Outlander Novella [01] The Space Between by Diana Gabaldon Page A

life so different from what had gone before.
    The portress went away to fetch the mistress of postulants, leaving them in the little enclosure by the gatehouse. From here, he could see across a sunny courtyard with a cloister walk on the far side and what looked like extensive kitchen gardens to the right. To the left was the looming bulk of the hospital run by the order and, beyond that, the other buildings that belonged to the convent. It was a beautiful place, he thought—and hoped the sight of it would settle her fears.
    She made an inarticulate noise, and he glanced at her, alarmed to see what looked like tears slicking her cheeks.
    “Joan,” he said more quietly, and handed her his fresh handkerchief. “Dinna be afraid. If ye need me, send for me, anytime; I’ll come. And I meant it about the letters.”
    He would have said more, but just then the portress reappeared with Sister Eustacia, the postulant mistress, who greeted Joan with a kind motherliness that seemed to comfort her, for the girl sniffed and straightened herself and, reaching into her pocket, pulled out a little folded square, obviously kept with care through her travels.
    “J’ai une lettre,”
she said in halting French. “
Pour Madame le … pour …
Reverend Mother?” she said in a small voice. “Mother Hildegarde?”
    “Oui?”
Sister Eustacia took the note with the same care with which it was proffered.
    “It’s from … her,” Joan said to Michael, having plainly run out of French. She still wouldn’t look at him. “Da’s … er … wife. You know. Claire.”
    “Jesus Christ!” Michael blurted, making both the portress and the postulant mistress stare reprovingly at him.
    “She said she was a friend of Mother Hildegarde. And if she was still alive …” She stole a look at Sister Eustacia, who appeared to have followed this.
    “Oh, Mother Hildegarde is certainly alive,” she assured Joan, in English. “And I’m sure she will be most interested to speak with you.” She tucked the note into her own capacious pocket and held out a hand. “Now, my dear child, if you are quite ready …”
    “Je suis prêt,”
Joan said, shaky but dignified. And so Joan MacKimmie of Balriggan passed through the gates of the Convent of Angels, still clutching Michael Murray’s clean handkerchief and smelling strongly of his dead wife’s scented soap.
    * * *
    Michael had dismissed his carriage and wandered restlessly about the city after leaving Joan at the convent, not wanting to go home. He hoped they would be good to her, hoped that she’d made the right decision.
    Of course, he comforted himself, she wouldn’t actually be a nun for some time. He didn’t know quite how long it took, from entering as a postulant to becoming a novice to taking the final vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, but at least a few years. There would be time for her to be sure. And at least she was in a place of safety; the look of terror and distress on her face as she’d shot through the gates of the convent still haunted him. He strolled toward the river, where the evening light glowed on the water like a bronze mirror. The deckhands were tired and the day’s shouting had died away. In this light, the reflections of the boats gliding homeward seemed more substantial than the boats themselves.
    He’d been surprised at the letter and wondered whether that had anything to do with Joan’s distress. He’d had no notion that his uncle’s wife had anything to do with le Couvent des Anges—though now he cast his mind back, he did recall Jared mentioning that Uncle Jamie had worked in Paris in the wine business for a short time, back before the Rising. He supposed Claire might have met Mother Hildegarde then … but it was all before he was born.
    He felt an odd warmth at the thought of Claire; he couldn’t really think of her as his auntie, though she was. He’d not spent much time with her alone at Lallybroch—but he couldn’t forget the