He heard sounds of movement from the adjoining room, and there was a light tapping on the wall. Sister Agnes drew back the piece of felt. It wasn’t covering a window but a metal grille about three feet square.
“You can come closer, Mr. Murdoch.”
He did so and could look through the grille into the adjoining room. However, a second piece of black material was hung across the opening, and he could barely make out two shadowy figures in nun’s garb. He heard, rather than saw, that the far door opened and somebody came into the room carrying an oil lamp. This light made the black curtain less opaque and he could see that a narrow bed was being wheeled into the room. He assumed the person lying in the bed was Susanna, but everything was too dim to see her face distinctly.
Sister Agnes had brought a candle with her, and she lit it from the one in the sconce and brought it close to the grille. He realised this was so that, in like fashion, his sister could see his silhouette.
“You can speak to her, Mr. Murdoch. She is conscious. She has been so anxious for your presence.”
He leaned forward, straining to see Susanna better through the curtain. “Cissie, it’s Will. I’ve come to visit you.”
The words were absurd, he knew, but it was all he could do to talk at all. He heard her voice, barely audible.
“Will? You are here?”
“Yes, Cissie, I came as fast as I could.”
More muttering and he had to press his ear against the grille to hear better. There was another voice, speaking in French. Sister Agnes translated.
“Our infirmarian, Sister Genevieve, says that Sister Philomena regrets that you have had to come so far, and she is unable to speak to you.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
There was another exchange between Susanna and the infirmarian. His eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness, and he could see two nuns beside the bed. He realised they were trying to prop the dying woman up on her pillow. She groaned in pain, but they raised her sufficiently for her upper body to come closer to the grille. Susanna was wearing a white bed cap, and her face was as emaciated as a skeleton’s. Her eye sockets were deeply shadowed, her cheeks sunken. He wanted to weep at the sight. He could see that she smiled. “Will, it is so good to see you.”
“And you, my little sprat.”
“There is something … concern to me … I have tried to let go of all earthly things…. I can see the light of Our Lord as it beckons to me.” She had to stop and one of the nuns wiped her lips with a piece of linen. “Our Poppa … you must speak to him, Will. He must ask for forgiveness.”
He was surprised at what she said because Susanna had never joined him in his ranting about their father, never before acknowledged his many transgressions against his wife and children.
“We must cease for the moment, Mr. Murdoch,” said Sister Agnes.
But Susanna whispered, “I would like it if you would stay awhile longer, Will.”
“My dear, of course I won’t leave.”
He hadn’t said, until you die, but that is what he meant.
It was obvious even through the impeding curtain that Susanna was in too much agony to remain sitting up, and the two nuns lowered her gently backward.
Murdoch stayed in the little austere cold parlour for the next few hours. Sister Agnes sat on a hard chair behind him and disappeared only once. She returned carrying a tray on which was a bowl of vegetable soup and a thick slice of bread. He was ravenous but his appetite vanished as soon as she placed the simple meal in front of him, and it was all he could do to swallow some of the hot broth. They had not moved the bed from the adjoining room, and twice more nuns entered and sang prayers. As far as he could tell, Susanna had fallen into unconsciousness. He didn’t speak, and neither did any of the nuns. About midnight, in spite of the discomfort, he actually dozed off and was awakened by a soft tug on his sleeve.
“Monsieur Murdoch, our sister is failing rapidly. You may wish to say a prayer with us.”
He stood up and peered through the grille. There were three or four nuns on the other side, and one of them was lighting votive candles at the foot of the bed, making it easier to see into the room. He could hear a harsh, gurgling kind of breathing. Susanna’s mouth had fallen open. Within minutes the sound became quieter and finally ceased all together. She was dead.
