Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
The first bell of St. Brigid’s Abbey rang before sunrise. Its deep, measured tone rolled through the stone halls and out across the quiet fields. It was solemn sound, but not mournful; more like a heartbeat, steady and certain.
Matilda opened her eyes to the faint silver of dawn spilling across the narrow chamber. The air was cool and smelled faintly of beeswax and lavender. For a moment, she lay still, listening to the sound of silence. It was her first morning in the abbey.
She rose, washed in the small basin by the wall, and dressed in the simple grey gown she had been given upon her arrival.
The fabric was plain and coarse, but clean and soft with wear.
It felt strange against her skin, for it was so different from the silks and satins she had worn all her life.
Yet as she tied the cord at her waist, she thought that perhaps it suited her.
No one would look at her here. No one would expect beauty, or charm, or grace.
When she stepped out into the corridor, Sister Agnes was waiting for her, her kind eyes bright even in the dim light.
“Good morning, Matilda,” she said with a smile. “Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough,” Matilda replied softly. It was not entirely true, though. Her sleep had been light and restless, filled with dreams she could not quite remember, but she would not trouble the woman with that.
“Come,” Sister Agnes said, turning down the passageway. “Morning prayers begin soon, and afterward we’ll break our fast. Then I’ll show you more of our routine. There’s much to learn, though it all becomes second nature soon enough.”
They moved through the quiet cloisters, where the air was crisp and smelled faintly of damp stone and rosemary.
A few of the sisters were already in the chapel, kneeling in silence before the altar.
The flicker of candlelight touched their bowed heads, and for a moment, Matilda felt something stir, something akin to a fragile reverence.
Sister Agnes leaned close and whispered. “We begin the day in silence. The sisters believe that in the stillness of morning, one may hear the voice of peace.”
Matilda nodded and bowed her head, though she heard nothing but the echo of her own heartbeat.
After prayers came breakfast in the refectory, which was a simple meal of bread, fruit, and warm milk.
The sisters ate in silence while one of them, seated apart, read softly from Scripture.
Matilda found herself watching their faces, so serene and content.
None of them looked weary and none of them looked haunted.
That gave her hopes for her own mind and soul.
Afterward, Sister Agnes led her through the abbey’s small library and into the garden, where several women were tending to the herbs.
“We each have our tasks,” the sister explained as they walked. “Some sew, some keep the books, some care for the sick in the nearby villages. We live by the rhythm of prayer and work: ora et labora. It is the way of peace.”
Matilda listened quietly. The words were gentle, the order simple, and yet her heart resisted. Peace. The word had become a refrain these past days, a promise and a plea, but inside her, there was no such thing. There was only him.
They passed a group of novices hanging laundry to dry. The wind caught the linen and made it billow like pale sails. The sight was oddly beautiful.
Sister Agnes glanced at her. “Would you like to help in the garden this morning? Or perhaps with the mending?”
“Whichever you think best,” Matilda said.
The nun smiled. “The garden, then. The roses are stubborn this year. They might respond to a new hand.”
About half an hour later, Matilda found herself kneeling by the rosebushes, her fingers brushing over the damp leaves. The scent was faint but familiar, and for an instant it carried her back to the garden at Aberon House, to the rain, to the moment she had kissed him.
She drew in a sharp breath and turned her face away, ashamed of how easily memory could undo her.
You came here to forget, she told herself. You came here for peace.
But every time she closed her eyes, she saw him, the look in his eyes before she’d walked away and the sound of his voice when he’d said her name.
Sister Agnes approached with a small basket of tools and knelt beside her. “You handle the thorns carefully,” she said approvingly. “You’ve done this before?”
“My mother kept a rose garden,” Matilda said absently. “She said one must expect to bleed a little, if one wanted beauty.”
Sister Agnes smiled softly. “A wise woman.”
Matilda managed a small smile in return, though her throat felt tight.
They worked in silence after that, trimming, gathering, breathing in the scent of earth and roses. The peace of the abbey surrounded her in the form of gentle voices, soft wind and distant bells, but none of it reached the turmoil within.
When the noon bell rang, calling the sisters back to prayer, Matilda rose and brushed the soil from her hands.
Sister Agnes looked at her kindly. “You’re more quiet today.”
“I have much to quiet,” Matilda replied softly.
The nun’s expression softened further. “Give it time, my dear. Even the noisiest heart grows still, if you let it.”
Matilda bowed her head. “Then I shall pray for silence.”
But as she walked back through the cloister, she knew silence was not what she truly wanted.
What she wanted was to stop remembering his touch, his voice, his eyes.
What she wanted was to forget Jasper Everleigh.
And what frightened her most was the certainty that she never would.
