wainscoting at least told of great care. But my fears were reawakened when we passed the nimbus of that one fat candle and entered into a secluded corner and its veil of shadows. Here the sister stopped and knocked confidently on a door I did not at first notice. Without waiting for a reply, the nun pulled the latch and pushed opened the door, slicing the gallery’s gloom with a flat rectangle of light.
Prioress Margaret glanced up from the folding table, still squinting from her close work on a paper. The quill poised in her hand, and her fingertips were black with ink. “ Deo Gratias ,” she said.
“ Benedictio ,” replied the nun.
“Dame Cristabell,” said the prioress, though she eyed me instead of the nun. “What is it?”
“Madam,” Cristabell said, inclining her head. “This young lady seeks to become a holy sister.”
“Indeed.” With the prioress’ full attention now focused on me, I shrank. She waved the quill at Dame Cristabell, dismissing her. “It is customary that your mother or mistress accompany you for such presentation.”
“My mother is dead, Madam. And I have no mistress. Indeed, I have been mistress of my father’s farm for many years.”
“Yet you come alone. Your name, my dear?”
“Isabella Launder.”
“Launder. Launder. I know no Launders in Brewood, do I?”
“No, Madam. We hail from Beech.”
“How came you here, then?”
Nervous fingers searched in my scrip and pulled forth the letter from Sir John. I then lifted the pouch of coins also from the scrip, and placed it on the folding table that served as her desk.
The prioress read the note laboriously, her lips forming the silent words until she reached the end, and with brows lifted she lowered the page. “However did you acquire the wrath of Sir John Giffard?”
“I have not angered Sir John,” I said tightly. “The letter says nothing of that. It was my choice to come, and mine alone.”
“Which is why you come unaccompanied? This generous stipend. Is this only Sir John’s displaying his esteem for you?”
“Your lack of charity appalls, Madam.” It came out a husky whisper, but audible enough for the prioress to frown and set down the letter and quill before rising.
Had I not suffered enough? I wanted desperately to turn away and march out of that room, but realized there was nowhere to go.
Prioress Margaret—shorter, composed, and small beneath her loose gown that seemed too large for her diminutive frame—approached and stopped before me. At first, her imperious manner hid the small unsightly details of her appearance; how her skirts were mended with patches slightly greyer than the deep black of the gown; how the hem was frayed, threads following her like shadows. Even the bleached wimple showed signs of age and repair.
The prioress’ hands were lined and bony with a sprinkling of dark, age spots. Her face did not seem so old, though when she stood closer, I noted how that face was drawn with lines down either side of the nose, and creases crossing the line of her thin dry lips.
I was still young, even at five and twenty. How long would it be before my features took on this craggy landscape? And what would it matter? It might even add distinction to an average appearance.
“You think I lack charity?” asked Prioress Margaret. “I think you lack honesty, Mistress Launder. You are obviously willful, and so have been sent on this course to put you in a better mind and temperament. But we are neither school nor gaol. What we are is a home for women who wish to be here. I cannot stomach a woman who would be mistress of this manor. We are too small and too poor a house for that arrogance. And of course,” she said, eyes shining, “that position is already filled.” She eyed the round-bellied pouch as it nestled on the table like a hen over her eggs. “Though Sir John has been most generous to us in the past, I can easily turn aside his…his…donation…in order to allow you to return to
Prioress Margaret glanced up from the folding table, still squinting from her close work on a paper. The quill poised in her hand, and her fingertips were black with ink. “ Deo Gratias ,” she said.
“ Benedictio ,” replied the nun.
“Dame Cristabell,” said the prioress, though she eyed me instead of the nun. “What is it?”
“Madam,” Cristabell said, inclining her head. “This young lady seeks to become a holy sister.”
“Indeed.” With the prioress’ full attention now focused on me, I shrank. She waved the quill at Dame Cristabell, dismissing her. “It is customary that your mother or mistress accompany you for such presentation.”
“My mother is dead, Madam. And I have no mistress. Indeed, I have been mistress of my father’s farm for many years.”
“Yet you come alone. Your name, my dear?”
“Isabella Launder.”
“Launder. Launder. I know no Launders in Brewood, do I?”
“No, Madam. We hail from Beech.”
“How came you here, then?”
Nervous fingers searched in my scrip and pulled forth the letter from Sir John. I then lifted the pouch of coins also from the scrip, and placed it on the folding table that served as her desk.
The prioress read the note laboriously, her lips forming the silent words until she reached the end, and with brows lifted she lowered the page. “However did you acquire the wrath of Sir John Giffard?”
“I have not angered Sir John,” I said tightly. “The letter says nothing of that. It was my choice to come, and mine alone.”
“Which is why you come unaccompanied? This generous stipend. Is this only Sir John’s displaying his esteem for you?”
“Your lack of charity appalls, Madam.” It came out a husky whisper, but audible enough for the prioress to frown and set down the letter and quill before rising.
Had I not suffered enough? I wanted desperately to turn away and march out of that room, but realized there was nowhere to go.
Prioress Margaret—shorter, composed, and small beneath her loose gown that seemed too large for her diminutive frame—approached and stopped before me. At first, her imperious manner hid the small unsightly details of her appearance; how her skirts were mended with patches slightly greyer than the deep black of the gown; how the hem was frayed, threads following her like shadows. Even the bleached wimple showed signs of age and repair.
The prioress’ hands were lined and bony with a sprinkling of dark, age spots. Her face did not seem so old, though when she stood closer, I noted how that face was drawn with lines down either side of the nose, and creases crossing the line of her thin dry lips.
I was still young, even at five and twenty. How long would it be before my features took on this craggy landscape? And what would it matter? It might even add distinction to an average appearance.
“You think I lack charity?” asked Prioress Margaret. “I think you lack honesty, Mistress Launder. You are obviously willful, and so have been sent on this course to put you in a better mind and temperament. But we are neither school nor gaol. What we are is a home for women who wish to be here. I cannot stomach a woman who would be mistress of this manor. We are too small and too poor a house for that arrogance. And of course,” she said, eyes shining, “that position is already filled.” She eyed the round-bellied pouch as it nestled on the table like a hen over her eggs. “Though Sir John has been most generous to us in the past, I can easily turn aside his…his…donation…in order to allow you to return to
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