The Sisters Mortland

by Sally Beauman

  Souls of those who once were with you.

  From the realms of Chibiabos

  Hither have we come to try you,

  Hither have we come to warn you…”

  Lucas emerges at last. He has a rolled-up towel under his arm—so it was true, he did intend swimming. He steps out onto the gravel and lifts his face to the sun. I think how thin and sharp and hungry he looks, with his unkempt hair and his narrow, alert face. His odd tawny eyes are set too close together; he resembles a hawk or a kestrel—and, as they are, he’s solitary. Lucas avoids the others. He likes to be alone. He likes to hunt alone, too—or so I think. I’d like to know what he hunts and why.

  He closes the heavy refectory door, and—yes—padlocks it. He puts the key in the pocket of his old, paint-stained trousers and turns down the path to the valley below. He passes under the huge arch where the nunnery gates once stood. The high boundary walls that once supported this arch have crumbled away, and there’s now only a plank over the moat ditch. Lucas strolls across it and disappears out of sight. I wait exactly five minutes and twenty-eight lines more.

  Then, when I know it’s safe, I scramble out from the yew and make for the windows at speed. I can’t believe that Lucas would close and lock all of them, not on a day as hot as this one, surely? All I need is a tiny gap, just one of six left unsecured. I can be in and out in an instant—and I’ll see what Lucas has drawn in his sketchbook. I’ll see the Maisie that he sees. I want that so much, it’s making me breathless. I’ll see his version of me—and I’ll see his version of the sisters Mortland as well.

  The sun beats down on my head. A jet from the American air base at Deepden screams past, low in the sky. It’s hot. The plane’s thunder makes the air reverberate, lightning flashes on its wing. I check each tall window in turn. Every one of them is forbiddingly fastened. He’s closed the interior shutters as well. I inch along the window wall, craning my neck, pulling, and pushing—and then feel anxious. What if Lucas comes back? Suppose he left something behind and returned to get it? Better make sure.

  I run across to the entrance arch. My gaze angles down the lane, across Acre Field. There are fewer hedgerows now. Mr. McIver, to whom Gramps sold the tenant farms and almost all of our land, has embarked on what he calls “rationalization.” Acre Field is unaltered, and it’s still pasture, but the five fields beyond it—they have gone. Nuns’ Field, Grandage, Pickstone, Wellhead, Holyspring: I recite their names under my breath. Boundaries unchanged for centuries, and in one year efficient Angus McIver has obliterated them. He’s created one vast, unhedged fifty-acre wheat prairie. The wild orchids in Wellhead will never bloom again.

  I can see farther, though, now that the hedgerows have gone. To my right, I can see Nun Wood, which lies between the cloister ruins and Holyspring—it’s overgrown now, but the path to the sinister building the nuns made there can just be glimpsed. To my left, I can see the river winding along the valley—and there’s no sign of Lucas. Where has he gone?

  I narrow my eyes and scan. The roofs of the cottages; the three new bungalows on the village outskirts; the Pines, where Colonel Edwardes rears his Heavy Hogs; the Old Rectory gardens; the Doggett brothers’ apple orchards; Angus McIver’s barns; the road… No Lucas anywhere. Then I spy him. He’s chosen to swim in Black Ditch, perhaps because it’s less polluted than the river. The river water used to run cool and clear, but it’s now sluggish and patched with scum. Lucas isn’t wearing a bathing suit—that could be another reason. Black Ditch is less visited than the river, where a few optimistic fools still fish from time to time.

  I see a distant, white naked shape raise its arms, leap, and plunge. The water in Black Ditch is icy—and I’m safe. I run back to the windows, and what do I find? I find that Lucas has made an error. The third window on the left is closed, but its shutter is ajar. There’s a dark, narrow gap, and if I climb on the sill and press against the glass, I can make out a pale shape propped against the largest of the easels. It’s the portrait. It must be the portrait. Lucas must have been working on it. The screens have been removed.

  I press my face tight against the glass. It burns my cheek. A blue-bottle buzzes by my ear. A freckled spider, spinning a trap between the astragals, retreats to the corner of its web. It watches me with refracting, jeweled eyes. Almost, almost: If I can refine my angle of vision just a little more. I edge along the sill and try again. My eyes are adjusting to the interior darkness now. I raise my hands to shade out the sun. I teeter on the sill, which is so narrow that it’s hard to balance. I’m now at the perfect angle. I stare.

