“Yes. And cows. Although there’s barely enough grass for them now, with all the wheat we’re having to grow.” His eyes searched my face. “I want to help you, Alice. But you must understand: This country is at war. I have to know that you’re not—”
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said quickly. “I’m not an enemy. I’m not an escaped convict, either.” I stared at the empty plate in front of me. If it hadn’t been for my feet, I could have tried to get away, broken out next time he left me and taken my chances in whatever place this was. But my injuries weren’t going to heal overnight. I was his prisoner. I was going to have to tell him some of it, at least. I took a breath. “You saw the number on my chemise?”
He nodded.
“I was given that number when I joined the order.”
His forehead creased into neat furrows. “Order?” From the look in his eyes, he was imagining something secret and sinister.
“The Sisters of Mary the Virgin.”
“You’re a nun?”
“I was.” I’d used the past tense. It felt terrifying. I half expected a bolt of lightning to pierce the wooden ceiling and strike me dead on the spot.
Chapter 3
I don’t think Jack believed me at first. He was quite clever about it—appearing to accept what I’d said but throwing in the odd comment or question to test me out. He asked me about my work in Africa. He wanted to know why I’d left the Congo to return to Ireland.
“It wasn’t my choice,” I replied, “but the first rule of the convent is obedience. Sister Clare—the nun in charge of the mission hospital—said they were sending me back to the motherhouse for what they call spiritual refreshment.” I shook my head. “It sounds disloyal, I know, but I couldn’t bear the thought of being back inside those walls, cut off from life.”
“Not disloyal.” He shrugged. “Understandable.” He told me then that he didn’t really go along with organized religion. Singing in the church choir was the limit of his involvement. “We’re rehearsing a Gregorian chant for the Easter service,” he said. “‘Regina’ something—I can never remember the title.”
“‘Regina Caeli’—‘The Queen of Heaven.’”
His eyes crinkled at the edges. It almost looked like a smile. “Devil of a job, memorizing Latin,” he said. “But I suppose I shouldn’t really say that in front of a nun.”
I thought I’d passed the test. Then, without missing a beat, he said: “I couldn’t help noticing those scars on your back. Who did that to you?”
I looked away. “No one.”
“No one?” There was more than an edge of disbelief in his voice.
“I did it to myself. They call it mortification of the flesh. It was part of what we had to do. Every Wednesday and Friday after lights-out.”
“My God,” he murmured. “No wonder you wanted to leave.” He stood up and went to throw more wood into the stove. Then he asked me what I planned to do if I wasn’t going back to the convent.
“I don’t have a plan,” I said. I paused. All I wanted was to escape my old life. But I had no idea how I would live outside of the order. I was afraid to ask yet more from this man who had already done so much for me, but with no money and nowhere to go, I had to summon up the courage. “Could I stay for a while? Do you need help on the farm? I could work in return for food and a place to sleep.”
I still had no idea where in England I was. That was something else I wanted to ask, but I was afraid of blowing a hole in the fragile web of trust we had begun to weave. I feared it might make him doubt me, make him think I really was a spy.
“Well, there’s plenty of work. But finding you a bed . . .” He trailed off with a shake of his head. “The house is packed to the rafters. It’s been taken over by the government—for military training. They’ve commandeered every room—including mine. And we have a group of children—evacuees—living in the servants’ quarters.”
Servants’ quarters. That sounded quite grand—nothing like the farmhouses I had known as a child. I glanced at the fishing nets hanging from the rafters, at the long black shadows of rods and oars cast by the glow of the hurricane lamp. “Couldn’t I stay here?”
“Here?” His eyes widened. “With the stink of fish and mildew? What would you sleep on?”
I patted the heap of sailcloth. “I can make a bed of this.”