The Sumerton Women (37 page)
“But!” Alec’s voice, light with false cheer, cut through her reflections. “If I had a cap I would surely doff it to you, dear lady.” His laugh was wry, his eyes filled with a mingling of sadness and mockery. “You win, Mirabella. You have successfully ‘saved’ me from every dream and value I held dear. I hope it was everything you wanted.”
Mirabella averted her eyes. She could not bear his expression another moment. He did not even look at her in anger anymore. He regarded her as if she were some helpless inmate at an asylum in need of a mercy killing. That look shamed her like she had never been shamed before.
“It wasn’t anything I wanted,” Mirabella confessed at once, her voice strangled by tears. “Oh, if I could take it all back ... if I could take everything back ...” She shook her head, covering her mouth with her hand.
She could not remain. She would not meet his eyes and find in them pity once again.
Sobbing, she climbed out of bed and fled, Brey’s words echoing in her mind, relentless and ruthless as she had ever been.
Mirabella would leave. She would give Alec everything he wanted, an annulment, whatever he wished. Anything to be free of the guilt and shame that stalked her, a falcon preying on her conscience, every waking moment. She would return to Sumerton, if Cecily could abide the sight of her, and from there decide her fate. Perhaps she would remove to France, still a favored daughter of the Pope. There she could take her vows once more. Yes, that was what she would do! Hope began to replace shame as she supervised the packing of her things.
There was no need for good-bye. Alec had gone to the jousts in honor of His Majesty as it were. No words were spoken. There was nothing to say now. By the time he returned, she would be gone, his fondest wish granted.
Mirabella ordered her coach.
You cannot run from this.
Her mother. Oh, God, why? Why must she be pursued by these voices from beyond? She was leaving now. She was setting things right. She did not need moral intervention from the living or the dead.
On Alec’s writing table she left a quick note:
You are free.
With this, she bid farewell to London.
She was going home, that place that had never denied her no matter her sins.
Sumerton.
Cecily had little time to invest in pondering what was or was not occurring in London. Between running her household, keeping correspondence with her children, who seemed to be flourishing under the care and tutelage of the Hapgoods, and caring for baby Emmy, there was more than enough to occupy her mind. When not consumed with the tasks of the day to day, she kept company with the former Lady Grace. In her she found the friendship she had longed for since the tragic passing of Lady Alice and the sisterhood she had never quite grasped onto with Mirabella.
When Grace was not attending her own flock that included sick tenants and women in search of her various remedies, the two found solace in conversation. No subject remained untouched.
“I think it is harder mourning the living than it is the dead,” Cecily noted one afternoon as the two sat before a crackling fire in her apartments watching baby Emmy attempt to crawl. Despite her misshapen leg, the child’s ability to compensate displayed a strength of character and determination that swelled Cecily’s heart with pride.
“How do you mean?” Grace queried.
“The dead do not choose to leave you, at least most of the time,” she explained. “But the living, when they hurt or abandon—they choose it.” She sighed. “I have found more resolve and peace when I think on our dead then I can ever find with the living.”
Grace reached out, resting a calloused hand over Cecily’s. “Treat the choices of the living as you would a death, done and out of our control. I have never been a woman of faith, my lady. You know that. However, in my later years I have learned that we have no control over our children, our mates, or our family and friends. All we have control over is ourselves. And God? He is the master of all. Give Him that power and trust and you will be more at peace than ever you could have imagined. When you give yourself over, you find that your heart becomes a font of grace, forgiveness, and sincere goodwill.” Grace’s smile was serene. “I call it divine surrender. Surrender yourself to it, my dear girl, and you will find you have more power than any king.”
Cecily offered a smile of gratitude, squeezing Grace’s hand in hers. “I am so glad you have been returned to us, Lady Grace. Despite Mirabella’s many transgressions, I still thank her for that.”
Grace bit her lip, blinking back tears. “Come now, enough of that,” she muttered, waving off the thought with a modest laugh.