  Propped against the easel, angled with care, in such a way that Lucas must have calculated it would be readable, is a large white piece of cardboard with a message on it. It reads: “MAISIE, GO AWAY.”

  I drop to the ground. I’m saddened. I’m giddy. That shotgun fires again. In the distance, I can hear Stella calling my name. This is a betrayal. Lucas has betrayed me. I’m seasick with dismay.

  My Mother Superior comes to me then, as she always does in times of trouble. Light of foot, silent on the gravel, green-eyed Isabella flies to my side. She takes my hot hand in her cool one and gently wipes my eyes. We pace back and forth, side by side. We walk up and down until I am calm again. I shall repay Lucas for this, I decide. He’ll prize no more secrets out of me. And he’ll be the loser—now I shall never tell him my greatest secret, the secret I’ve kept safe for seven years.

  I almost told him this morning—because sometimes it weighs on me, and I long to unburden myself to someone. But I’m glad I kept silent. Serve him right, with his “Run along, Maisie,” and his padlock, and his insolent message. He isn’t worthy of the truth; I see that now. So I shall never tell him what I saw in Bella’s crystal—and I shall never tell him why the crystal shattered. My secret will remain eternally inviolable: That is my resolve.

  Isabella inclines her head in quiet approval. Maisie, where are you? Stella calls, closer now. I can hear her anxious footsteps on the path.

  One o’clock. We’re here. I’m here, I reply.

  part ii

  The Lovers

  I am returned now, Winifride, from the visit to my brother’s manor at Elde. He still believes he can persuade me to renounce my vows and marry, so the usual brotherly threats passed the days. I had hoped to find a letter from you on my return: I looked forward to it as a starving man would bread and wine. When I found nothing, I felt afraid.

  You will chide me for this and ask what practical progress I have made. Well, Sister, I will answer that I have dismissed the first rascally team of masons, that their replacements are industrious, that I learn from my mistakes, and that the buildings we planned together begin to grow at last. I will answer that I work ceaselessly.

  And I will confess that I am lonely, Winifride. There are good women among the sisters here, but not one to whom I can open my heart. This enforced silence weighs on me.

  Write, I beg you—and, as you love me, Sister, do so soon.

  —The Letters of Isabella de Morlaix to Winifride of Ely, 1257–1301, edited and translated from the Latin, V. B. S. Taylor, 1913

  My darling Stella, It’s done! I’ve fixed it with the CO, & the chaplain & Pa. And, guess what, darling? We won’t have to wait weeks while they fiddle-faddle around with banns, we can do it by special licence, this Friday in the chapel here at the base. It’s not the most romantic place, darling, but we don’t care about that, do we? I’d marry you on a rock in the Pacific—I’d swim the Pacific to get to you, if need be. Oh darling—I hope this makes you as happy as it makes me. The squadron’s been up twice already today—two of the new boys bought it, one was only 18, with 9 hours’ training. I took out a 109—the pilot bailed out, but he got his chute tangled & I’m not sure if he made it. I managed 30 minutes’ shut-eye, & now I’m fine. I feel immortal this morning, thanks to you, my darling one. All I can think about is our future, & what we’ll do at the Abbey after the war. Let’s have lots of babies—how about six girls who’re
nearly as beautiful as you, darling, & a couple of boys like me? Sweetheart—we’re being scrambled—love you with all my heart—Guy.

  —Daddy’s forty-second letter to Stella, dated from the postmark, July 30, 1940. Assembled and arranged for posterity, in a new leather album, 1962, by M. Mortland, his third daughter, aged 9.

  [ five ]

  Vigils

  No one in our family looks forward to the visits to Elde. Stella, who knows that, always tries to compensate and to cheer us the night before. And so tonight she’s made a special dinner and, as it’s such a warm, still, perfect summer’s evening, we eat it outdoors.