Sister Agnes knelt down and crossed herself, and he could see the other two nuns were doing the same. He leaned his forehead against the cool metal grille, and the pungent scent of the incense wafted across to him. When he was a boy he had gone to his church, and at the altar, he had made a vow to protect his mother, Susanna, and Bertie. He had been very solemn about it, and although he’d couched the promise in general terms, what he really meant was that he would defend them against his father’s wrath. He had failed. Then his mother had died, drowned in a shallow pool among the rocks on the beach. Bertie, always sickly, lived only six more months after this, and Susanna had turned elsewhere for her protection. His vow had been useless. He had not been able to save her when they were children, and he was helpless now to assuage her suffering.
“Monsieur Murdoch, will you join me in prayer?” asked the extern.
“Yes, Sister.”
He, too, crossed himself and dropped to his knees on the hard floor.
Chapter Seven
“GOOD EVENING, MRS. MCISAAC.” Walter Lacey stamped off the snow from his boots. “Where’s Jessica?” He’d brought a waft of cold air into the cottage, and Mrs. McIsaac made a point of pulling her shawl up closer around her neck. She was seated in the nook by the fireside, Sally asleep in the cradle in front of her.
“She said she was tired, and she’s gone up to bed.” Her disapproval was obvious.
Lacey took off his hat and coat and hung them on the hook behind the door. Mrs. McIsaac was mending a shirt, and she put it aside. “You look perishing. I suppose you’ll be wanting some tea?”
He blew on his cold fingers. “That would be appreciated, ma’am.” He came closer to the fire and crouched down to look at his daughter. She insisted on sleeping in this crib even though she was too big for it and had to curl up to fit. He’d made the crib himself, an apple box, sanded down and painted bright yellow. Jess hadn’t wanted him to. “It’s unlucky to prepare too soon,” she’d said, but swayed by his enthusiasm, she had finished the box, lining the sides with flannel and goose down and a cover of blue-striped cotton.
“How’s my Sally been today?”
“Mardy. Nothing contents that bairn. She greets from dawn to dusk. Thank the Lord, she’s gone asleep now, give me a bit of peace.”
Lacey wanted to snap at the woman, but he didn’t dare antagonize her. She was a dour and sour-faced Scotswoman, but she was the only person he could find at such short notice who was willing to come up to their cottage in the afternoons to “help out,” as he had euphemistically called it. What this meant, in fact, was to make sure the child was looked after. Twice in the past week, he’d come home to find Jessica gone, God knows where, and Sally alone. Once she was asleep, but the other time she wasn’t, just sitting in her crib bawling her eyes out. When he’d confronted Jess, she’d been remorseful but said she’d just gone out for a walk while Sally was asleep and hadn’t noticed the time.
He bent down and kissed his daughter lightly on her forehead. Asleep she looked angelic, but since the incident she had become fretful, prone to night terrors, wetting her bed every night. She screamed when he had to leave her and clung to him with the tenacity of a savage animal when he returned.
Mrs. McIsaac hadn’t yet made a move to make the tea, so Walter stood up and went to fetch the teapot from the cupboard. She watched him.
“Tea for you, ma’am?”
“No, I’ve got to get goin’. I have things to tend to.”
Her tone was aggrieved, as if he was imposing on her, even though he paid her as much as he could afford. “Mr. Lacey, I dinna think I can come much longer. I am a charitable person and will do an honest
day’s work for an honest day’s pay, but I see no real need to be here. Your wife is quite capable of looking after her own bairn and her own husband.”
Walter busied himself with making the tea. “She caught a chill, and it makes her tired a lot. I’d prefer to take some responsibility off her shoulders until she’s quite better. She’s delicate, Jess is. And she’s still keening over the baby.”
The woman sucked on her lip as if she’d tasted something rather good. “That’s as may be, but there’s not a woman born who hasn’t experienced some sorrow. Most of us just carry on with our duties.”
“Jess has done that, Mrs. McIsaac. But it was a sad loss to both of us.”
“There’s no denying that and it a boy, but it’s going on four months now. She should be better than this. I myself have known sorrow, as I’ve told you.”
