You Only Love Twice (2 page)

She didn’t want to lie, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone her closely guarded secret. Should she be so foolish, she had no doubt that the sympathy on Sister Brigid’s face would turn to horror.

Witch. Freak. Lunatic. That’s what everyone would think of her if they ever got to know of her Voice. Even now, they looked upon her as an oddity. Sometimes, she questioned her own sanity. But she knew her Voice was real. She knew. She also knew that after last night, she could not go on living this lie.

Her dream of taking her vows and becoming a member in full standing of the Sisters of Charity was now in ruins. That’s why she had given in to tears. She knew
what she had to do. She had to find a way to return to her former life and stop this nightmare from happening. It was the right thing to do. But part of her was a coward. The convent was all she knew. She felt safe here. In time, the other nuns would come to accept her.

It was too late to think about that now. She’d made her decision and she must stick to it.

When she entered the convent, she paused for a moment to absorb the familiar sounds and smells. Everything on this side of the building was muted. On the other side, through the great oak door, was the orphanage. Just thinking about the children made her feel better. She didn’t have to earn their acceptance. They took her on trust.

Tears welled in her throat again and she swallowed hard to keep them at bay. Her mind must be calm and clear for the interview with the mother superior and Father Howie. She did not think they would turn from her in disgust if they knew about her Voice, but she was sure that they would not approve of the course she had decided to follow. They were the nearest thing to parents she knew, the good Father and the Reverend Mother, and had been since she’d awakened in the infirmary to see their kind, compassionate faces hovering over her. They would want what was best for her, would want to cure her of her curse, exorcise her Voice so that she would never be troubled by it again.

It was what she wanted, too. And it was what she feared more than anything.

She made straight for her own little room, with its whitewashed walls and bare wooden floor. The furnishings were sparse, a table and chair, a bed and a commode. The only splash of color came from the patchwork quilt she’d made with her own hands.

She had no possessions from her former life, nothing that might give her a clue to her identity. She hadn’t been carrying a bag or a purse, nothing to identify her, when
she’d been knocked down by a carriage right in front of the convent doors. The patchwork quilt was the only thing that was truly hers.

After removing the voluminous apron she’d worn to protect her habit, she wet a cloth from a pitcher of cold water, dabbed at her face and hands, then went to the small scrap of mirror on the wall to survey her handiwork. As she adjusted her wimple, her fingers gradually stilled and she became absorbed in her own reflection.

She was just an ordinary-looking young woman. There was nothing to distinguish her from the other novices. They all wore black habits and the white novice’s wimple. Then why had the Voice come to her?

They had to be connected. She’d gone over it in her mind endlessly, and it was the only answer that made sense. They must have known each other in the past.

In the beginning, she’d thought her memory was coming back. Her Voice wasn’t a Voice then. She saw pictures, vague images that meant nothing to her. She couldn’t remember when the pictures and impressions had begun to form themselves into words, or when her Voice had become embittered. She’d tried to suppress it, but she couldn’t always remember to be on her guard. Last night was the first time she’d tried to connect with it, and she never wanted to do it again. It was too dangerous.

It was all too bizarre to believe!

Maybe it was a figment of her imagination. Maybe her brain was more damaged than she knew. Maybe her mind was unhinged and she was slowly going mad. Maybe she should be locked up in an insane asylum for her own good.

He wasn’t a murderer by nature, but having murdered once, he could do it again. In fact, he would do it again. His mind was made up
.

A shudder ran over her, then another. Not even her imagination was that inventive. On that thought, she hurried from the room.

•   •   •

The mother superior broke off her conversation with Father Howie and smiled encouragingly as Sister Martha entered her office. The girl was young, but her composed manner gave the impression of someone older than her years.

“Martha.” The Reverend Mother gestured with her hand and Martha crossed to the chair her superior had indicated.

She sat quietly, her hands clasped loosely in her lap, her calm gray-eyed gaze resting on Father Howie’s face.