  Nicholas Marlow and Dan set up a long trestle table in the cloister courtyard, Stella swathes it in one of the starched damask cloths that usually appear only at Christmas, and I decorate it with a line of candles in glass shields. Finn arranges pyramids of fruit on vine leaves, Gramps descends to the cellars with Dan, and—after a long search—they return with armfuls of bottles. Gramps says that one of them—it had been hiding itself away for just such an occasion—contains a legendary, magical wine. We fetch the good glasses in its honor. In the kitchen, Stella and Julia are decorating a rabbit terrine with bay leaves; Dan shot these rabbits, three of them, yesterday. A chicken and a guinea fowl are roasting—Celia and Rosalind are roasting. They’ve been basted with butter and sprinkled with thyme, and they smell tempting, but I won’t be eating them. I am now a vegetarian: Someone has to make a stand. In the slow oven, there’s a great earthenware dish; peppers and aubergines, tomatoes and courgettes, all from our greenhouse, are simmering away. The air is fragrant and festive—and perhaps the smell of good food reaches as far as the refectory, for just as everything is ready, Lucas appears. Another chair is fetched, we run relays back and forth to the kitchen; at eight, when the sky is still warm, when the first stars can be glimpsed, and the shadows are mauve, we sit down.

  I’m on one side of the table, between Gramps and Stella, the customary place for the invisible girl. Dan and Nick Marlow have taken the two ends, and opposite me, Lucas sits in the center, with my sisters flanking him.

  “I trust you enjoyed your swim, Lucas,” I say at the first opportunity. I’m careful to give no hint of the true situation: Let Lucas remain in a state of uncertainty. I can see him thinking, Did Maisie read my notice or didn’t she?

  Julia lights the candles. I watch them gutter, then flame. And I watch something else ignite, too, something fueled by the twilight, by the wine, by the still, sweet evening air. It passes from face to face, from hand to hand, around the table. It is a flickering, insubstantial thing. I think it might be contentment; it could be something fragile, like hope or joy; it might be something dangerous, like rivalry. I can feel it brush past me, a ghost in the air. I can see it in my sisters’ faces and in the faces of the three young men. Nick is the gravest, the quietest, and the most contained. Lucas watches, watches, with his Argus eyes. Dan—who is a little drunk—is the wildest of the three, talking, arguing, flirting, teasing—it’s a fireworks display.

  And it’s laid on for Finn’s benefit. He rests a hand on hers for emphasis, Finn meets his eyes, and—in the flicker of the candles—I see that look happen again. It’s very brief, and it seems to make Finn self-conscious. She moves her hand and turns away. I watch the swallows hunt the skies. When the fruit and the cheese are brought out, Gramps rises and pours the special wine into the tall, slender glasses—even I am given some. It’s a historic wine, gathered the summer before the war.

  “It’s delicious, sir,” Nick Marlow says. “Nineteen thirty-eight. That’s the year my parents first came to Wykenfield.”

  “Remember it well!” Gramps says, raising his glass.

  Nick has excellent manners and always knows how to draw Gramps out. This is kind; on occasions like this, he does tend to get ignored. “What do you remember of that year, sir?” Nick continues. “Well, to tell you the truth, not much, I’m afraid,” Gramps replies. “It’s all a bit of a blur. I think I spent most of it listening to the wireless—I knew another war was coming, and I was waiting for those politician johnnies to wake up, I suppose. I was worrying about Guy—I knew he’d join up the instant war was declared. But”—he raises a finger and wags it—“the very same question you’ve just asked occurred to me earlier, when Dan and I found the wine. So I hunted out my old diary—always keep them, you know—and here it is! Nineteen thirty-eight. So let’s see what I was up to.…”

  He’s produced a small red leather booklet. Julia sighs and rolls her eyes. Gramps thumbs the pages. I can see that they’re all blank—unlike me, Gramps is not a keeper of records, and if he notes down appointments at all, he’ll write on the back of an envelope or some other scrap of paper that he can be sure to misplace very soon. Blank page, blank page—and then, at last, an entry. I crane my neck and read. It says, “GUY’S BIRTHDAY!!!” My father would have been eighteen. Gramps closes the little book at once and puts it away.

