The Sisters of St. Croix

by Diney Costeloe

  “Yes, yes, of course. Sorry, Mr Brewer, but I can’t quite take all this in.” Adelaide smiled at him weakly. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry, my dear, we can sort out all the paperwork and then you can take everything with you. I expect you want to discuss things with your father, hmm?”

  “Before we do any of that,” Adelaide said, “may I see the actual will?”

  Mr Brewer delved in the file again and producing a document, passed it over to her.

  Adelaide read it slowly, trying to take in the meaning through all the legal jargon. There was a small bequest of £200 to his housekeeper, a Mrs Norton, and another to the head gardener of £100, and £50 to every person in his employ at the time of his death.

  The village green of Charlton Ambrose, where the Hursts lived, was part of The Manor estate, and this plus another parcel of land beyond it was left to the Parish Council to be used for the benefit of the village.

  The residue of my estate is left to my granddaughter, Adelaide Sarah Hurst (now Anson-Gravetty) to be held in trust until she attain the age of twenty-one years, when it shall pass to her absolutely. My trustees, the partners in Messrs Brewer, Harben and Brewer, shall administer the trust in any way they see fit during her minority, including the sale of any property, real or otherwise that I own at the time of my death.

  Adelaide looked up at Mr Brewer. “I don’t see any mention of his daughter, Sarah, I think she was called. Why didn’t he leave any money to her? Surely she was entitled to half, even if I had Freddie’s half.”

  “I believe Sir George did have a daughter called Sarah, but as you say there is no mention of her in the will. It was my father who drew it up. He may know why. He knew Sir George quite well of course, our firm has been his family’s lawyers for three generations.”

  “I see,” said Adelaide. But she didn’t. Why would Sir George have neglected to provide for his only daughter? “It doesn’t sound fair,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s so much money there, she should have had some of it.”

  “I’m sure there was a good reason,” Mr Brewer said gently. “Sir George knew what he was doing.” When Adelaide made no comment, he went on, “I hope you will find our stewardship satisfactory. We have been in contact with your stepfather on occasion over the years, but once The Manor at Charlton Ambrose had been sold, he left us to manage everything.

  “I’m sure you won’t want to take all these documents back with you on the train,” Mr Brewer said when he had been through them with her. “I’ll have them all delivered to you, or your solicitor in London. Our man Dickens will bring everything up by the end of the week. Would that suit you?”

  “I haven’t got a solicitor,” Adelaide said. “I think it would be far better if you continued to handle everything for me. You know exactly what there is. All I would like at present is a regular income if that’s possible.”

  Mr Brewer looked delighted and assured her that it was.

  On the way home on the train Adelaide tried to imagine having seventy-five thousand pounds. The sum was astronomical.

  Father knows that I’ve an inheritance, she thought, but does he know the extent of it, I wonder?

  2

  Mother Marie-Pierre sat at the desk in her office and stared at the letter. Sister Celestine had just brought it in with the other post that had arrived at the convent. It was addressed to Miss Sarah Hurst, a name Mother Marie-Pierre had given up twenty years ago. Seeing it written on the envelope gave her a jolt. She did not recognise the writing. The stamps were English but she had had no contact with England in the last eighteen years. Miss Sarah Hurst. Whoever had written to her clearly did not know her convent name, maybe did not even know that she had one.

  Mother Marie-Pierre picked up the letter and, holding it between her two forefingers, spun it gently. There was no name or return address on the back. It was just a white envelope addressed in a well-formed hand. Miss Sarah Hurst. Convent of Our Lady of Mercy. St Croix. The postmark was London and the date many days ago.

  Probably because the address was incomplete, thought Mother Marie-Pierre, as she stared at the envelope. It’s been so long since I’ve had a personal letter, I hardly dare open it.

  The rest of the post, all addressed to the reverend mother, was convent business, and setting aside the intriguing letter to Miss Hurst, she had concentrated on that business first. Now there was only this one letter unopened. Mother Marie-Pierre closed her eyes in a moment of unspoken prayer and then reaching for her paper knife slit the envelope and drew out the contents.

  The single sheet of paper was headed with an address in London, and signed with a flourish, Adelaide Anson-Gravetty.

  Dear God, Mother Marie-Pierre thought, it’s from Freddie’s daughter.

  She turned back to the top of the letter.

  34 Northumberland Square

  Kensington

  12th October 1937

  Dear Aunt Sarah

  I hope you don’t mind me addressing you as that even though we have never met. I am your brother Frederick’s daughter and so you are indeed my aunt. I expect you will be surprised to hear from me out of the blue like this, but until my birthday in September, I didn’t know of your existence. On the 9th September I became twenty-one and discovered that I had an inheritance that I knew nothing about, from a grandfather I had never even heard of. I also discovered to my amazement that my father, or rather the man I have believed to be my father all my life, is not. My mother died when I was sixteen and had never told me that she had been married before. I understand from my grandmother that my mother’s second husband adopted me as a two-year-old, but until I came of age I had no knowledge of that either. I have questioned Grand’mère at some length, but she knows little of my father’s family. She simply said that she thought he had a sister in France who was a nun. Mr Arthur Brewer, the solicitor who dealt with my legacy, knew nothing about you but suggested that I speak with his father who used to deal with the family business. He is now retired, but I went to see him. He thought he remembered where the convent was and gave me this address, so I hope he was right and that this finds you.