“Many a time,” Lacey couldn’t resist interrupting, but Mrs. McIsaac was oblivious.
“A husband struck down in the prime of his life, and me with nine children to raise. I buried five, Mr. Lacey, five little ones. So I know what it is to keen. But your wife is a young lass. She’ll have lots more bairns, I’m sure.”
She glanced over at him rather lasciviously, and he thought for a moment she was going to ask him if he was fulfilling his manly duty.
He went over to the table and sat down. Mrs. McIsaac pursed her lips. “What I don’t understand is why she’s had such a setback. I thought she was getting over things. She must have had some kind of shock. Did a gypsy come by? Or a beggar?”
Lacey gulped down some of the tea. “Not that I know of.” He ran his fingers through his hair, making tufts stand up about his ears. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McIsaac. I know it’s hard on you, too. Sally can be difficult. I’ll try to give you a bit extra at the end of the week.”
“Where are you going to get extra? I know what wages you’re making. You havna got no extra.”
“Then I’ll make it up other ways. I’ll bring you over some more firewood. I’ll chop some first thing tomorrow.”
“That’ll be a help, no denying, but I’m no telling you these things so you’ll do more for me. I’m telling you because you should know. She looks like she could go into a decline, and then there’s no saying what would happen.”
“It’s on account of this weather. Jess never did like days like this. She used to say the grey got right under her skin and made her mind the same colour.”
“Mebbe. You must be firm with her. If you’re too soft, she’ll just stay like this.”
Lacey shook his head. “She’ll come around, I tell you. She was smiling like her old self just a couple of days ago.”
Mrs. McIsaac stood up. “Have it your way, but dinna say I didna warn you.” She went over to the door. “I’ve got to be off fore it gets dark. I’ve put on some potatoes ready to boil, and there’s the pork you can fry up when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, ma’am. And Mrs. McIsaac, I do truly appreciate how much you’re helping me out, but if you can be back by six I’d be much obliged. I’ve been late getting to work. Newcombe is being kind seeing the circumstances, but I can’t afford to lose my job.”
Mrs. McIsaac shrugged. “I’ll do my best, but I have my own family to take care of.”
She pulled her shawl tight around her head and stepped out into the chill air. Lacey watched as she trudged down the path and disappeared among the trees. Then he went back to the table and sat down, his head in his hands.
Sour old tart she is, making him sweat for every inch she gives.
Sally whimpered and he held his breath, listening. But she didn’t wake up, and he relaxed again. Jess had been glad when she found there was a second child on the way. She was softer, allowing him closer than before. He had even painted the name SYLVANUS on the side of the cradle. Jess had laughed. “It’s too old-fashioned a name, and besides, how do you know it’s going to be a boy?”
“I was told it means ‘dweller in the woods,’ which is where we live now. And besides, I know I’ve given you a son.”
She’d waved her hand at him dismissively, but he could see that secretly she was pleased. The infant was, in fact, a boy, but he was born three months too soon and he had died moments after he had entered the world.
Walter stood up, took another mug from the cupboard, and poured some hot tea. There was a bottle of brandy on the shelf, and he added a splash.
“Try to get her to take a tot as often as you can,” Mrs. McIsaac had said, “do her good.” But for the past few days, Jess had had no appetite.
He put the mug on a tray and added a dish of arrowroot pudding that Maria Newcombe had sent down. He was always trying to tempt Jess with dainties.
Nothing had been right since the miscarriage. Jessica took it as a punishment from God. She would not allow herself to weep or show her sorrow. The hurt was pushed deep inside where it festered, the way a sliver of wood that is buried in the skin is no longer visible but infects the entire body. On the surface their life proceeded more or less as it ever had. She tended to the cottage, prepared his meals, even allowed him connection with her, but he knew she had gone away from him. It was only with Sally that she showed any true emotion, grasping the child tightly to her breast several times a day until the poor mite would beg for release.
