Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Laura stood in the doorway beside Nieve as the carriage began to roll away, its wheels crunching against the road.
The guards followed behind, their forms slowly fading into the mist until all that remained was the faint echo of hooves and the creak of the carriage wheels.
The silence that followed seemed deafening.
She pressed a hand to her lips, trying to keep herself from calling out after them. Her chest ached as though something precious were being torn from her.
Nieve placed a comforting arm around her shoulders and guided her gently inside.
“Come now, lass,” she murmured. “The cold’s nay place for a broken heart. Let’s get ye settled, aye?”
Laura nodded weakly, allowing herself to be led through the candlelit corridor. Her eyes burned from the tears, but she forced herself to stand tall. “I daenae ken what I’ll do without him,” she whispered. “Even when he hurts me, me heart still longs for him.”
Nieve gave her a sympathetic look. “That’s the curse of love, dear one,” she said softly. “It doesnae vanish just because it’s wounded. But time heals all things, and prayer mends what pride has broken.” She guided Laura to a wooden bench near the wall.
Laura sank down, her cloak pooling around her feet, and buried her face in her hands. The faint sound of bells echoed through the Abbey, calling the sisters to prayer.
She lifted her head and looked toward the light streaming through the narrow window, whispering softly, “If the Lord wills it… may He soften Bradley’s heart before mine turns to stone.”
Nieve stood beside her, watching her with quiet compassion. Outside, the mist thickened over the Highlands, cloaking the Abbey in silence and solitude. And though Laura felt more alone than she ever had in her life, somewhere deep within her heart, a small flicker of hope refused to die.
The soft creak of the Abbey floorboards announced the approach of another figure, and Laura turned to see a young woman, no older than twenty, her brown hair tied loosely and eyes bright with concern.
The novice nun, Keila, came forward quickly, her slender frame almost bouncing as she embraced both Laura and Nieve.
Laura’s lips trembled, but she found no words, for the warmth of their presence and the gentleness of their arms spoke louder than any sentence could.
She clung to them, feeling the weight of grief and exhaustion begin to lift, if only slightly.
Nieve’s voice broke the silence, gentle and steady. “There now, lass,” she said softly, brushing back a strand of Laura’s hair. “Ye’re safe with us. Daenae speak yet, let yer heart ease for a while.” She gave Laura’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, her green eyes kind and unwavering.
Keila’s voice chimed in, bright yet tender, wrapping the two of them in a comforting warmth.
“Aye, ye need nae say a word. Ye’re home now, and we’ll see ye through the night.” She smiled faintly, her words carrying a lightness that seemed to push back the shadows in Laura’s chest.
Laura finally whispered, her voice small and choked with tears, “I… thank ye both. I daenae ken what I’d have done… if ye hadnae been here.” Her voice broke, and she leaned further into their embrace, drawing courage from their closeness.
Nieve guided Laura gently, her hands firm yet comforting, as they helped her walk toward her old room.
“Ye’ll find yer bed just where ye left it,” she said, her tone soothing. “There’s a bucket in the corner,” she added, her lips twitching with faint humor. “Roof’s in need of repair, daenae have the coin for it just now, so mind the sound of the leak when ye sleep.”
Keila gave Laura a bright, encouraging smile, her hands patting her gently on the back. “Ye need rest, lass,” she said softly. “We’ll bring ye food and water. Daenae worry about anythin’ else, just lie down and let the world wait.”
Nieve’s voice softened further, almost whispering, “In time, ye can tell us what’s happened, Laura. But for now, daenae push yerself. Rest. Sleep. Let yer body catch up with yer heart.”
She squeezed Laura’s shoulder one last time before stepping back, giving her space while still keeping a watchful eye.
Laura nodded weakly, her eyes filling with tears once more, but this time the tears were gentler, mingled with a sense of peace.
“Thank ye, Nieve… Keila… truly,” she said softly. She moved toward the bed, the familiar linens and the soft warmth wrapping around her like an old, forgiving friend.
Keila reached over, adjusting a pillow behind Laura’s back. “Lie down, lass,” she said, her tone tender yet firm. “We’ll be right outside if ye need us, but for now, sleep.”
Laura sank onto the mattress, feeling the tension in her shoulders and chest slowly release as she nestled into the soft sheets.