  What I would like to do, Aunt, is to come and see you. Please do say that I may. Until last month I had never heard of either you or my natural father, Frederick. I would love to meet you and hear about him now.

  I will await your reply in hope that we shall be able to meet before very long.

  Yours sincerely,

  Adelaide Anson-Gravetty

  Mother Marie-Pierre read and reread the letter and tears came to her eyes. Freddie’s daughter.

  She thought back to the last day she had seen Freddie just before he left for Christmas leave in England in 1915. He’d been so young and handsome, and though his face had been drawn and his eyes were weary from his time at the front, while they had been together it was as it had always been while they were children. They had lunched together in the embattled town of Albert and bought each other Christmas presents. She still had the pendant on the silver chain, which he had chosen for her as they wandered the town. She had worn it until the day she took her first vows, the day she ceased to be Sarah Hurst and became Sister Marie-Pierre. Now the pendant lay in its box with her only other private possessions, two photographs, one of her parents on their wedding day and the other of Freddie himself.

  Freddie had returned to the front from that leave married to the sister of John Driver, a brother officer. His bride’s name was Heather, but Sarah had never met her.

  “I’ll come and see you, sis, as soon as I get any local leave,” Freddie had promised. “I want to show you my wedding photo. I want you to see Heather… I know you’ll love her, too.”

  Freddie had never come. He was given no leave in the weeks that ran up to “the big push”, the battle of the Somme, and she never saw him again. Freddie had led his men into the mayhem of the 1st July 1916 and had not returned. Sarah had known that Heather was expecting Freddie’s child and it was with a bitter-sweetness that s
he heard of the birth of her niece, Adelaide, in September. “A tiny piece of Freddie is living on,” she had written to her father.

  In the last months of the war her father had asked Sarah to change her mind about entering the convent where she had been nursing, and come home to him.

  “I’ve lost my son,” he wrote, “I’ve lost my granddaughter now that her mother is going to remarry and that man is planning to adopt her. I need you, Sarah. You’re all I have left. At least come home for a while.”

  When the war had finally drawn to a close and she could be spared from the convent hospital Sarah decided that she must go and see her father once more. She sought out her aunt, Sister St Bruno, and explained the situation to her. Aunt Anne was sympathetic. She, too, had left home to take up her vocation in the face of a disapproving and reproachful family.

  “I think you should go and see him, just once more,” she advised. “He has indeed lost all those most dear to him, and he will be feeling very lonely. I know you will be strong enough to withstand his wishes that you come home, but if you are not, well so be it. Maybe the Lord intends you to stay with him for a while. Go and see Mother. Talk to her about it. She is very wise. She will understand and know what is the best thing for you to do. You are, after all, only a novice. If you wanted to leave the convent, releasing you would not be difficult.”

  Sarah took her advice and explained the situation to Reverend Mother.

  “I know that God wants me here with you in the convent,” Sarah said, “but I need to see my father once more and explain to him, face to face, why I can’t go home as he wants me to.”

  “You must certainly go, Sister,” Reverend Mother said. “If you are sure of your vocation, a trip to England will not change that, and if it does, then you were mistaken in your vocation. You may be absent from the convent for one week. Then you must come back and if necessary we will review the situation.”

  Sir George had expected her to return home to Charlton Ambrose, but Sarah had vetoed that. She knew that despite her vocation to be a nun, it would be more difficult to refuse her father if she were back in her childhood home. So it was agreed that they should meet at the home of Sir George’s sister, Lady Horner, in Carver Square.

  The last time Sarah had been to stay with her aunt was on her way to France in 1915. When she arrived at the house this time, nothing had changed. She paused on the windswept doorstep and looked round the rather shabby square. It all looked the same and yet her last visit seemed an eternity away. When the door was opened, Roberts, the butler, greeted her in the hall, addressed her as “Miss Sarah” and showed her into Lady Horner’s drawing room, without a flicker of surprise at her unusual dress.

  Her father was waiting for her alone in the room. As she was announced he rose unsteadily to his feet and looked across at his daughter, his beloved Sarah, swathed in a floor-length black robe and her face framed by a starched wimple and headdress.

  She paused on the threshold, smiling uncertainly. “Pop…?” She held out her hands and then as he still made no move, she crossed the room to him, and took his hands in hers. For a moment her eyes searched his face. He looked older, much older. His eyes had sunk into their sockets, his skin was parchment, his grey hair wispy and thin.

  “Pop,” she said again. “Dearest Pop, aren’t you pleased to see me?”

  “Sarah.” His voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat. “Sarah, I can’t bear to see you dressed like that.”

  “It’s still me inside, Pop,” she said gently, and reached up to kiss his cheek. Her hood got in the way and he made an impatient exclamation.