A light knock on the door of Cecily’s apartments brought the women to compose themselves with sheepish grins and the subtle daubing away of sentimental tears with their handkerchiefs.
“Enter,” Cecily ordered in husky tones.
The door opened, revealing Mirabella, pale and drawn, her eyes glassy. She had left young and returned an old woman. Cecily’s heart thudded against her ribs in a painful rhythm.
What now,
was her first thought. She cursed herself. She must maintain a generous heart. Mirabella would always be Hal’s daughter. Any kindness Cecily was bound to show her would be for him, if she could not in sincerity do it for her.
What now,
was her first thought. She cursed herself. She must maintain a generous heart. Mirabella would always be Hal’s daughter. Any kindness Cecily was bound to show her would be for him, if she could not in sincerity do it for her.
Cecily rose from her settle. She did not know what to say, how to feel. “Master Cahill remained in London. He is much occupied with the king’s coronation and doing the bidding of the archbishop,” Mirabella began, her voice soft.
Cecily could not yet detect a threat in her manner.
“If I may, my lady, I have come to stay awhile and ... reflect... .”
The knot in Cecily’s stomach eased a bit. She willed herself to be calm. She would not reveal her dread or disappointment. She was the lady of this house and so she would remain, with dignity and charity.
Cecily reached out, taking Mirabella’s hand in hers. It was cold, clammy. “This will always be your home, Mirabella,” she told her.
Mirabella bit her lip, her green eyes luminous with unshed tears. Cecily was mystified. Never had she seen Mirabella more vulnerable or, as it appeared, more broken. Not when Brey passed, or when she revealed the loss of her mother, nor when her baby nephew died. Not even, and perhaps especially, when her father died. She had always been closed off, as if something in her was missing. Was it too much to hope that the key to unlocking her humanity had been restored?
There was no time to ponder it, for at once Mirabella’s expression converted to bewilderment as she crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
“She appears undernourished and simply exhausted,” Grace said when they had Mirabella carried to her rooms. “I haven’t supervised tending this one since she was a little girl,” she said, her voice soft, wistful. She sat beside Mirabella, stroking her face.
At rest Mirabella appeared a child, as if she were incapable of procuring a malicious thought.
How deceitful is the face of sleep,
Cecily thought, wishing once again to stave off her bitterness.
How deceitful is the face of sleep,
Cecily thought, wishing once again to stave off her bitterness.
“She was never a sickly one,” Grace went on to say. “Always too driven to waste time on feeling ill,” she added with a slight, albeit joyless, chuckle.
“So she is home now,” Cecily commented. “To gather her strength for what? To create more chaos and heartbreak?” Her lip quivered as she wiped away tears of frustration, at herself for thinking the worst, and for this woman who had caused very little in her life but pain.
Grace rubbed Cecily’s upper arm. “Now, now, we shall see. Let her rest. Likely she is more than aware of her various wrongdoings, and as you noted just today, some good has come from her actions even if she did not intend such. Remember what I told you about trusting God. If this one had truly been the holy woman she always strove to be, imagine the good she could have done if she had grasped,
truly grasped,
that one lesson.”
truly grasped,
that one lesson.”
Cecily conceded her point with a sigh.
“That said, I think I may just stay at Sumerton awhile as well,” Grace said then, her smile sardonic. “Call it assurance.”
Relief flooded Cecily’s heart. She could do this, and in doing so she would surrender. At least she would try.
Together the women tended Mirabella, who lay abed for three straight days. When she awoke she was given bread and fish broth, for Lent was now upon them. She smiled when baby Emmy was brought to her; it seemed the little one was her sole source of delight. She did not speak much and whatever she did say was light and nonsensical. Cecily and Grace exchanged many a glance at this but said little in return. If ever Mirabella wished to steer the conversation to more significant fare, it would be with no prompting from them.