He was a little man with a long, thin face and, beneath black, bushy eyebrows, alert blue eyes with a decided twinkle in them. Father Howie had been a physician long before he’d become a priest, and had kept a watchful eye on Martha ever since she’d been admitted to the infirmary. The Reverend Mother was a feminine version of the little priest, though a few years younger, and anyone seeing them together knew at once that they must be related. Martha knew they were brother and sister.

He greeted Martha warmly. Her greeting was more subdued, but her lips were curved in a genuine smile. Father Howie took that smile as a great compliment. Martha rarely smiled.

As the Reverend Mother busied herself pouring out tea, the priest embarked on a flow of small talk to put Martha at her ease, but on another level of his mind, he was studying her intently.

Anyone looking at her would take her for the picture of the perfect nun. Not a hair was out of place. In fact, not a hair was showing from beneath the close-fitting novice’s coif. Her black habit might be threadbare, but there wasn’t a spot or wrinkle on it. Calm. Serene. Collected. That was the impression Martha gave, but it was a false impression. No one who had been through what this young woman had been through could be so untouched.

He’d seen her when she was panic-stricken, when
she’d awakened in the infirmary not knowing who she was. He’d been a frequent visitor to the convent then, and had been amazed at how well she had adjusted, amazed and skeptical. It had not taken him long to deduce that Martha’s adjustment to convent life was based on fear of the outside world. He and the Reverend Mother had managed to calm her fears by assuring her that she could remain at the convent as long as she wished. The Sisters of Charity was not primarily a contemplative order but one of service to the poor, and there were always more jobs to do than hands to do them.

And here she had remained ever since, first as a lay sister and now as a postulant. Her dearest wish, as he’d understood, was to take her vows. But that was before last night.

The priest lowered his head and gave careful attention to stirring his tea. When he looked up, he said, “The Reverend Mother tells me that your memory is beginning to come back to you, Martha.”

In her heart, Martha uttered a prayer of contrition for all the half-truths she was about to tell. “It seems that way, Father. But I wouldn’t go as far as to say that my memory is returning. It’s more like pictures and impressions that come to me, some vividly and others vaguely.”

The Reverend Mother said, “Tell Father Howie what you told me after vespers, Martha.”

Martha nodded. “I’ve seen some of these pictures before, but I didn’t know what to make of them. Last night at vespers, I knew I was connected to them. They felt familiar to me.” She was thinking of her Voice.

“Go on,” said the priest quietly.

She breathed deeply and went back to the very beginning, before her Voice had begun to frighten her. There was a village, she told them, and beyond it a great castle. Between the village and the castle there was a house, a manor, and above the manor a hawk soared in flight.
There were orchards and a stream and softly rolling hills where sheep grazed.

There was more, much more—impressions she’d buried deep inside her and had forced to come to the surface in the long hours of sleeplessness the night before. She wasn’t aware that as she spoke her face had become animated or that her voice had taken on an edge of desperation. She spoke for a long time, rarely pausing, giving them the carefully expurgated account she’d rehearsed in her mind. When she was finished, she sat back in her chair and looked anxiously at Father Howie.

“I wouldn’t let it worry you,” he said. “These memories, if they are memories, may mean something or they may mean nothing at all. Only time will tell.”

The Reverend Mother smiled. “There’s no need to be afraid, child. Whatever happens, no one can force you to leave here if you don’t want to. I wouldn’t allow it.”

The Reverend Mother and Father Howie had misunderstood. Martha searched for the words that would convince them of her urgency without betraying too much. “You don’t understand. I must find out who I am. I’m needed. Someone is calling to me. It’s a matter of life and death.” She touched a hand to her heart. “I sense it here. I must find out who I am and return to the life I once had.”

When Father Howie and the Reverend Mother were alone, he rose, walked to a cabinet under the window and removed a glass and a half-empty bottle of brandy. After pouring himself a small measure, he took his chair again.

“I don’t know why I indulge you,” said the Reverend Mother.

The priest grinned. “Because I’m the elder. It’s a habit you’ve got into, Lizzie.” And he laughed at his own pun.

The Reverend Mother refilled her teacup. “What chance is there, John, of finding out who Martha is?”

