The House at Mermaid's Cove(47)

“Buried alive?” Jack’s voice sounded as otherworldly as my own, like an echo from the depths of the ocean.

“It was a tribal custom to dispose of babies that way if the mother had died. I’d heard of it, but this was the first time I’d seen it with my own eyes.”

“What did you do?”

“I had two native men with me—they were paddling the raft I was in—and through them I persuaded the villagers to let me take the babies to the mission hospital. There was an orphanage there, which I knew would take them.”

“So, they survived? They were all right?”

“Yes. But I wasn’t.” I took a breath, willing away the sting of threatened tears. “I chose Swahili names for them. Kamaria—which means bright, like the moon, for the girl—and Kenyada, which means gem, for the boy. I used to visit them every day. I wasn’t supposed to—I’d been warned about not going there too often when I first arrived in Africa. But I couldn’t help myself. I developed what the sister superior viewed as an attachment to them, something that was frowned upon by the order. That was why the decision was made to send me back to Ireland.”

“They made you leave?”

I nodded. My throat felt tight. “They let me go and say goodbye. The children were far too young, of course, to understand what was going on. I knew they wouldn’t miss me, wouldn’t even remember me. That helped a little. But as I walked away, I knew, with every fiber of my being, that I would never be the kind of nun the order expected me to be—the kind who displays unquestioning obedience and has the ability to give up all worldly attachments.” I turned my face to the sea, but my filmy eyes and the raindrops on the glass turned the waves into a blur of gray. “I suppose, deep down, I’d always known it. But what happened with those children brought it home to me, very powerfully: that being a nun meant having no choice, meant living a life against your natural inclinations, even when those inclinations were good and loving.”

For a moment the only sound was the hum of the boat’s engine. Then Jack said, “Did you ever blame your father? For making you do something you ended up regretting?”

I sensed that there was something behind the question—something that concerned him, not just me. I glanced at his face, wondering what was in his mind. He had that same brooding look I’d noticed before. “I understand why my father did what he did,” I replied. “I think he honestly believed he was protecting me by forbidding me to marry Dan.”

“Hmm.” He rubbed his knuckles against the dark stubble on his jawbone. “I can imagine my father taking a similar view. He was a traditionalist. Always quoting the family motto, ‘Duty before thyself.’ I never thought about it when I was growing up—the responsibilities that came with inheriting a title. I imagined myself sailing the world, running the family’s shipping company.”

“You did that—for a while—didn’t you?”

“Yes. But it all fell apart after the Wall Street crash. Within a few years the business was unsustainable. We had to liquidate all the assets. And by the time my father died, the house had become a terrible financial burden. I couldn’t . . .” He stopped short. I noticed the subtle change in his eyes, the indefinable something that lingered there momentarily. I wondered if he’d been about to reveal something about the girl he’d fallen in love with.

“I shouldn’t go on about it,” he said. “You must be tired. You should try to get some sleep.”

The way he said it was like an order. But as I turned to go, he caught my hand. “I’m sorry for what happened to you in Africa.” His voice was different now: soft, almost a whisper. “But I’m not sorry that you’ve given up being a nun.”

I gazed back at him, tongue-tied. I couldn’t tell if he was offering me sympathy, or something more. I felt myself blushing and I broke away, muttering something stupid about my convent haircut coming in useful for fooling the enemy.



Down in the cabin, the men were all still asleep. I sank into one of the hammocks and closed my eyes. But I couldn’t settle. For the rest of the journey I lay awake, tortured by what Jack had stirred up.

I’m not sorry that you’ve given up being a nun.

What had he meant by that? Was he simply glad that I’d washed up at Mermaid’s Cove, desperate for a new life and with the abilities required for the secret work he was involved in? Or was he like the men on the Brabantia? The ones who used to cast sly glances as I walked past their deck chairs?

Men always want what they can’t have. Sister Clare’s voice floated into my head, all the way from Africa. Was that true for Jack? If Leo Badger was to be believed, Jack had flouted convention to run after a girl from a very different background to his own. Was that something he was drawn to? Pursuing women who were out-of-bounds?

All I knew of romantic love was the summer I’d had with Dan. At the convent, I’d tried to forget what it felt like to have a man’s hands on my body. I’d often drawn blood with the twice-weekly flailing of my shoulders, battling to suppress the rush of desire those memories unleashed. Twelve years as a nun should have squeezed all that out of me, along with all the other human yearnings. But it hadn’t.

Thinking about Jack in that way was like standing in front of Pandora’s box. Did I want to lift the lid? Could I take the consequences if I did?