At noon we had soup or stew, sometimes with meat, and bread rolls, which were often dry and had to be soaked in the soup to be eaten. Yet, having made many a meal of uncooked rice or hardtack soaked in my own spittle, dry bread and soup were still wonderful. Every evening ended with another piece of bread, often a fruited loaf of the type with which Patey had been rewarded on the Saracen ship, butter, a cup of tea, and another visit to the chapel for prayers. For many days I did not see Patience or anyone I knew. They were in the older girls’ houses, I supposed.
Afternoons were filled with lessons and prayers. After a while, I could recite the prayers and sing the songs. I had no idea what the words meant, but I copied the sounds and joined in. I said my French prayers quite convincingly. I learned the names of some saints and surprised Donatienne with the few on which Ma had instructed us. Her favorite was Saint Agnes, who watched over children. I did not tell Donatienne that I thought Agnes had fallen asleep on her watch where Patey and I were concerned. I excelled in my lessons, determined that the nuns might question my spiritual devotion, but not my knowledge.
When we settled in our beds at night, I made up stories and told Donatienne about my life. I wanted her to know that I did not belong in this place, and that Patience and I deserved to be released. “Patience was a gentlewoman, you know,” I said. “She was engaged to marry a prince, the heir to the throne of, of Carbundium. His father owns five castles, and she shall have her pick of any or all of them. With seven ladies-in-waiting at each castle. The prince angered an ogre who charged across the ocean on a ship with sails made of spiderwebs and witches’ hair, and he stole her from the handsome prince. I saved her from him and I came along, too, to be with her, for I would rather be with Patience and keep her safe in this place, than back in the castle in Bariander.”
“You said the place was called Carbundium.”
“Bariander is a town in Carbundium.” The story was getting unwieldy, and I gulped at my mistake. I should not have made up such long, difficult words.
“And that is in Jamaica?”
“No, that is the place where the prince lives. Patience and I live in Jamaica.”
“What is his name? The prince.”
“Theodore. Prince Theodore of Carbundium.”
“Is he tall? Is he gallant? What color are his eyes? Say it in French.”
“Not too tall. Rose.” I took a deep breath of relief. This, at least, was easier to remember.
“Red eyes?”
“Bleu. I meant blue.”
Now and then, when the men worked in the fields I imagined Reverend Johansen out there, sweating under the sun with the others, his scrawny gray hair blowing in the breeze. Perhaps that one was he, or that over there. I missed Reverend Johansen. I suppose though he was not my pa, nor anything like Pa, he seemed more like a nice uncle, a real uncle, not like Rafe MacAlister. When I wrote to Ma I would tell her to come get him, too, and Donatienne if she wants to come along with Patey and me. We would be a little family. I would write to August, also, and he could come home. Perhaps Ma and Reverend Johansen would marry, and August marry Donatienne. Patience and I would be sisters all our lives and shun all men now that she had her lost love in England and I left mine in the graveyard at Collins Pond.
Some days all I could think about was that the building where the men lived was where I might find paper, quill, and ink. I took afternoon strolls up and down the length of the buildings, each day a few steps closer to the priests’ dormitory. Sometimes one of them came out and I waved to him in a friendly manner, thinking that I must learn enough French to ask one of them to speak to me of the Psalms. That had made Reverend Johansen my friend, and it might work again. But their door was kept locked as if they were dangerous convicts. No one opened when I knocked.
In the kitchen during the execution of my chores, I sneaked half-eaten rolls and tidbits of mutton gristle or a leaf of parsley from the plates as I cleared them from the tables, folding the morsels into my sleeves. When I gathered herbs by the kitchen door, I put mint in my cheeks to suck on. When they made me work in the garden I ate the raw vegetables and sometimes even the leaves of them. One evening, Violette, a novice who was fifteen and devout, caught me finishing a carrot off a plate meant for a sick nun. They made me crawl on my knees up the center of the chapel for eating one carrot. In truth I had eaten nine carrots before anyone found out. But scolding and kneeling were nothing compared to what I had endured before. It meant only inconvenience.
The sisters bade me confess my theft and gluttony to a priest in a little closet, but I believed Reverend Johansen’s words, that I had no need to tell any human being every sin I knew. In confession, I said, “Père Jean, I have stolen a carrot. I broke it into twelve pieces, one for each of the Apostles, and I tithed two of them, planting them again to grow two carrots out of the one, and I gave one bite to each of the ten most thin and starving girls in this place. They were hungry, Father Jean, so wretchedly hungry they had begun to eat their clothing.” He said he had been told I ate it myself, but I cried then, real tears, and said, “On my honor, I did it only for the little ones.”