Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
She’s considering all this when Eleanor puts her head around the door.
Mother starts. ‘My goodness,’ she says, and before she knows it Eleanor has come in.
The girl is distracted, babbling about her mistress’s disappearance and something about the violent nature of a gentleman on a chestnut horse.
Mother tries to focus. In the general run, little transpires at the convent.
A debate about how to allocate funds, perhaps.
An interview with a postulant, which turns up a family secret.
But certainly not a kidnap and one which, it would seem, may have been undertaken by a group related to the church.
Masonic Lodges are Christian institutions.
Mother knows there are bishops in London who are members of such clubs.
Men. All men. She’s wary of them. She invites Eleanor to sit down.
‘Your mistress has been taken, you say?’
‘Yes!’ Eleanor cries.
‘Sister Winifred’s great niece . . .’ It would seem matters are escalating. Mother doesn’t like it. Not at all.
‘My sister sent you here for safety,’ she says. ‘Sanctuary.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ Eleanor replies. She’s dressed in the robes of a novitiate, Winifred’s vestments being unsuitable for a woman who hasn’t taken orders but no other clothes being available in the robing room.
The nuns also gave Eleanor a prayer rope though she isn’t sure what to do with it.
‘But when they find my lady, she’ll need me.
Perhaps I can assist in the search. I was attacked by the same gentleman .
. .’ Eleanor’s green eyes become suddenly liquid and a tear slips down her cheek. ‘This is all my fault.’
Mother takes the girl’s hand. ‘Now, now,’ she says, patting it gently. ‘Whatever’s happened I’m certain it has nothing to do with you. The shame for the man’s actions is his own.’
Eleanor shakes her head emphatically. ‘I took a bribe, Mother,’ she blubs. ‘I betrayed my lady. I thought it didn’t matter but the gentleman is wicked. He’s the one who pursued Sister Winifred and I. He said he’d see me dead and now . . .’
Mother’s gaze hardens. She makes the sign of the cross to stop the girl speaking.
She’s trying to think. This man is of the renegade order Winifred has asked her to look into.
That much is clear. Mother wonders if she ought to speak to the bishop straight away, but she can’t do so without proof.
Men, even holy men, are quick to dismiss the suffering of women.
Eleanor sniffs. She’s calmed down enough to realise the tension in the room; already present when she entered. On Mother’s desk there’s a tray; a cup of tea half drunk and left carelessly aside from its saucer and two biscuits which have been snapped into pieces but not eaten.
‘Do you know anything about St Giles?’ Mother tries.
Eleanor shakes her head. ‘You mean the church?’
‘What about the Order of the Hermit?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Your mistress never mentioned these things?’
‘No, Mother.’
The old nun sighs and makes the decision that she can’t keep the girl at the convent against her will.
‘Sister Cecilia will drive you into town in the cart. Let’s hope they’ve found your lady by the time you get there.
If not, you might be of use to Sister Winifred. I’m afraid she has also been attacked.’
Eleanor’s eyes flood once more. ‘What?’
‘Now, now. None of that. Sister Winifred is made of extremely stern stuff.’ Mother smiles.
‘She’s received medical attention and is in the care of a friend.
Still . . . this gentleman . . .’ Mother finds she cannot summon a word to encapsulate the brutality that has taken place.
It’s not the first time one of the sisters has encountered violence, far from it, but generally, once nuns have taken orders, violent gentlemen cease their pursuit. ‘Winifred is safe,’ she settles.
Eleanor takes this in. Winifred saved her at the Golf Tavern. ‘Shall I go to the sister first?’ she asks.
Mother nods. ‘That seems sensible.’ It would seem that the matter, whatever it might be, is coming to a head, and she trusts the McKenzies are in the right.
‘You needn’t hesitate to come back, should you require to. Day or night. Do you understand?’
Eleanor nods gratefully.
‘You might remind Sister Winifred that we have an infirmary here,’ Mother says and writes 11 North St David Street on a scrap of paper. Eleanor doesn’t admit that she can’t read it. She hopes Sister Cecilia will be able to do so.
‘Thank you, Mother,’ she says and, after dropping a shallow curtsey, disappears back downstairs.
Mother waits for the door to close. She casts her eyes over the vegetable patch through the window which at this time of year is mostly comprised of roots. Placing the key Winifred sent onto her desk, she rings the brass bell to summon assistance.
‘How might I serve, Mother?’ the nun asks, her eyes falling to the unaccustomed state of the tray. Mother’s favourite biscuits uneaten.
‘Send for Sister Gloria,’ the old nun says decisively. ‘I’ve a duty for her to undertake. And have the chapel bell rung, please. As a community, we must pray.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ the nun replies.
As the door closes, Mother hopes Gloria will find something by way of proof that will allow her to contact the bishop. ‘Men,’ she says, the word dropping from her lips into the empty room as if it were a curse.