The House at Mermaid's Cove(5)

“No one?” There was more than an edge of disbelief in his voice.

“I did it to myself. They call it mortification of the flesh. It was part of what we had to do. Every Wednesday and Friday after lights-out.”

“My God,” he murmured. “No wonder you wanted to leave.” He stood up and went to throw more wood into the stove. Then he asked me what I planned to do if I wasn’t going back to the convent.

“I don’t have a plan,” I said. I paused. All I wanted was to escape my old life. But I had no idea how I would live outside of the order. I was afraid to ask yet more from this man who had already done so much for me, but with no money and nowhere to go, I had to summon up the courage. “Could I stay for a while? Do you need help on the farm? I could work in return for food and a place to sleep.”

I still had no idea where in England I was. That was something else I wanted to ask, but I was afraid of blowing a hole in the fragile web of trust we had begun to weave. I feared it might make him doubt me, make him think I really was a spy.

“Well, there’s plenty of work. But finding you a bed . . .” He trailed off with a shake of his head. “The house is packed to the rafters. It’s been taken over by the government—for military training. They’ve commandeered every room—including mine. And we have a group of children—evacuees—living in the servants’ quarters.”

Servants’ quarters. That sounded quite grand—nothing like the farmhouses I had known as a child. I glanced at the fishing nets hanging from the rafters, at the long black shadows of rods and oars cast by the glow of the hurricane lamp. “Couldn’t I stay here?”

“Here?” His eyes widened. “With the stink of fish and mildew? What would you sleep on?”

I patted the heap of sailcloth. “I can make a bed of this.”

“Really?”

I smiled. “Believe me, it won’t be any less comfortable than a convent mattress.”

“But wouldn’t you be frightened, all alone down here at night?”

I almost laughed. “You know, one of the worst things about being a nun is that you never get to be alone. Your cell is a space in a dormitory divided by nothing more than curtains. When you’re not working, praying, eating, or sleeping, you’re expected to sit with the other nuns, sewing or knitting. The number of times I’ve longed to curl up in a quiet corner with a book . . .” I drew in a breath and huffed it out. “It would be sheer bliss to have a place all to myself.”

“Well, all right.” He stood up. “I can bring you sheets and a couple more blankets. You’ll need a nightgown, soap—that sort of thing.” He looked at his feet, as if the thought of what a woman might need embarrassed him.

“Soap—yes, please. And something to brush my teeth with, if possible,” I said.

“What about a mirror?” He glanced around the room. “There’s no mirror in here.”

I couldn’t help smiling at that. “Nuns aren’t allowed mirrors. Even the one in the cabin on the ship had to be unscrewed before I came on board. I haven’t looked at myself since I took my vows.” That wasn’t quite true. As a novice, the urge to see my own face had often got the better of me. I would glance at myself as I passed the large window at the end of the dormitory on the way to vespers, when the darkening sky gave the glass a reflective quality. The same temptation came when I was polishing my shoes, or the brass inkwells in the writing desks. I used to wonder whether the ban on mirrors was really about vanity, or if it was to stop you from looking too deep inside yourself, wondering if you really belonged.

“I didn’t know that,” he said. “I can bring one, if you want.”

“Well . . .” My hand went to my hair. To fit into this new world, I was going to have to make myself look presentable. “Perhaps a small one would be useful.”

He nodded. “I’ll fetch more wood for the stove, too. It can be cold down here at night. And I’ll bring whatever food I can lay my hands on. As I said, things are very tight. Everything’s rationed. We’re luckier than most, with the farm, but it’s a struggle to feed everyone.”

“Please—I don’t want anyone going short on my account. You say there are children living with you?”

He nodded, frowning.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of taking food that they might need.”

“But you have to eat.”

“What you’ve just given me will keep me going until tomorrow.”

“Seriously?”

I gave him a wry look. “It’s Lent. I’ve been keeping a daytime fast for the past three weeks.”

“But you don’t have to do that anymore.”

“I suppose I don’t.” I shrugged. “But soon I’ll be hobbling around. I can go collecting whelks and limpets from rock pools. We used to make soup with them in Ireland.”

“Please don’t—not until you’re stronger. The rocks are treacherous when they’re wet. When you can walk properly, I’ll take you up to the farm to help with the milking. There’s always some of that to spare. We have potatoes, onions, apples—and plenty of eggs.” He looked over his shoulder as he reached the door. “Is there anything else you need for tonight?”