  “Well, it was a good harvest that year,” he says quickly. “I can certainly remember that. McIver had been my tenant for about five years, and he’d made a lot of improvements. Drainage and so on. So we had a bumper harvest. The milk yields improved. I was thinking of going into pigs, Tamworths, just in a small way, pigs are interesting animals, highly intelligent—but McIver was against it. Still, never mind that, too long ago, very boring for you youngsters. You’re not interested in the past, too busy thinking about the future, and so you should be, only natural—love, life, marriage, careers—”

  “Exactly,” Lucas says, making me jump. “We’re on the edge of a new era. We are poised on the brink of life,” he goes on. “The question is—shall we swim upriver or down-? Finn, Julia, what do you think? Shall we head for the ocean or the source? Dan, which do you favor? Nick, which will it be, the shallows or the rapids?” He frowns. “No, don’t answer. You don’t need to—I can predict. I know what each of you will choose.”

  I do, too, I decide—and I’ll be more accurate than Lucas, who is, I suspect, no more sober than Dan. I give him a cold look. I don’t like the tone he’s used, and I don’t like the way he interrupted Gramps. I don’t like the way he’s excluded the three people on my side of the table, either. Don’t we have futures? Don’t we have a choice? Upriver or down-?

  “I doubt it’s that simple, Lucas,” Nick Marlow replies. “Some rivers are subject to tides. They all have currents. You might choose to swim upriver and get swept out to sea. You shouldn’t forget that. Build it into your calculations before you predict, maybe.”

  The remarks are made quietly, but they’re corrective; Lucas frowns. He doesn’t like to be challenged—and I suspect he doesn’t like Nick, either. I can’t be sure. “How very wise you’re getting, Nick,” he says. “I blame medicine. It must be all those hours you spend with the dead, the diseased, and the demented. Stop being boring and rational. It’s not a question of currents and tides. It’s a question of willpower.”

  “Oh, give it a rest, Lucas. Retract your claws,” says Finn.

  “Finn’s right. Don’t spoil things. And don’t start,” says Dan. Julia smiles. She enjoys nothing so much as contention.

  “To all your futures,” Gramps says in a firm tone—he may be ineffectual at times, but dissension at table is one thing he will not tolerate. I can tell that he’s time traveling: He’s thinking of the past, and my father, and other celebrations held here—celebrations that looked to a future very different from the one that lay in store.

  I sip the wine, which tastes green and fresh, gold and warm. The shallows or the rapids? I think. The source or the ocean? Which will I choose when the moment comes? I watch the sky, which is fading from silver to gray to black. The swallows and the swifts have disappeared, and the tiny pipistrelle bats (Pipistrellus pipistrellus) that nest in the Abbey’s roof are now hunting in their place. They flicker overhead and swoop low by the cloister walls. Soon it will be night. An owl shrieks in the beech avenue, and my nuns, who returned to their cells after
Compline, murmur and meditate. Eventually, Stella notices how quiet I am and touches my arm. Time for bed, darling, she says. You’re worn out. You’re half-asleep.

  And I’m spirited away. I climb the stairs to my room and open the window—it’s such a hot night. Below me, in the cloister courtyard, the candles on the table still glimmer. I can see the firefly lights of cigarettes. Dan is opening more wine, and Lucas is pouring it. Gramps has withdrawn—he’ll be on his way to the library to get drunk. He always hits the bottle once a year, the night before we go to Elde. Now they’re free—these five are free—from restraint. Julia slips inside and puts on a record—not too loud, but loud enough. She dances back to the twilight, raises her slender arms, moves to an irresistible beat. Talkin’ ‘bout my g-g-generation, stammers an angry, famous voice. Stella comes into my room with a glass of warm milk.

  She draws the curtains and settles me in bed. I lie back in my white nightdress, on my white pillow, under white sheets. Outside, it’s still light. Stella settles herself in her old place, in the chair by my bed. She knows I dislike going to Elde as much as she does, so tonight she’ll tell me a story the way she did when I was younger. She leans her head back and closes her eyes. There are tired lines around her eyes and threads of gray in her fine, short, dark hair. I know she’s fretting about a thousand things—she always is. “Tell me how you met Daddy,” I say. “But you have to begin at the beginning, and leave nothing out.”

  And so Stella does. She tells me how she was born in Edinburgh, how her father took his family to Canada when she was six months old, and how she grew up on a farm in Ontario, dreaming of a Scotland and an England she’d never seen. She tells me what a bookworm she was as a child; how she devoured books, how books were her sustenance, just as they are Finn’s. “Mine too,” I say, but Stella doesn’t like the books I like, and as usual she isn’t listening. She presses on.