The House at Mermaid's Cove(4)

“Well, it was very good of you.” I started dabbing iodine onto the torn flesh. The sting of it made me wince.

He brought the eggs to me as I was fastening a bandage around my right foot. He made a table from an upturned wooden crate and set the plate on it. “Sorry it’s rather primitive. I would have taken you to the house, but it’s a steep climb through the woods. It would have been tricky, carrying you.”

“Thank you.” I was suddenly famished. But I hesitated. Eating alone, without the ritual that had accompanied every meal, was something I never did.

“Go on—don’t let it go cold.”

I tore the bread in half and jabbed it into one of the eggs.

He dropped into a squatting position so that his head was level with mine. “What happened to your hair?”

My free hand went to my head. The short tufts had dried into salt-encrusted spikes. I wondered if that was why he’d brought me a scarf—so I could cover it up. I stared at a trickle of egg yolk oozing over what was left of the bread.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “You don’t have to tell me—not if it’s painful for you. But can I know your name?”

I heard the piercing cry of a seagull and the scratch of its claws as it landed on the roof. Jack was waiting for an answer. I knew without looking at his face that he thought I was working out some lie. But it wasn’t that. I had surrendered my name, along with everything else I possessed, twelve years ago. I had been given another one—not of my choosing. A man’s name. A saint’s name. From the very start, it mocked me. I felt I would never be able to live up to it.

“My name is . . . Alice.” The word felt strange, like a pebble in my mouth.

“Alice.” He said it with a smile in his voice, as if he were coaxing a child. “Alice what?”

I was afraid to tell him. It would give him power over me. The power to send me back.

“If I don’t know your surname, I won’t be able to contact your family,” he said. “You’ll want them to know you’re all right.”

“I have no family. My parents are dead. There’s no one else.”

I took another mouthful. It tasted like the breakfasts I remembered from Ireland. There had been eggs on the ship, but they had been pale and insipid compared to these. And I had heard passengers say that in England people were having to eat powdered eggs brought in from America.

“But there must be someone who’s expecting you?” He was looking at my hands. At the silver band on my ring finger.

“These eggs are very good,” I said. “Do you keep chickens?”

“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.”