“Short of Divine intervention, none, I should think. When she first came here, we made an exhaustive search
to trace Martha’s people, didn’t we, and came up with nothing. She hasn’t told us anything new that is really useful.”

The Reverend Mother knotted her straight black brows. “I don’t like the sound of it. ‘Someone is calling me. It’s a matter of life and death.’ Quite frankly, it sounds as though she were … well … hallucinating.”

“It’s possible. It’s not uncommon for eager young nuns to fall into trances. In fact, it happens all the time.”

“Yes, but their visions are usually about the Virgin Mary or one of the holy saints. This is different. This doesn’t sound like Martha. She’s usually so levelheaded.”

“You have a high opinion of that young woman, don’t you, Lizzie?”

“I do, and I don’t mind admitting it. You didn’t see her when she was first brought to the infirmary. She’d been run down by a carriage, almost outside our door. Her arm and two of her ribs were broken. You wouldn’t have recognized her face. Yet, she was very brave. We hardly heard a whimper out of her.”

“An ideal patient, in fact,” he murmured.

She shot him a sharp look. “There’s a lot more to it than that. She was panic-stricken when she came to herself and realized she couldn’t remember things.”

“Yes, I was there.”

“And her progress since then has been truly remarkable.”

“You’ve certainly done wonders with the girl.”

“I can’t take the credit. Martha did it by herself. Most young women in her position would have been reduced to a quivering jelly. She has reserves of strength that few possess. I know she seems cold and reserved—”

“Lizzie, I’m not finding fault with your little chick, far from it.”

“—but if you could see her with the children in the orphanage, you would know that there’s more to Martha
than shows on the surface. The children adore her. And she’s indispensable to Sister Dolores in the infirmary.”

“Yet, you discouraged her from taking her vows. Why, Lizzie?”

His comment brought the Reverend Mother up short. After a moment’s reflection, she let out a sigh. “I was not sure of her vocation, and I saw no harm in delaying. She had lost her memory. If it had come back to her, she might regret the decision she’d made. The convent is all she knows. It’s only natural that she would be afraid of the outside world. Here, there is peace and harmony, and useful work to do. It suited Martha. But that is not a vocation.”

Father Howie’s head was cocked to one side. “Did I ever mention,” he said quizzically, “that you are very wise?”

The Reverend Mother smiled. “I don’t feel wise, John. In fact, I feel … I don’t know … puzzled, uneasy. For three years, Martha has been happy here. Now, suddenly, she is desperate to return to her former life.” The Reverend Mother shook her head. “It would be different if she had regained her memory. Then she would know who her friends were. I don’t want her to leave here as things stand.”

“I don’t think there’s much fear of that happening. As I said, she hasn’t given us nearly enough to go on. However, there’s no use fretting about it. If the good Lord wants Martha to return to her old life, He will clear a path for her.”

“And I,” she said, giving him a level look, “shall pray that the good Lord will deal gently with her.”

She was reaching for the teapot when they heard a cry from the corridor, then the sound of running footsteps. There was a pounding on the door, and at the Reverend Mother’s command, a nun entered.

Sister Brigid’s face was flushed with excitement. She was breathing hard and could hardly say her words fast
enough. “Reverend Mother, it’s a miracle! You remember the woman who was brought to the infirmary yesterday? She’s come round, and—oh, you’ll never guess what’s happened!”

Both the Reverend Mother and the little priest had risen to their feet. They exchanged a quick look.

“It’s about Sister Martha, isn’t it?” said the Reverend Mother.

Sister Brigid did not hear the note of fatalism in the mother superior’s voice, but Father Howie did, and he grinned ruefully. “I think,” he said, “your prayers are about to be answered, Lizzie, though not, perhaps, in the way you anticipated.”

Sister Brigid gave them a radiant smile. “Yes, it’s about Sister Martha. The woman recognized her! Only, she’s not Martha. Her name is Jessica Hayward, and she is mistress of Hawkshill Manor, near Chalford on the river Thames.”

CHAPTER
2