Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
When at last the carriage turned off the main road, the landscape changed. The fields gave way to a low stone wall, with ivy creeping thickly over it, and beyond that rose the pale silhouette of St. Brigid’s Abbey.
It was not large, nor imposing. The stone was weathered but clean, softened by time and moss and morning light. A small chapel stood at its heart, its bell tower slender against the sky, and a neat garden spread beyond the cloisters, already bright with early autumn roses.
Matilda’s chest tightened at the sight. It was utterly, blessedly quiet.
When the carriage drew to a stop, a woman in a grey habit came to meet her. She was of middle years, and her face was plain but kind. What struck Matilda the most were her bright eyes beneath the linen coif.
“Lady Matilda Sterlington?” she asked in a gentle Irish lilt.
“Yes,” Matilda replied, stepping down carefully from the carriage.
“I am Sister Agnes,” the woman said with a small smile. “Mother Beatrice asked me to welcome you. We’ve been expecting you since dawn.”
Matilda inclined her head. “I hope my arrival has not been too much of an inconvenience.”
“Not in the least, my dear. It brings a little excitement to our morning.”
The warmth in her tone drew a faint, genuine smile from Matilda. “I am afraid I will bring very little excitement once I’m settled. I mean to cause no disturbance.”
“Disturbance?” Sister Agnes laughed softly as if she had no idea what the word meant. “You’ll find peace here soon enough. Come, let me show you the grounds.”
Matilda followed her through the arched gate in slow, measured steps.
The courtyard was simple but lovely. It was a square of pale stone paths surrounding a small fountain, and the sound of water was gentle and rhythmic.
Beyond it, the chapel doors stood open, and she could hear faint singing from within, clear voices rising in prayer.
Sister Agnes led her first to the refectory, where a handful of sisters sat in quiet companionship over their morning meal. They looked up, curious but kind, and a few offered shy smiles. Matilda inclined her head politely.
“Meals are taken together,” Sister Agnes explained. “Silence, except on Sundays. You’ll grow accustomed to it. We find comfort in quiet.”
Matilda nodded. “I think I shall too.”
They continued through the long cloisters and through the archways.
Matilda saw the gardens with their rows of herbs and flowers, a small orchard, and beyond that, fields dotted with sheep.
The air smelled of rosemary and earth, clean and honest. Sister Agnes pointed out the small library, the sewing room, and the guest chambers as they walked through the sunlit cloister.
“If you choose to stay longer than a season,” she said kindly, “we can prepare a proper cell for you. Many women come to us for a time, seeking reflection. Some stay forever.”
Matilda’s steps slowed. “Then I shall stay forever.”
Sister Agnes glanced at her, faintly surprised. “Forever is a long word, my dear.”
“I have spent too many years in the wrong places,” Matilda said quietly. “If peace can be found here, I should like to spend what remains of my life keeping it.”
The nun’s expression softened, touched with both pity and respect. “Then we will do our best to make you at home.”
They continued on in silence until they reached a modest chamber off the main hall. It consisted of whitewashed walls, a narrow bed, a wooden desk, and a single window overlooking the garden.
“This will be yours for now,” Sister Agnes said. “It isn’t grand, but I daresay it’s peaceful.”
“It’s perfect,” Matilda murmured, stepping inside. She brushed her fingertips along the windowsill, relishing the stone cool beneath her touch. “Truly perfect.”
“Mother Beatrice will meet with you after noon prayers,” Sister Agnes added. “Until then, rest if you wish or walk the gardens. We rise with the dawn and sleep when the candles burn low, no one will expect anything of you yet.”
Matilda inclined her head. “You have all been most kind. Thank you.”
Sister Agnes smiled. “Kindness is easy, my dear. It is peace that takes work.” She bowed her head and withdrew, leaving the door slightly ajar.
When she was gone, Matilda crossed to the window. The morning mist was lifting, unveiling the quiet beauty of the garden below with its soft gleam of dew on the herbs and the pale roses nodding in the breeze. It was serene, ordered, and untouched by the noise of the world.
“This is how I shall live,” she whispered to herself. “Quietly, simply… forever.”
Her voice did not tremble, though her heart did. She told herself this was what she wanted, that here, among women who asked nothing of her, she would be safe. Hopefully, she would learn to stop remembering.
But when she closed her eyes, memory betrayed her. The warmth of his hand, the depth of his gaze, the sound of her name when he said it… all returned, unbidden and unrelenting.