There were times when the unfairness of her behaviour filled him with rage. He shouted at her over trivialities; then overwhelmed by shame, he would leave the cottage and walk for hours down through the ravines as far as the harbour itself, until he could bear to face her again. But he thought he preferred even that half-life to the one they had been living recently. Jess had stopped even the most rudimentary care of the cottage; and even with her daughter, she was negligent.
He climbed the flight of stairs to the tiny loft where he’d made them a bedroom. The air in the room was stale. Jess hadn’t been taking care of her own person either. At the moment she seemed to be sleeping.
He placed the tray on the dresser beside the bed.
“Jess? Jess, I’ve brought you some tea. Just the way you like it.”
He turned up the wick on the lamp. She was lying on her side facing the wall. “Are you awake, my chuck?”
She murmured something but didn’t greet him or open her eyes. He touched his finger gently to her cheek. She had lost weight and the bones seemed sharp, and the lines from nose to mouth were those of an old woman.
“I’ve brought you some of Maria’s best pudding, the kind you like.”
She opened her eyes and gazed at him. “Please, Walter, I’m tired. I’ll come down shortly.”
He knelt down, took her inert hand in his, and held it to his lips. “Jess, you are my love, Jess. You must not leave me; I will not be able to bear it.”
She didn’t answer but shut her eyes again, pulled her hand away, and rolled over to face the wall.
Walter rocked back on his heels wondering whether or not he should rouse her out of her lethargy even if it meant a quarrel. Not that a barney would deter him if it brought her to life. Anger was preferable to this deadly indifference.
He stood up. Better leave it for now.
Lacey had lied to Mrs. McIsaac. He did, in fact, know all too well what had caused this relapse.
Chapter Eight
THE SERVICE OF THE MASS was so familiar that Murdoch had stopped listening. The Latin words slipped through his mind in a meaningless flow. He had been directed to the small chapel, where there were three other communicants, all women, all with black shawls covering their heads, almost indistinguishable from the nuns themselves. On the other side of the altar, out of sight, were the sisters. Susanna’s coffin was on that side. He had not been allowed to see her body, and he’d had to say his final good-bye through the grille.
HOC EST ENIM CORPUS MEUM.
The priest genuflected then stood and elevated the host. At this point in the Mass, the faithful were expected to say, “My Lord and my God,” but Murdoch was silent. He was close enough to the altar that the pries
t probably noticed, but Murdoch didn’t care. The priest, Fr. Proulx, had spoken to him directly after Susanna died, but he didn’t have much English and they were awkward with each other.
It was left to Sister Agnes to instruct Murdoch on the procedure of the funeral. A High Mass was to be held at seven o’clock. Susanna’s body would be buried in the little cemetery behind the convent, but this, too, was enclosed, and he would not be allowed to visit the grave. “Monsieur Lavalle will take you to the station. Our Reverend Mother wishes me to extend to you her sincerest condolences. She also would like to inform you that Sister Philomena died shriven.”
Murdoch bit back a retort. He wouldn’t have expected anything else given she was a professed nun. God had called her and now had claimed her. He felt a momentary pinch of fear at his own thoughts, which were approaching the blasphemous.
Sometime in the early hours of the morning, the extern had ushered him into a tiny room adjoining the parlour where there was a couch. He hadn’t expected to sleep, but fatigue won out and he had actually fallen into a restless sleep, disturbed by dreams of pursuit and a monster that changed its shape every time he thought he had escaped. At six-thirty the convent bells began to peal. Sister Agnes returned, bringing him a slice of bread and a cup of strong, bitter coffee. She made no attempt at conversation, but her expression was kind. Shyly she indicated that there was a commode behind a screen in the corner of the room. On the washstand was a jug of tepid water and a razor and soap. When she left him alone, he felt an intense and childish pang of loneliness.
The priest had uncovered the chalice and was consecrating the wine now.
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