“’Tis as good as done. And the bishop is a compassionate man. I have high hopes of convincing him to take our side in this.”
She looked at the priest, not daring to hope. “Do you believe me?” Suddenly it seemed very important to know. “Do you do this only to placate me, or because you believe my husband was wronged?”
“I believe you. Not only because the record shows Fergus’s deeds, but because a good Christian woman such as yourself has no capacity to lie with such conviction.”
“I am no longer Christian,” Annelise said, her protest sounding as tired as she felt.
“Are you not?” He tilted his head to watch her, though she pretended not to notice. “I cannot imagine why anyone else would be concerned with all eternity, much less the rapture.”
She scowled at him, disliking that he was so perceptive. “You are cursedly clever.”
He chuckled then. “’Twas why they sent me to the church. My mother used to say that I would drive them mad with all my questions, my father used to say that I would never finish a decent day’s labor by the time I pondered every possibility.”
His grin flashed, making him look younger and very engaging. He was indeed a most uncommon priest. She watched him, curious to hear of his life before he took his vows.
“There was naught for me but the priesthood, so I resolved to be as good a priest as I might be.”
He seemed so honest, this priest, so straightforward in his speech. He certainly drew her secrets forth with ease. Annelise imagined that she might be able to trust such a man, despite what she had witnessed in his predecessor.
And she liked this one’s explanation—that the weakness of God lay in the mortal men charged with his work. It made tremendous sense to her, for men, as she had seen, were both weak and fallible. She no longer believed that the church had all the answers, but she was somewhat startled to discover that she still believed that God did. ’Twas reassuring to open her heart to that conviction again.
“If I may be so bold, my lady, the feast day of Queen Margaret of Scotland is nigh upon us. I thought we might have a special Mass in her honor. I should be delighted if you were to attend.”
“I cannot take communion,” Annelise snapped. “I have not had confession in some years.” Even as she spoke, a yearning awakened in her, for she remembered distantly the awe she had felt in the Mass and its miracle.
He folded his hands behind his back, not so readily dissuaded as that. “There is usually a priest in the chapel at vespers, if you had need of his services on any day.”
She straightened and granted him her most quelling look. “The promise of a letter does not erase years of sorrowing.”
“But one must clean a wound so that it heals.”
She regarded him imperiously and he looked steadily back. “You are impertinent.”
He smiled. “Perhaps. Will you not come?”
“I can well imagine that your family desired to be rid of you and your questions. Fergus would have called you a sophist.”
“I should hope you would not agree,” Father Michael said mildly. “For the charge of sophistry implies that the reasoning is misguided. I do not believe that you find my argument so flawed.”
The man saw too much indeed. Annelise dropped her gaze.
The priest took no offense that she did not reply. Perhaps he was content with incremental progress. “May I escort you to the hall, my lady? ’Tis nigh time for the meal.”
“Nay.” Her gaze was drawn again to the daisies. “I came here to speak to another and would do so now.”
“Of course. I apologize for my interruption.” He inclined his head and strode toward the gate.
“I thank you, Father Michael,” she called just before he stepped out of sight. He paused and glanced back. “For tending the garden in my absence, and in advance, for your letter.”
“’Tis an honor to help another soul return to the faith.”
Annelise frowned at the crushed bud in her hand. Truth be told, the ache in her heart was lighter than it had been in some years. The priest spoke aright—she was too relieved by his intervention on behalf of Fergus to not be Christian in her heart still.
She shook her head, feeling the grief well up within her, knowing that she had felt abandoned by more than her spouse these past years. Aye, she had lost her faith and those two losses together had made the world a cold and lonely place.
She looked up but the priest was gone. She hastened to the gate, spied his retreating figure, and called after him. “If I were to come to the chapel at vespers on the morrow, would a priest be there?”
He halted as if he did not believe his ears, then turned back. “I shall ensure it, my lady,” he said firmly, his approval of that more than clear.
She smiled at him. He looked so boyish and optimistic that she was reminded of what ’twas to be young. “And would that priest be both well rested and well fed? It has been long since my last confession indeed, and I would not have him faint or fall asleep.”
He grinned. “I shall ensure that I am both rested and fed, my lady.”
So, he would hear her confession. Annelise thought that he might make a good father confessor, this young man with his wise words. “On the morrow, then, Father Michael.”
“On the morrow, my lady. I shall look forward to it.”
Again he was gone. She turned once again and walked slowly back to that daisy. She had not wept all those years ago; she had not dared to show any weakness before the man so determined to destroy them all.
Aye, he would have twisted it to his purposes and declared that she wept for Fergus’s immortal soul. He would have tried to even further diminish the respect that people had for her spouse. She had seen Fergus laid to rest in the middle of the night, left his grave unmarked but for a daisy, so fearful had she been that his rest would be disturbed and his body violated.
And all those years alone in the glade, she had been too angry to cry. Too bitter to concede any weakness. Perhaps she had feared that once she began to weep, she would not have been able to cease.
