More than once Celeste had avoided that.
It wasn’t that she cherished the long locks so much. Her hair had been a sort of battleground, and every time she kept her curls, she felt the mother superior had lost a battle, although the war wouldn’t be won until she was allowed to take her final vows.
Sighing, Celeste looked down at her hands and thought of all the times she’d tried, usually without success, to braid her sister’s shining hair.
These were the same hands that Audrey had held tight when their father raged at their unhappy mother, proof that marriage was no sanctuary. The same hands that had scrubbed and cleaned and been clasped in prayer when Celeste displeased the mother superior at the convent, which was almost every day.
The same hands that she hoped would be carrying a cask of gold and jewels when she returned to Saint Agatha’s, if what her father had said was true and he had hidden treasure in the house. She would present the cask to the bishop and tell him it was for the church on the condition that the mother superior be sent to a convent as far away from Saint Agatha’s as possible. Then life at Saint Agatha’s would be perfect. She would be safe and at peace, out of the world that had so much conflict and misery.
First, though, Celeste had to find her father’s hidden hoard, and soon, in case the mother superior came looking for her.
Not that she regretted running away. She’d had no choice about that, for the mother superior never should have forbidden her to come back after her sister had died. Celeste was only sorry she’d stolen Sister Sylvester’s habit, even though that, too, had been necessary, for safety on the road. As for claiming to be a nun, that was for safety, too.
Especially when she saw the look in Gerrard of Dunborough’s eyes. She didn’t want to be the object of any man’s lust.
And certainly not his.
* * *
Norbert regarded his son with scornful disbelief as they stood in his shop, surrounded by candles of various sizes.
“Your eyesight must be going, boy,” the well-dressed chandler sneered. “Gerrard and a nun? I’d as soon believe you could make a decent wick.”
“I saw her myself,” Lewis insisted, his tall, thin frame slightly hunched as if to protect himself from a blow. “They were coming from Audrey D’Orleau’s house. Maybe she’s her sister come to look for the treasure.”
Norbert gave his pockmarked son a sour look. “There’s no treasure in that house and you’re a fool if you think so. And if that is Audrey’s sister, she’s probably come to sell the house and all the furnishings and maybe her sister’s clothes, too. After all, a nun won’t have any use for them.”
Norbert stroked his beardless chin. “Put up the shutters. It’s nearly time to close up for the day, anyway.”
Lewis stared at him, dumbfounded, and wasn’t fast enough to avoid the slap that stung his cheek.
“What are you gawking at, boy?” his father demanded.
“You’ve never closed the shop early before.”
“I am today.” His father licked his palm and smoothed down what remained of his hair, then straightened the leather belt around his narrow waist and long, dark green tunic. “I’m going to the castle to find out if that woman is Audrey’s sister, and if she is, to offer my condolences.”
“But you said Audrey was no better than a whore who got what she deserved.”
Scowling, his father raised his arm and Lewis immediately moved out of reach. “Don’t you dare repeat anything I said about Audrey D’Orleau to anybody,” Norbert warned, “or you’ll feel the back of my hand.”
“I won’t say a word,” his son promised. “I wonder what Ewald will do when he hears about her.”
Norbert’s eyes widened. If he hadn’t considered that, Lewis thought, his father was the fool, not him.
“It would be like that lout to try to see her first,” Norbert muttered, although he was clearly preparing to do the same thing.
“She might be tired after her journey and unwilling to talk about business so soon after she’s arrived,” Lewis suggested.
Norbert frowned. “You may be right—for once,” he grudgingly acknowledged. “Ewald probably won’t be so thoughtful. On the other hand, if that is Audrey’s sister, I wouldn’t want him to get the house for a pittance. What does a woman, let alone a nun, know about the value of things? Now get those shutters up. I’m going to the castle.”
* * *
“Aye, a nun and the prettiest one I ever saw,” Lizabet said as she got a ewer for hot water in the kitchen. “And she says she’s Audrey D’Orleau’s sister!”
Baskets of beans and peas, lentils and leeks, were on low shelves nearby. On higher shelves were the spices, some very expensive indeed, for Sir Blane had liked fine food, at least for himself. Doors led into the larder and the buttery, another to the hall, and there were stairs for the servants to the family chambers.
“Audrey D’Orleau’s sister?” Florian, the cook, cried, looking up from the pastry he was rolling on the large, flour-covered table. He was of middle height, not exactly fat but not slim, either, and could have been any age from twenty-five to forty. Tom, the skinny, freckled spit boy, likewise took his attention from the chickens he was turning over the fire in the enormous hearth.
Peg stopped shelling peas into the wooden bowl she had in her lap and rested her forearms on the rim of the bowl, regarding her companions gravely. She was a little older and a little plumper than Lizabet, and a little prettier, too. “Audrey D’Orleau’s sister, eh? That would be Celeste. My ma told me she used to follow Audrey about like a puppy, and Gerrard, too, back in the day. Once, when the girls were at the castle—their father was doing some kind of business with old Sir Blane—Gerrard, rascal that he was, cut off Celeste’s hair almost to her scalp. Something about a game, I think. Anyway, she had a devil of a fit—knocked him down and broke his collarbone. She got sent to Saint Agatha’s after.”
“Must have been some fit,” Lizabet said. “And if she was a hoyden, well, all I can say is the convent’s calmed her down. I can’t imagine the nun up in Sir Roland’s chamber raisin’ her voice, let alone attacking someone.”
“If she’s Audrey’s sister,” Florian pointed out, wiping his forehead with a floury hand, “why didn’t she come here sooner? It’s been weeks since her sister died. Sir Roland sent word after, didn’t he?”
“Aye,” Peg said. “He sent a priest and Arnhelm went with him as escort.” She lowered her voice as if about to reveal something shocking. “Arnhelm told me the mother superior at Saint Agatha’s was the most hard, mean-spirited harridan he’d ever met. When he said why he’d come, she looked at him as if he’d come to sell a loaf of bread, and stale at that.” Peg shook her head and leaned back. “Made Sir Roland look soft, Arnhelm said.”
“God have mercy!” Florian murmured, aghast, while Lizabet’s eyes filled with tears.
“A sister murdered, and to have to hear it from a woman like that!” she exclaimed.
“Aye,”
