Lovers in Enemy Territory (4 page)

The Holy Mother gasped very quietly, but both men heard it and Jeffrey began to doubt for the first time that she would grant his request. It was as if in that one intake of breath she’d revealed her shock and wonder over such a

request-- as if it were out of the question. His energy spent, Jeffrey sank back in the chair. Philip put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

It was the Holy Mother’s turn to pace the floor. She clutched the rosary in her hand. The heaviness in her heart was almost more than she could bear. His wet eyes, pleading for help, haunted her like a spectre. She wasn’t unaware that he’d risked his life many times over for others’ children, and she bowed her head to pray for divine guidance. This was a crucial time in the lives of three people. Whatever the decision, there would be consequences either way.

“Holy Mother,” his tremulous voice called out, “I know this request is highly unusual, but I don’t want my son to die.” The plea was uttered more like a prayer, and it reached her heart.

She turned around and moved back to her desk. God did move in mysterious ways. This situation was the kind of thing she’d hoped would never come to pass. Given enough time away from the Norwood child, Catherine would learn detachment. But now— to see him again in his sick condition so soon after the painful parting-- She closed her eyes.

And there was Michael’s father. Catherine hadn’t been out in the world since she was fifteen. What would such a drastic change of scene and surroundings do to this sister under these circumstances? Yet how could she ignore the plea of a grief-stricken father whose child was on the verge of death?

The silence was unbearable. Even Philip who was long suffering in the courtroom awaiting a judge’s verdict in a trial, was anxious.

“Commander Norwood,” she began quietly. “I, too, want everything possible to be done for the child. Sister Catherine has my permission to leave Our Lord of the Lamb and attend to your son. If anyone can bring the will to live back to that child, it is she. “But—“ And she raised a finger of warning. “It must be her decision to accompany you. This sister will have to search her heart to decide if it’s the will of God in this instance. You must be prepared to abide by that decision.”

“Of course, Holy Mother.” Jeffrey’s voice cracked with emotion and a sigh of gratitude escaped his lips. “Bless you.”

*****

Catherine made the sign of the cross, arose and went out a side door of the chapel into the hallway which connected the chapel to the classrooms. It was time for her to begin the children’s morning lessons. Later she would practice on the organ, then take a walk. The walls of the convent seemed to be closing in on her this morning.

She’d been kneeling in prayer, petitioning the Holy Virgin to remove the agonizing sense of loss she’d felt since Michael Norwood’s departure. He’d been gone a month, leaving an emptiness inside her that cried out to be filled. The nights were the worst. She couldn’t sleep. Her skin burned with fever.

The face of the precious boy followed her everywhere. His smile, his eyes-- so trusting, the sound of his sobbing ringing in her ears when he knew he was going to leave her. She could still feel the round arms tightly clasped about her neck, the tear-stained cheeks pressed to hers, the little body inconsolable.

But she’d been able to assuage the pain of parting by making Michael a promise that they would see each other again. He could make a visit to see her later in the summer. Michael had brightend somewhat at the thought, and then naively made the suggestion that she could go to Norwood on a holiday. He’d pressed the issue, insisting that his daddy would love her, too.

His childish desires, so out of the question, tormented her unceasingly. Michael’s was a persistent, determined nature. He was a fighter. She loved him more now than ever. How could it be that she cared so much after a whole month of not seeing him, not laughing at his clever antics? She feared she’d never find peace. Would God forgive her for harboring this uncharitable resentment against his father for taking him away from her?

She rounded a corner and unexpectedly felt a pull on her sleeve. She turned to stare into the eyes of the Mother Superior, sensing an urgency in her demeanor. At this time of morning, the Holy Mother rarely left the sanctuary of her private chapel as it was her allotted time for meditation before the altar. Only a matter of the gravest importance would deter her from her prayers, and for that very reason Catherine grew alarmed.

Some poor child had arrived at the convent, another victim of this ghastly war.