Nieve lingered for a moment by the bedside. “Ye’ll wake stronger, and we’ll face the morrow together.” Her voice carried a quiet certainty, one that promised safety and sanctuary within the walls of the Abbey.
Laura felt the tension in her limbs dissolve, the sobs in her chest soften, and the comfort of her old room wrap around her like a protective cloak.
As the candlelight flickered across the stone walls, Laura’s eyes finally closed, and a deep, restorative slumber claimed her. The bucket in the corner, the cool draft from the high windows, and the quiet of the Abbey all became part of a cocoon that held her safe.
The next day, Laura attempted to distract herself with her old routines.
Laura sat cross-legged on the soft grass, the mute child Poppy beside her, her bright blue eyes wide with curiosity.
The girl’s small hands reached for the plants, fingers brushing against lavender and thyme as Laura named each one with care.
“Thyme, lavender. Good, Poppy. Ye have learned much since I left,” Laura said.
It was peaceful here, a gentle reprieve from the storms of the past days.
“See here, Poppy,” Laura said softly, pointing to a patch of rosemary, “this is rosemary. It smells strong, aye? And it keeps folk remembering things, or so the nuns tell me.”
Poppy tilted her head and then nodded eagerly, her dark hair falling into her face as she sniffed the herb, delight clear in her sparkling eyes.
“And here’s clover,” Laura continued, moving her hand to a low-growing green plant with tiny flowers. “We can use it for cookin’, or for tea. It’s wee but mighty, just like ye, Poppy.”
Poppy’s lips curved into a shy smile, and she held out her small hand, brushing the leaves gently as if she understood every word Laura spoke.
Laura watched her, feeling a soft warmth in her chest. She thought back to the day she had wandered in the forest, teaching Poppy the names of plants, when Bradley had appeared seemingly from nowhere.
He had taken her from the Abbey, the same way he had taken her heart, thrusting her into a life she had never imagined for herself.
It felt so long ago now, like another lifetime, but the memory was vivid still, a sharp pang beneath her calm exterior.
“Do ye remember when we found the foxgloves, Poppy?” Laura asked, brushing the dark hair from the girl’s face. “We laughed at how tall they were, aye? Almost taller than me, if ye ken what I mean.”
Poppy nodded, her big blue eyes lighting up, and she reached toward the foxgloves as if to touch the memory itself.
Laura’s voice softened further, almost a whisper, as she looked around the garden, the Abbey walls enclosing them in a quiet sanctuary.
“Ye ken, Poppy, the world can be a scary place, full of changes we didnae choose. But here, in this garden, we have calm… we have a bit of magic, just in the earth and the flowers and the sun.”
Poppy leaned closer to Laura, resting her small shoulder against hers, and for a moment the girl needed no words. Her silent presence spoke volumes, filling the space with trust and companionship.
Laura reached out and gently pressed the girl’s hand against her cheek. “Ye’re learnin’ fast, Poppy. Soon ye’ll ken all the herbs, the flowers, the trees… and maybe one day ye’ll teach someone else, aye?”
Poppy’s fingers tightened slightly in response, and Laura could see the spark of understanding in her eyes. It was enough to make Laura smile, a quiet triumph in the simplicity of this shared moment.
As the breeze moved through the garden, ruffling the leaves and carrying the scent of lavender, Laura felt a fleeting ache for the life she had left behind at Castle McCormack.
Yet here, with Poppy by her side, she felt grounded, even if only for a short while.
Teaching the child, naming the plants, sharing quiet laughter and soft words—it was a reminder that life could still flourish, even after heartbreak.
“Now, Poppy, let’s see if ye can find me some daisies,” Laura said, pointing to a patch near the edge of the garden. “Can ye do that for me?”
Poppy’s eyes sparkled, and without a word she bounded forward, careful not to trample the herbs, collecting a small handful of white blossoms and holding them out proudly.
Laura chuckled softly, taking the flowers in her hands. “A fine job, lassie,” she said, brushing the dirt from the petals. “Ye’ll make a fine gardener someday, mark me words.”
As they sat together, Poppy placing the daisies carefully beside them on the grass, Laura felt the gentle weight of peace settle over her.
Though the past lingered like a shadow at the edges of her heart, the present was filled with a fragile, precious light.
The Abbey garden became her haven, a place where even the smallest hands could grasp a little bit of happiness.