Jasper arrived at Hazel Thorne’s townhouse late in the afternoon, when the London fog had begun to settle thickly over the streets and the last of the daylight glimmered weakly through it.
He had not slept. He had not truly eaten. His clothes still bore the creases of travel, his hair was untidy, and there was a sharpness in his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and the slow, gnawing weight of regret.
When the butler announced him, Hazel rose from her writing table with evident surprise. She had not expected him, and certainly not in this condition. Her composure, however, remained perfectly intact. It was one of her many admirable, if somewhat intimidating, qualities.
“Your Grace,” she greeted him coolly, folding her hands, which was a clear signal that she was not particularly inclined to speak with him. “This is an unexpected call.”
He bowed slightly. “My lady, forgive the intrusion.”
“Forgiveness, I think, depends upon the reason.”
He hesitated only briefly before speaking. “I need to know where she is.”
Hazel’s expression did not change, but a faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her. “So, that is why you have come.”
“Yes,” Jasper said. “I went to her home. The new Viscount could tell me nothing. Only that she left for a convent, somewhere in the south. I have searched for every abbey in Surrey and Sussex, and still I cannot find her. If anyone knows where she’s gone, it is you.”
Hazel studied him in silence. Her gaze was calm. It was the look of a woman who had seen more pain in others than she wished to, and refused to be easily swayed by charm or title.
“And what, may I ask, do you mean to do if you find her?” she said at last.
Jasper exhaled slowly. “Speak to her. Tell her the truth.”
“The truth?” Hazel repeated, arching one brow. “And what truth would that be, Your Grace? That you have decided she is worth your notice after all? That you intend to do the honorable thing she begged you not to?”
Her words struck sharper than he’d anticipated. He swallowed. “No. That I was wrong.”
Hazel gave a short, quiet laugh, but it was without humor. “Indeed. I believe Matilda might have reached that conclusion herself.”
He took a step forward, feeling as if he might come undone before this woman. “Please, you must understand, I never meant to hurt her.”
Hazel’s eyes flashed, though her tone remained even. “And yet you did. Quite thoroughly.”
He looked away for a moment. “I know.”
“Then why not leave her in peace? She sought refuge for a reason. Have you not done enough?”
Her voice was not cruel, only weary. It was the weariness of someone who had watched too many hearts broken by men who had not understood their own power to wound.
Jasper met her gaze again, and for once there was no pretense of the rakish ease he so often wore. His expression was raw and unguarded.
“I do not want peace,” he said quietly. “Not if it comes at the cost of losing her.”
Hazel’s brow furrowed, and a flicker of surprise passed across her features.
“She thinks I cannot love,” he continued, not thinking about the words he was saying.
“And perhaps she is right. Perhaps I do not know how. But she has already changed what I am. I cannot—” His breath caught, and the next words flowed more quietly, yet at the same time, more certainly.
“I cannot let her believe she was a mistake.”
Hazel regarded him for a moment that felt like an entire eternity. Then, slowly, she spoke. “If I tell you where she is, and you go to her, and she refuses to see you… will you leave her be?”
He nodded once. “If she tells me to.”
Hazel’s gaze softened. For a moment, he felt that he had touched her with his plea. “And if she does not forgive you?”
“Then I shall deserve it,” he said simply.
Silence lingered. The faint ticking of the clock filled the room.
At last, Hazel sighed. “You are a very difficult man to dislike, Your Grace. It is most inconvenient.”
“I assure you, many have managed it admirably,” he said dryly.
That earned the faintest glimmer of a smile from her, though it faded quickly. “You are stubborn,” she pointed out, “and reckless. But I believe, perhaps, not entirely hopeless.”
Jasper straightened. “Then you’ll tell me?”
Hazel hesitated one last time, then turned to the small escritoire beside her. She opened a drawer, took out a folded piece of paper, and held it toward him.
“I swore I would not interfere again,” she revealed. “But if you truly mean what you say, if your purpose is to mend and not to claim, then this is the place.”
He took it carefully, his fingers brushing hers. “Thank you.”
Hazel’s voice softened. “Do not thank me. Thank her… if she lets you.”
He inclined his head, then turned toward the door. But before he reached it, Hazel spoke again.
“Your Grace.”
He looked back.
“When you see her,” she said quietly, “do not speak to her of honor or duty. Speak to her as a man, not a duke. That is all she ever wanted.”
Jasper bowed once, and now, there was the faintest shadow of a smile at his lips. “Then I will do my best to be only that.”
And with that, he left, stepping out into the grey London dusk, with the paper warm in his palm, not with hope, but with resolve.
He would find her. Whatever it cost, he would find her.