“Sister,” the Holy Mother spoke, but hesitated because her courage almost failed her. “There are two gentlemen here to see you, Michael Norwood’s father and his brother, Lord Philip Norwood.”

Catherine’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Michael’s father...here?” she mouthed the question, wondering what all this could possibly mean. But the discipline of a nun had taken hold and she checked herself while she stared at her mentor.

“They’re in my office, Sister. Michael’s father has a request to make of us. I told him to speak to you. When you’ve heard him out, search your heart to discover God’s will in this matter, then come to me in the chapel and tell me of your decision.”

Catherine had known the Holy Mother eleven years, yet she’d never before seen her behave in such a manner. She was secretive, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. What could be going on? Michael had to be involved, and the thought that there might be something wrong with him caused beads of perspiration to form on her brow.

The Holy Mother watched the nun’s reaction and the gravest misgivings welled up inside of her. Every nun had to face tests. They came at odd hours, at different moments in life. Every nun had to pass through Gethsemane some time in her life. The Holy Mother had the premonition that Catherine had already stepped through the gate of that unfathomable garden of sorrow. It would not be a pleasant sojourn.

“Very well, Holy Mother,” Catherine answered almost inaudibly and walked slowly toward the office. Her willowy figure moved with regal bearing along the hallway lined with stained glass windows. They filtered the early morning light, projecting colors of red, gold and blue acoss the inlaid wood floors.

Her queenly deportment gave her an air of dignity which belied her twenty-six years. Only around the the Norwood child had the girl within manifested herself. The Holy Mother went along to her private chapel to pray for three souls, hoping each would find peace. But she knew deep within her soul that Catherine’s unrest was just beginning.

Jeffrey stopped pacing when he heard footsteps stop outside the door. He glanced back at Philip who was seated at the opposite end of the room, thumbing through a Bible. He admired his brother’s ability to remain calm under this kind of stress, unlike Jeffrey who found relief through action.

He’d wondered for a long time what Sister Catherine was really like. She would have to be special to replace Connie in his son’s affections. He shifted his weight. War was no respecter of persons, but why did it have to touch children? Michael was an innocent victim, and now his life was hovering in the balance because of some stranger-- a motherly type of woman who was important to him in the same way his mother had been.

Jeffrey knew the separation from Michael the past year had not been a good thing as far as their relationship was concerned. He’d missed his son terribly, but he’d had no recourse at the time. Thank heaven for his work at the Ministry. It filled a gaping hole in his life, leaving him no time to ponder his half-alive state, few moments to remember what it was like having a wife share his dreams and his bed.

War left scars and he wasn’t alone in his miserable state. Still, when he thought of Michael, he became ill and understood why men killed almost eagerly at times. He longed to feel that satisfaction deep inside as he chased another Messerschmitt out of the sky into oblivion.

His eyes wandered to the framed maxim hanging on the frescoed wall near the desk. ‘Prayer, twenty-four hours a day. Saint Francis de Sales.’ He didn’t find the thought extreme in the least, not now that his only child was slipping away as the hours passed.

Catherine stood outside the office for a long moment, fighting the uneasiness in her chest. Michael had talked so much about his father, she felt she knew him intimately, yet now she was frightened to actually meet him face to face and hear news about the boy that had to be of a serious nature. Why else would he be here at such an early hour accompanied by his brother? Fear was overtaking her good sense. Finally she turned the handle and opened the door.

The room was always somber for there was only one stained glass window beneath the arched ceiling. It had been designed that way to provide peace and tranquility, to shut out worldly distractions and allow for reflective meditation.

Catherine stepped quietly inside and noticed immediately the tall, adult version of her precious Michael standing in deep thought before a painting of the Madonna and Child. The man’s head was bent in concentration, exactly like Michael’s when he was pondering something important. The likeness was so startling, a slight cry escaped her throat.

