Oh, Mirabella ...” Sister Julia
began. “I do not know what to say, how to comfort you. Lady Sumerton ...” She pulled away, cupping Mirabella’s face between her slim hands. The face peeking forth from its hood was the most beautiful Mirabella had ever seen and the smile, even in sadness, was the most radiant. Sister Julia sighed. “Mirabella, you must not be angry with Lady Sumerton. She”—she lowered her eyes—“she has suffered much. She is a great lady, far greater than anyone could possibly know. I understand how difficult it has been between you. You must forgive her, however, as God requires. But more than that, you must love her. She is in such need of it.”
“I never want to see her again,” Mirabella said, her tone icy with involuntary hatred. “Oh, God, forgive me, I never want to go back to that house. I can almost taste the fires of Hell when I’m there—they are all steeped in the superficial, all taught to relish things frivolous and meaningless. No one pursues matters of the soul ... well, save for Father Alec, of course.” She averted her head, her heart pounding as she mentioned his name. “Please do not make me go back. Let me enter this holy place tonight as a postulant. My father will send a dowry. I will make him; he won’t refuse me after tonight, I know it. Please.”
Sister Julia sighed. “Do you not think that you can pursue matters of the soul there as much as here? Instead of passing judgment against your family, you can lead them by example with cheer instead of scorn.” She gathered her in her arms once more and began to sway. “Mirabella, you must go back. They need you now more than ever. Lady Sumerton needs you and Ha—your lord father ... he needs you, too. So very much. And what of the little ones? Surely they could benefit from your example.”