But now Annelise stood where she and Fergus had laughed together so many times, the sun warming her back, the flowers unfurling beneath its touch. And all was finally setting to rights. Angus was back. She had not lost him. She was certain that Airdfinnan would soon be his, as it should have been all along.
She was reunited with Fergus not only for now but for all time. The priest would see matters resolved, even if she died this very day.
And that stole the heat of anger out of her heart. Annelise dropped to her knees before her husband’s grave and laid her hands upon the sun-warmed soil, feeling his presence.
’Twas almost as if the heat of him rose to her touch. At that thought, the floodgates of memory opened wide, deluging her in the sight and sound and smell of him. Annelise wept, as she had not yet wept for the loss of her husband, lover, and partner.
She did not know how much time passed before the bells of the chapel made her raise her head. The sun had begun to sink behind Airdfinnan’s walls, the shadows were drawing long in the garden.
And one of those fat buds had unfurled itself while she sobbed, a single white daisy catching the last ray of sunlight. As she stared, marveling at its beauty, a bee landed upon it, crawled across the golden center, and took flight again, its legs encrusted with pollen.
’Twas a sign. Fergus had always believed in signs and portents, and though Annelise had scoffed in those days, now she could take it as naught else. She had learned much in Edana’s skin, though she had not expected to do so. She plucked the daisy and wove it into her braid as she rose to join the household at the evening meal.
She entered the hall with her chin held high and a new vigor in her step, for she knew that Fergus was well pleased with what she had wrought. ’Twas the closest she had felt to him in fifteen years, and she intended never to let him slip away again.
Aye, ’twould not be long before they two were together once more.
Chapter 21
By the time she reached Inveresbeinn, Jacqueline was certain that Angus would come for her. She secreted the tuft of heather in her barren chamber and knew she had but to wait.
She did not doubt that Angus was overwhelmed by the change in his fortunes, and she was not so innocent of the world that she imagined everything would be set to rights so readily as that. He needed time to see to the details.
And perhaps he needed time to miss her.
But the days passed and the nights passed and no knight arrived at the convent gates.
Jacqueline decided that if she had conceived his child, she would seek permission to depart, and if ’twas not granted, she would steal away. She would somehow contrive to reach Airdfinnan and tell Angus that he was to be a father. She was certain he would wed her then, for he was much concerned with honor.
But her courses came with perfect regularity, as if even her own body would defy her desire to have Angus by her side. Perhaps ’twas better, she reassured herself, for a match would be happier if she were certain that Angus wed her for herself than out of a sense of duty.
A month came and went, and then another, and Jacqueline had to admit that ’twas possible the man did not miss her. It might well be that he did not love her—indeed, he had never pledged as much. She had thought he might, but then, how much did she know of men?
Precious little, it would seem.
Still, she could not bring herself to surrender that dried cluster of white-blossomed heather.
Contrary to her own expectation, Jacqueline found no solace in the tranquility of the convent. ’Twas more than clear that she had no calling. She was restless within its walls, always pacing, always fidgeting, always glancing toward the gates.
And she could not explain it. There were no loose ends to the tale she had witnessed, so ’twas not curiosity clamoring for more news. The words in the Bible were as they had always been, and though they still held an allure, her thoughts oft drifted away from her studies.
Jacqueline found the days astoundingly long, the lessons overly tedious, and the opus dei hopelessly dull.
Angus clearly did not come. And if he had not come by now, he would not come at all. Perhaps he had granted her the heather not because he had to overcome adversity to ask for her but because he believed she had to overcome the adversity of her own character to be happy within these walls.
There was a sobering prospect.
Though ’twas disappointing beyond all, Jacqueline knew she had chosen her own fate. She resolved to make the best of it—for truly, if she could not have Angus MacGillivray, then she wanted no other man. The sole appeal of the secular world was that one knight; without him, she would be just as happy here.
Perhaps happier, for here her bridegroom was not physically demanding. Jacqueline studied with renewed diligence and labored with renewed vigor. She volunteered for every possible task, she gave her all to Inveresbeinn. She was exhausted when she fell into bed each night, though not tired enough that she was spared of dreams.
When she managed to sleep. Oftentimes Jacqueline lay awake long into the night and indulged her weakness for Angus. She recalled his caress—a deed best done while the keen eye of the abbess was occupied in sleep—his crooked smile, his wry retorts. She remembered all too well the warmth of him curled around her, the heat of him within her, and the security she had known in his presence. She thought of how his hard-won confessions delighted her, how his strength of character thrilled her, how his honorable intent made her heart swell fit to burst.
Aye, she loved him, with all there was within her.
And there was naught that could be done about the matter. Angus did not desire her, and she desired none but him. So, she would have none, though ’twas a poor exchange.
Six long months after her arrival, when the bite of winter first tinged the air, Jacqueline was summoned to the abbess. ’Twas the eve of her first vows as a novitiate, beyond her initial pledge to obey the abbess and pursue her studies with diligence.
Had word come from Angus in this moment of moments? Jacqueline fled down the corridor, without regard for proper decorum, and told herself she would surrender hope fully on the morrow.
Perhaps the white heather as well. ’Twas forbidden to have personal tokens, after all.