Her throat tightened. She clasped her hands together, as if in prayer, though no words rose to her lips.
“Peace,” she murmured to herself. “You came here for peace.”
Outside, the abbey bell began to toll for prayer, its slow rhythm echoing across the fields. Matilda turned toward it, straightened her shoulders, and breathed in the stillness.
If peace was a thing to be earned, she would earn it, even if it meant burying the part of her heart that still whispered his name.
Jasper’s subsequent journey to London was a blur of restless hours and sleepless thoughts.
Jasper barely remembered the changing countryside, the endless rhythm of the wheels, or the cold bite of the morning air each time the carriage stopped to change horses.
He had driven himself to exhaustion, as if speed alone might undo what pride and silence had cost him.
By the time he reached Mayfair, the sky was low and grey and the streets wet from a recent rain.
His horse was spent, his coat creased, but he scarcely noticed.
He went straight to the townhouse that bore the crest of the late Viscount Forth, dismounted before the footman had even reached the steps, and strode up to the door.
The butler, who was startled at the sight of a duke in such disheveled haste, ushered him quickly into the drawing room.
Moments later, the new Viscount of Forth appeared. He was a pleasant, soft-spoken gentleman of perhaps five and thirty, whose good nature was apparent even in his solemn expression.
“Your Grace,” he greeted, bowing slightly. “This is an unexpected honor. I hope all is well?”
“Do forgive the intrusion, my lord,” Jasper said tightly. “I am here to see Lady Matilda Sterlington. Is she at home?”
The viscount’s expression changed, and faint surprise now gave way to something like regret. “I fear you’ve only just missed her, Your Grace. She left the city several days ago.”
Jasper stilled. “Left? For where?”
He knew the answer, but he needed something more precise.
“That I cannot say.” The viscount spread his hands helplessly. “She told my wife only that she was going away for an indefinite stay, to seek quiet and reflection. We received a note afterward, thanking us for our hospitality. She did not mention a destination.”
“Not at all?” Jasper pressed desperately. “No mention of a town, a direction, a name?”
The viscount shook his head. “None. Her maid said she was traveling south, though where exactly, I cannot say. Some ugh… religious place, I believe. A convent, perhaps.”
Jasper’s heart gave a sharp, painful twist. “A convent,” he repeated slowly.
“Yes. My wife was quite distressed to hear it,” the viscount said kindly. “She spoke of Lady Matilda with great affection. Such a gentle spirit, so dignified. It seemed a cruel fate for one still so young to bury herself away from the world.”
Jasper turned toward the window. The rain traced pale lines down the glass, blurring the street beyond. “Did she say why?” he asked quietly.
The viscount hesitated. “Only that she wished for peace. That she had been hurt, I think. And that she meant to live without disappointment.”
Jasper’s hand curled at his side. “Peace,” he muttered. “She deserves far more than that.”
“Indeed,” the viscount agreed softly. “But some find peace safer than hope.”
The words struck deep. Jasper looked at him then, with the weight of guilt heavy behind his eyes. “If she writes,” he said, “if you hear from her, anything at all, please send word to Harrow House.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Jasper inclined his head stiffly and turned toward the door. But the viscount’s voice followed him.
“My wife said something else,” he added. “She thought Lady Matilda looked relieved, as though she had finally decided on a course long feared but inevitable.”
Jasper paused, his back to him. “And you?” he asked quietly. “What do you think?”
The viscount hesitated. “I think a woman does not flee from comfort unless she has been made to feel unsafe within it.”
The words landed like a blow. Jasper closed his eyes briefly, then nodded once in grim acknowledgment.
When he stepped back out into the grey street, the rain had begun again. It was fine and cold, misting against his face. He stood for a moment on the steps, his gloved hand tightening around the railing.
She was gone. She had vanished into silence, somewhere in the south. He didn’t even know where to begin.
But he would not give up. He could not.
Jasper drew a slow breath, lifting his gaze toward the washed-out sky. He had spent a lifetime running from ghosts. First, he was running from his father’s shadow, ad then, from his own unworthiness.
But Matilda was not a ghost. She was alive. And she had fled because of him. He could not allow her to believe she was unworthy of love.
“Peace,” he said bitterly under his breath. “If she thinks peace is found by forgetting, then I’ll have to prove her wrong.”
He descended the steps and strode toward his waiting horse. He had no direction, no map, only her name and his resolve. But he would find her.
He would not let her disappear into silence while he still had breath to call her back.