“Beyond the reach of less scrupulous persons who might be tempted to forward their gossip,” said Alice Finch, glaring at Bettina Fothergill, who only nodded vigorously in agreement.
“Mr. Tillingham is well connected to the national refugee committee,” said Lady Emily. “I am sure he can help arrange for our guests to be accommodated through some other committee.”
“A shame for the poor, dear Professor,” added Mrs. Fothergill. “Such a learned man does not deserve such troubles.”
“Who is to talk to Mr. Tillingham?” asked Minnie. “I should die of embarrassment to speak of it.”
“Mrs. Kent is our finest diplomatic voice,” said Alice Finch.
“I believe Mrs. Kent may prefer to do the honorable thing and resign from our little committee,” said Bettina Fothergill, and now she adopted a casual tone as if it were all one to her. “If so, she would not speak for us.”
There was silence around the table. As Lady Emily contemplated her own gloved hands, Mrs. Fothergill smirked. Beatrice thought she looked like a house cat whose mouth is stuffed with a child’s pet parakeet. At last Agatha spoke, addressing Lady Emily directly.
“You will have my letter of resignation tomorrow,” she said. “Mrs. Fothergill may speak for you instead of me.”
Lady Emily nodded but did not speak.
“It would be bad for the image of our town should it become known in certain circles that the Mayor and I have any hand in such a removal,” said Mrs. Fothergill, flustered. “If Bexhill got hold of it…”
“I’ll talk to Tillingham,” said Alice Finch. “I’ll tell him what you propose, but I shan’t pretend to agree with it.”
“I see Mr. Tillingham coming down the garden,” said Lady Emily. “Let us adjourn now and leave Miss Finch to her unpleasant duty.”
“Just advise him of the urgency and the need for complete discretion,” said Mrs. Fothergill. “They must be quietly gone in a week.”
As the meeting dispersed, Agatha hurried away without speaking to anyone. To see such a formidable force in defeat left Beatrice weak and nauseous, and for a moment she felt as if the rock on which the town was built, rising so immutable from the sandy soil of the marshes, might itself crack and shift beneath her feet.
—
Two days later, Beatrice came home from school to find her little parlor full of nuns. Abigail was bringing them more hot water for their tea, and Mrs. Turber, hovering in the passage, drew Beatrice aside to say, “They’ve had two plates of bread and butter and an entire seed cake. So much for a life of poverty and contemplation.”
“What are they doing here?” asked Beatrice. She and Celeste had visited the three nuns at their lodgings to bring them small supplies and to offer translations for their hostesses, the Misses Porter. But Beatrice had not thought to ask them to tea, and they had never called. Celeste was behind the tea tray, offering cups, but she was so pale and unhappy that it seemed no spiritual cheering up was being accomplished by the visit.
“Her father brought them, and then, quick as you like, he went away,” said Mrs. Turber. “Such a wonderful man; I feel so bad for him.”
“If only his daughter was not ordered from her home,” said Beatrice, “he would be much less to be pitied.”
“It’s a terrible shame,” said Mrs. Turber. “Of course, if it was just my reputation I would keep her…” This was such an outrageous untruth that Beatrice was forced to pause and admire Mrs. Turber as one might admire an artist’s brushstroke while despising the picture.
“I shall go in and join them,” said Beatrice. “Please ask Abigail to bring me a cup.”
After some talk it became clear that the nuns were to travel north in a few days to join a group of their order who had been invited to take over part of a large convent. They were as excited as schoolgirls to resume their normal cloistered life and were thrilled that out of the ashes of their flight they were to bring to their order such a wonderful new acolyte. With the slight delay that comes with even the best understanding of another language, it took Beatrice an extra breath to realize that they were talking about Celeste.
“Celeste, it isn’t true,” said Beatrice.
Celeste gave her a look of pain and defeat. “It is my papa’s decision that I should take my vows,” she said. “He says I will bring great joy to him and I will have the innocence of an angel in God’s eyes.”
“Do you want to take vows?” asked Beatrice.
“They are not a silent order,” said Celeste slowly. “I can sing and I can learn to play the organ.” The oldest nun spoke in French to tell Beatrice that Celeste’s father had made his decision and that she was to have new shoes and a thick wool cloak for the journey, and that the people of Rye had pledged twenty pounds to the order.
“And what of—of the child?” asked Beatrice, stumbling to speak the word to Celeste for the first time.
“Their order takes in unwed mothers and finds homes for such babies,” said Celeste, her hand moving unconsciously to lie on her stomach. “They do not ask why.”
“You do not have to do this, Celeste,” said Beatrice. “We will find another way.”
“If I do this, my father can stay here, with Mr. Tillingham,” said Celeste. “Otherwise they say we must both make a long journey, and his health, it is not so good.”
“Of course, it’s a brilliant solution for him,” said Beatrice. “But what about what you want?”
“Did you not serve your father faithfully until his death?” asked Celeste. “Is it not the daughter’s place to bring the father ease?”
“My father never asked me to sacrifice the rest of my life and…” As she spoke the words, Beatrice remembered her father telling her they were going home to his family, halfway through her last year at their California university. She had pleaded gently, but he had already booked the tickets, a job usually hers, and told the landlord where to send their furniture. In his knowledge that death was coming for him, he had turned to his childhood home as if it were a talisman. She was not sure of all he had bargained to be taken back into the family fold. She knew only that he had been persuaded to put her inheritance in trust and that he had signed papers. She did not care about money, but it had pierced her to the heart to know that after all the years of being his helpmate, he had not given her freedom. He had traded her future for a few months of nostalgia. She looked at Celeste, sitting amid the rough linen robes and starched wimples, and she could only be honest. “I think it is a father’s task to protect us, but if he fails, if he betrays us, we must protect ourselves.”
The nuns, not understanding any English, munched on the last of their cakes with the satisfaction of those who ask only simple pleasures in life and began to rustle their robes and collect their small belongings for departure. As they left, Celeste bowed her head to receive a kiss from each of them. Beatrice nodded but did not offer to take their hands in farewell. They were amiable old women, for whom the sudden interruption of a contemplative life had surely been as traumatic as for any refugee, and she bore them no ill will. But they represented a prison for Celeste.
“There must be another way,” she told Celeste. “I will not forsake you.” Even as she said the words, she knew it was not a promise she could keep. If she was to lose her job, and with her allowance stopped, she would have no recourse but to return to Marbely Hall.
“I wonder if even the walls of the convent are high enough to hide my shame,” said Celeste in a whisper. “Even if God forgives, I must always remember.”