Meantime, Mirabella remained weak. She slept often and ate little. What remained the most shocking of all to both Cecily and Grace was that Mirabella did not pray. Not ever. She had not once utilized the prie-dieu for private worship that Cecily made certain had not been taken from her rooms, nor her other Romish accoutrements Mirabella had used for private worship. Cecily would not disrespect Mirabella’s faith. She would strive as ever to be gracious and merciful in the hopes she would receive such in turn.
Winter began to ebb with the last vestiges of February. And as March gave way to the crisp days of April, Sumerton finally received news from London in the form of a dispatch for Mirabella from Alec.
“So?” Grace prodded at last. She could not be as patient as Cecily and would not try. What made them such a wonderful pair was their differences; Cecily was a willow to her oak—despite this, both could bend with the breeze.
Mirabella, abed as she was much of the time, scanned the letter. “He’s shut the home on the Strand and has been appointed apartments at Lambeth Palace,” she reported. She read further, biting her lip, then discarded the letter to her side. She tipped her head toward the black velvet canopy above, drawing in a sharp breath. “Our marriage has been dissolved by sanction of His Majesty and His Grace Thomas Cranmer, the Archbishop of Canterbury.” The words were spoken with no feeling whatever, as if she were reading some text that was too dry to infuse any inflection in. Grace searched her face for any signs of emotion, finding none.
“And,” Mirabella added as she expelled a heavy sigh, “Master Cahill is to be knighted for his devoted service to the Church of England ‘despite all obstacles that would otherwise obstruct a lesser man.’ ” She shook her head. “ ‘Obstacles’ meaning me, I am certain.”
There was nothing to be said to that. Grace regarded Cecily a moment, whose eyes revealed a melding of pity and hope. She returned her gaze to Mirabella.
“Well, then,” Grace said at last. “All is as it should be, Mirabella. Isn’t it?” Her tone was not unkind.
Mirabella blinked several times, averting her head. She took in a few gasping breaths before giving herself to sobbing. Grace took her hand in hers, making soft cooing sounds. It would be a cold human being indeed, she thought, who could not be stirred to some form of compassion for this misguided creature.
“Yes,” Mirabella said through her tears. “All is as it should be.” She raised her head to meet Cecily’s eyes. “I am now unmarried and with child.”
For a moment all were stunned into silence. Grace looked from one woman to the other. Mirabella’s face was contorted in pain, as if making an appeal she could not put into words. Emotions washed over Cecily’s countenance so fast Grace was unable to discern them. Shock, anger, hurt, disbelief, to shock again. Cecily shook her head, rising from the bedside. She parted her mouth as if to speak, then clamped it shut once more with another frantic shake of her head before whirling on her heel and fleeing the room.
Mirabella covered her eyes with her hand, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed.
Grace sighed. “And to think I never likened you to the Blessed Virgin before,” was all she could think of to say.
Mirabella’s eyes darkened with anger. “You are enjoying this,” she seethed.
Grace pursed her lips, resting her chin on her folded hands. “No, my dear, I am not. Though I do find irony to be amusingly tyrannical,” she added with a slight laugh. “Forgive my impetuousness, Mirabella, but I must ask—is it true?”
Tears streamed down Mirabella’s cheeks unchecked. “I would give anything to say it was a lie. You must believe that I came to set things right. But I am too late, like all my life, too late.” She dissolved into sobs once more.
Grace drew in a breath. She did not know whether to comfort or chastise the woman who had caused nothing but turmoil the majority of her life.
“Mirabella,” she said in soft tones, reaching out to rub her knee. “For many years I raised you as my own,” she began, her heart pounding. She had never anticipated such a conversation but knew she could evade the words no longer. “I wanted to love you as a mother would. I blame myself for maintaining the charade when I knew I was unable to look upon you without resentment for what passed before between your father and Sister Julia. You were always a challenge for me, but many of those challenges I imposed on us. I fear my neglect and inability to love you as I should have at the time caused this relentless drive in you to pursue your cause with impure motives. The quest for God should be a joyous one, but for you it was always one of desperation.”
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