The abbess greeted her with eyes narrowed in disapproval. “You have much to learn before you take your vows on the morrow.”
“Aye, Mother.” Jacqueline bobbed her head, doubting that her impatience was hidden. If Angus came for her, she would be gone in a heartbeat. She hoped and hoped and fairly tapped her toes in her impatience to know the truth.
“Praise God that I forget what ’tis to be young.” The abbess shook her head wearily, then continued sternly. “Your guests await you in the chapel. I do not approve of visitors, Jacqueline, and you had best impress that fact upon them. I make one exception for each novitiate, for the change to the cloistered life is not always readily made. This would be your sole exception and I bid you recall it well.”
“Aye, Mother.”
“You will return here and report fully to me what has transpired when your interview is done. As you know, we have no secrets at Inveresbeinn.” The abbess eyed her sternly, and Jacqueline imagined that she knew full well about the heather and every other secret any novitiate might have.
“Aye, Mother.” Jacqueline turned to race toward the chapel, wanting naught but to see Angus again.
“Comportment!” the abbess roared in a voice that nigh shook the walls.
Jacqueline obeyed with only the greatest of difficulty.
That made her smile in memory of Angus’s conviction that she had not the mettle to pledge poverty, chastity, and obedience. Indeed, she would rather pledge her heart to him.
If only she had the chance.
She pulled open the heavy wooden door of the chapel, summoned a smile, and stepped into the interior. Her smile faded as her mother and Duncan turned to greet her.
She had thought that “visitors” meant Angus and whoever rode with him, perhaps Rodney. ’Twas ungracious of her to be disappointed, for her parents had traveled far for a brief visit. Jacqueline smiled anew with genuine warmth, though her heart was aching.
He did not come. He would not come. This was the choice she had made, and she had best accept the truth of it.
“Welcome, Maman, Duncan. ’Twas beyond good of you to ride so far when the abbess permits such short visits.”
Her mother’s gaze saw too much as always, though that woman came forward to seize her hands with a warm smile. “You were not expecting us,” she chided, then kissed Jacqueline’s cheeks. She surveyed Jacqueline shrewdly, too close to miss any flicker of emotion. “But who else would visit you before your vows, child?”
“No one,” Jacqueline whispered, for ’twas true. She kissed Duncan in turn and squeezed both of their hands. “How is everyone at Ceinn-beithe?”
“Well enough. And you?”
“Well enough, Maman."
“You were right in this, Duncan,” Eglantine commented, giving Jacqueline’s cheek an affectionate pat. “I should never have objected to Jacqueline’s decision. Look how demure she has become—surely this life suits you well, child.”
“Well enough.”
“Truly?” Duncan asked, his gaze searching.
“Truly. The choice is made and ’twas made by me.” She spoke firmly if somewhat dutifully. “You have invested hard-won coin to see my desire fulfilled, and I shall do my best to honor your endowment.”
Her parents exchanged a glance. “But are you happy, Jacqueline?” her mother asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Of course!” Eglantine framed Jacqueline’s face in her hands. “You know I desire only to see you happy and naught else,” she whispered with conviction. “Tell me what you truly desire, child. Tell me now, afore ’tis too late.”
But ’twas not within the realm of her parents’ influence to change her fat
e. Jacqueline smiled. “I merely wonder whether I might have been as happy if I had followed your advice. That is all. I miss you all in this place.”
“Just us?”
“Aye.” Jacqueline nodded, dropping her gaze that they might not see her lie. Naught more was said, though she knew they wondered.
Her mother stepped back and dug within her purse. “’Tis true that we are not permitted to speak with you overlong,” she said crisply. “But here is a letter that you might read at your leisure in which I tell you all the news of Ceinn-beithe.”
She pressed the missive into Jacqueline’s hands. “And here is another from Esmeraude, no doubt telling you how she has no one to torment these days.” Duncan chuckled beneath his breath. “And Mhairi sends greetings as well, though even I would be hard-pressed to make sense of her scribble.”
“And even Alienor sends some word,” Eglantine continued briskly. “She wished to send you one of the brooches wrought by Iain, but I told her ’twould be taken for the greater glory of the convent. She insisted the abbess would wear no gift intended for you and had Iain draw it for you instead.”
Jacqueline could well imagine her half-sister saying as much. She opened the missive and peeked at the drawing, which was lovely enough to make her breath catch.
Jacqueline—
I am not permitting Iain to sell this until you take your final vows in case you see sense afore ’tis too late. Think of this, sister mine. Only a witless fool would live with women when she could have a man in her bed instead.
Alienor
Jacqueline choked back a laugh and looked at her mother, whose eyes sparkled. Clearly, she had read the missive or been told of its contents.
“I should wish another babe upon her,” Jacqueline jested.
“Iain has seen to that. The midwife says Alienor will deliver in midwinter.”
“She will be busy, if naught else.”
“She has yet to learn to curb her tongue, our Alienor,” Eglantine said mildly, then caught Jacqueline unawares with an incisive glance. “Do you agree with her?”
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