lifted his chin with firm resolve. “Aye, I will, Father Jocelyn.” If he couldn’t speak to her, there was a chance he could evade her wiles and snares. “And tonight, for my penance—”
“What penance do you think you need now, my son?” A warm twinkle danced in the prior’s eyes. “You were up all last night at prayer. You need your rest tonight, for you will depart with the lady at first light. Her wagon is repaired, and time is of the essence. The good weather will not hold for long.”
“Perhaps I could wear a hair shirt?” Guy suggested. Pain. He needed pain to keep his thoughts from wandering down the path of sweet perdition.
“That is hardly necessary, Brother Guy. I think riding astride Daisy for several weeks will be penance enough for even the worst of sins.” Before Guy could make a further suggestion, Father Jocelyn traced the sign of the cross over him. “Go in peace, my son.”
Guy rose, bowed to both the prior and his assistant, then let himself out the door. A myriad of thoughts tumbled through him as he fled for the silence of the chapel. By the rood! How was he going to survive the next month? Though the words of his prayers poured from his lips, he saw in his mind the beguiling beauty of Lady Celeste de Montcalm—and the well-remembered sneer of Walter Ormond.
From the side door of the chapel, the two Franciscans watched their newest novice wrestle with himself.
“Do you truly think it wise to send young Guy off with the lady?” Cuthbert murmured in an undertone.
Father Jocelyn nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the kneeling form praying before the sanctuary. “Aye, Brother, I do. ’Tis for the best.”
Brother Cuthbert raised one eyebrow so high, it nearly lost itself in the mouse-gray fringe encircling his head. “How so?”
The prior tapped his finger against his nose. “Let us say that I have my suspicions concerning the sincerity of young Cavendish’s vocation.”
“But surely the lad is sincere. In the garden, in the chapel—he is constantly on his knees!” Cuthbert blustered in a whisper.
“Peace, good Brother. Time will tell.” The prior smiled at his old friend. They had entered the monastery together as boys, nearly thirty-five years ago. “When you and I took our final vows, we did so with great joy—running to our Lord. I suspect Brother Guy is running away from himself.”
Chapter Three
“You sent for me, Aunt Marguerite?” Celeste peered around the heavy wooden door of the guest infirmary.
Propped against several thick muslin-covered pillows, the older woman smiled and held out her hand to her niece.
“Come in quickly, Lissa, and shut that door tight behind you. Fah! This damp weather will kill me long before any horse and wagon.” A chuckle softened her words.
Celeste did as she was told, then drew up a small three-legged stool beside her aunt’s bed. Marguerite’s skin had regained a healthier color, and Celeste could tell by the brightness of her eyes that her aunt’s tart humor had returned to its full strength. The older woman held her niece’s hand as she regarded her by the light of the tallow candle on the bedside table. Celeste glanced at the clay pitcher and cup there.
“Would you like me to pour you some water?” she offered, making a move to do so. Marguerite merely tightened her grip on Celeste’s fingers.
“Water? Do I look like a fish? Non, but that know-it-all Brother Cuthbert thinks I am!” She sniffed loudly. “He means to drown me at the first opportunity. But never fear, Lissa. He has met his match!”
Celeste hid the smile that plucked at the corners of her lips. The unsuspecting brother had indeed encountered a formidable opponent, she feared, and she wished him all the courage he could muster. She suspected that Aunt Marguerite would sorely try the man’s patience, not to mention his sanctity, in the coming months, while she recovered from her injuries.
“I shall miss you, ma petite, ” Marguerite said with surprising gentleness.
Celeste swallowed back a tremor of sadness at these words. All afternoon she had tried to push away the idea of continuing on her journey alone. Now, in the depths of the night shadows, the reality of the situation had to be confronted, just as she had faced her fears of ghosts lurking in the dark corners of her home in the Loire valley. Celeste leaned forward and kissed her aunt on the cheek. Her skin felt cool and dry to the touch.
“And I shall miss your chiding tongue, your scolding frowns and your many instructions concerning my deportment. La! I never thought I would say those words, dear Aunt, but they are true. You are a dear part of me.”
Celeste banished a small sob that hovered in the back of her throat. She wouldn’t show weakness now. She had many miles to travel, alone in this inhospitable country, and she couldn’t let her aunt know how very frightened she was at that prospect.
Marguerite squeezed her hand again. “Humphl You, spin a pretty tale by the firelight—almost as farfetched as those romantic ballads you love so much.” Her voice caught. “I believe I will have a sip of that marsh water, after all,” she said, brusquely waving at the pitcher.
Celeste poured half a cup and held it out.
The patient took it and sipped in silence. Celeste fidgeted with one of the embroidered roses on her yellow satin skirt. The candle sputtered, a thin wisp of smoke curling back onto itself as it rose toward the low plastered ceiling. After a strained silence, Marguerite handed back the cup.
“Surely they must have wine in this place. I shall speak to that Brother Cuthbert about it. He shall know my mind on the subject by the terce bell tomorrow, I assure you!” Marguerite nodded to her niece.
“I pray you have mercy on the poor man,” Celeste replied, pitying Brother Cuthbert even more.
“Mercy?” Her aunt looked surprised at the very idea. “Lissa, am I not always the soul of understanding, tact and mercy?”
Celeste cleared her throat. “So you have often told my sisters and me,” she countered as diplomatically as possible.
“And so I shall be.” Another uneasy silence draped itself over them. Celeste made a move to leave, thinking her aunt needed to sleep, but the older woman’s grip remained firm around Celeste’s hand. “Sit still, child, for I have much to tell you, and there is so little time.”
Puzzled, Celeste leaned forward. “Oui, Aunt? I am listening.”
Marguerite patted her cheek. “You were always such a good girl. It is a pity that my brother was too pigheaded not to see it.”
Celeste shifted uncomfortably on the hard stool. All her life she had tried to please her formidable father, to win his love with her cheerful banter and her singing, which everyone else said was sweet as a meadowlark’s on a May morning. Though it had never been spoken aloud, Celeste knew that she was far from the chevalier’s favorite daughter. “Papa has a great many things to attend to,” she murmured in his defense.
“Bah! Let it be said plainly now, for I do not know when we shall meet again on this earth. Your father wished for a son, and when you, the fifth daughter, arrived, he was angered like a small boy who has been denied a promised sweetmeat. It is a scandal the way he has treated you—sending you off to this godforsaken place to be wed to a stranger who probably can’t even speak passable French!”
Celeste stared into the candle’s flame, trying to conjure up the face of this unknown bridegroom. The picture of Lancelot in a book in her father’s library swam into her imagination.
“The Ormonds are a noble family,” Celeste whispered to the flickering point of light. “Walter will possess the qualities of a fine lord, I am sure.”
“Quit your