Jeffrey heard her and turned around. In the shadowy light he was aware of a fairly tall nun shrouded in a white robe, a cross at her breast and a rosary and missal in her hands. He drew closer. She stared at him in guarded fascination, focusing on the dark blond hair which curled about his aristocratic head. Several careless tendrils boyishly spilled over the tanned forehead. She had to resist the impulse to brush them back as she so often did with Michael’s silken blond curls.

His wide mouth was almost arrogant and would not smile without provocation, she surmised, as opposed to Michael’s, whose dimpled smile would appear spontaneously. She took a step closer to peer into the brilliant blue eyes as penetrating as the Channel breezes, and of the same hue as the water churning around the rocks at Land’s End in summer. Michael had inherited their color, but not their dazzling intensity. His features were strongly defined. He gave one a feeling of security, that he could handle anything.

He stood in such a position that the sun, shifting higher in the morning sky, sent a shaft of light from the window above, bathing his handsome head in golden light. He reminded her a little of the painting of Saint John which hung in the chapel.

Jeffrey blinked. The face beneath the wimple was surprisingly young. She had to be in her early twenties. Yet the majesty of her carriage and the white material draped around her slender figure made her seem older somehow. She was beautiful.

Michael had never mentioned her looks. Jeffrey was momentarily at a loss for words. So this was the sister so dearly loved by his young son. He’d expected someone like the Holy Mother or Sister Margaret. Someone older and much different. It never occurred to him...

He cleared his throat. “Sister Catherine?” he spoke at last. “I’m Michael’s father, Jeffrey Norwood, and this is my brother, Philip.”

The older brother crossed the room and smiled. Catherine inclined her head to both of them, observing the strong family resemblance. Michael’s uncle was older with softer features. His was a gentle face with warm, gray-blue eyes. Michael adored his uncle Philip.

“How do you do, Sister.” Philip was equally surprised at her youth and striking beauty. It wasn’t difficult to see why Michael was so attached to her.

Jeffrey felt a new wave of fear wash over him. He had no way to gauge this young nun’s feelings. It was possible she wouldn’t understand the urgency of his request, that she would refuse to accompany them to Norwood. Generally he’d felt on safe ground with the head nun. Now he wasn’t sure of anything. “Sister? Has the Holy Mother told you why we’re here?”

“No,” she responded in a soft, low voice, unaccustomed to the timbre of the deep masculine voice addressing her. “But I presume it has to do with Michael. How is he?” Catherine had tried to ask it calmly. She couldn’t let him know how much she loved his son. No one could know.

“He’s very ill at the hospital in Norwood losing a battle with pneumonia, Sister.”

She jerked her head up and gazed at him, holding on to the table to steady herself. Jeffrey stepped closer, realizing the news had really shaken her. The color had left her cheeks.

“How is that possible?” she cried out, forgetting her self-imposed discipline.

Jeffrey thought she was going to faint. Not once had he considered the nun’s feelings. It was always with Michael’s needs he’d been concerned. It hadn’t dawned on him that Sister Catherine might have cared for the boy as much as he cared for her, but he’d heard anguish in her cry just now and it tugged at him.

“He caught the grippe, Sister, and never recovered. That’s why I’m here. Michael has been calling for you. He’s spoken of nothing but you since I took him back home. He loves you very very much.”

A sob escaped and a trembling hand went to her throat. Through the long, black lashes her deep-set blue eyes seemed pools of liquid light. She turned her head to hide her anguish, but she’d revealed her true feelings and Jeffrey rejoiced. He knew she loved his son as deeply as the boy loved her. That was all he needed to know. He felt braver.

“Sister, if you would come back to Norwood and see Michael in the hospital, talk to him, tell him those funny stories he’s missed hearing, sing him the French songs he has tried to teach me, then I know he’ll get well.” Jeffrey purposely drove the point home. Sister Catherine was shaking. He could see it as well as feel it. “When he came back home a month ago, he was my Michael again, thanks to you.”