  “For God’s sake, Sarah,” he said, “can’t you take that damned headgear off so I can get a proper look at you?”

  Sarah had known it would be difficult for him, but she hadn’t realised just how difficult. With trembling hands she unbuttoned her collar and removed the starched headdress, revealing her hair cropped short underneath, a ragged urchin cut, kept short with an unconcerned slash of the scissors.

  “Oh Sarah, what have they done to your beautiful hair?” he cried.

  “It’s more comfortable to keep it short, Pop,” she said shakily, “and no one can see how it looks.” It had taken Sarah, herself, some time to come to terms with the loss of her hair. When she had first gone to the convent it was long and thick, and had to be bundled up out of the way under her nurse’s cap.

  She had put her arms round him then, an awkward embrace until he had suddenly returned it with a crushing hug.

  “If you would like me to change, Father,” Sarah said softly, “I have permission to wear my old skirt and blouse within the house.”

  “Permission!” Sir George almost shouted the word, and then as suddenly his shoulders sagged and he said quietly, “It would please me to see you once more as you were when you left… except for…” he waved a hand in the direction of her hair.

  Sarah went to her room and removed the long black habit, replacing it with the white blouse and grey skirt that she had worn for nursing in the convent hospital. She stared at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t seen her face since she had taken the veil of a novice. She looked much the same, she decided, though her short hair gave her face a different shape from when it had been crowned with a tumble of dark curls. In the days before the war she could look very sophisticated with her hair swept up off her face, emphasising her slender neck. Now she looked like a scrubbed-up charity child.

  Feeling almost undressed in her plain skirt and blouse, she returned to the drawing room where her father awaited her and where Roberts had brought in the tea tray.

  They had sat down and talked then, mostly about Freddie and the wife and child he had left behind.

  “Heather is marrying again,” Sir George told her. “Some chap in the city. I understand he’s planning to adopt little Adelaide.”

  “Perhaps that’s the best thing for them both,” Sarah replied. “Freddie wouldn’t have wanted Heather to spend the rest of her life alone, would he?”

  Sir George sighed. “Maybe not, but it’s hard to see your son replaced so quickly.”

  “It’s not that quickly, Pop,” Sarah answered gently. “It’s almost three years since he died. Adelaide will be three in September, she needs a father. Freddie wouldn’t have wanted to deny her that.”

  “She needs a grandfather, too,” said the old man bitterly, “but they never come down to Charlton Ambrose to see me. The only times I’ve seen my granddaughter are when I’ve come up to London expressly to do so. I am allowed to visit her at her maternal grandparents’ home for half an hour, always in their company. It’s as if they thought I was going to run off with her.”

  “Shall I be able to meet Heather and Adelaide while I’m here?” asked Sarah eagerly.

  Sir George shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. They’re visiting friends in Derbyshire.”

  “Didn’t you let them know I was coming?” asked Sarah in dismay. “Didn’t you tell them I was coming? You must have known I’d want to see Adelaide.”

  “I told them,” Sir George said heavily. “I said that you’d want to see Adelaide, but they said they were engaged to join a house party for a week in Derbyshire and felt it would be rude to cry off.”

  “The very week that I am able to come home?” asked Sarah, incredulous.

  “Precisely,” said Sir George. “This is what I am saying. We are to be cut out of that child’s life. This Richard Anson-Gravetty is to be her father now. Freddie is to be forgotten.” His voice cracked as he spoke, and he looked away. Sarah longed to hug him and comfort him, but she knew that he might break down and would be ashamed of such weakness, so she simply waited in silence for him to regain his composure.

  Sarah stayed for five days in Carver Square. She didn’t leave the house as that would have required her to don her habit once more, and she knew her father hated to see her in it. They spent their days talking, talking as they had never talked in all their years. Both of them realised that this would be
the last time they saw each other in this world, and each of them clung to every minute.

  Then, at last, on her final evening in London Sir George grasped the nettle. “You won’t be coming home again, will you, Sarah?”

  They were sitting on either side of the fireplace and Sarah looked across at him with tears in her eyes. “No, Pop darling, I shan’t.”

  The endearment, so unusual between them, was nearly his undoing, but he managed to maintain his countenance. “Then we must discuss what will happen when I die.”

  Sarah stared at him uncomprehendingly. This turn of conversation was entirely unexpected.

  “There is no one to inherit the title. I suspect if Adelaide had been a boy they wouldn’t have been so quick to change her name. Still, be that as it may, I intend to make her my heir in everything else. You will be provided for now. I am going to give you a dowry for your convent, and that will be now, not in my will. Everything else I shall leave in trust for young Adelaide, to be hers absolutely on her twenty-first birthday, but I shall choose the trustees. That man shall not get his hands on her money at any stage.”

  “Is he really as bad as you make him out to be?” asked Sarah.

  “Probably not,” admitted her father, “but he’s a damned cold fish. I am sure it is he that prevents Heather bringing the child to see me. He wants nothing to do with her former husband’s family. He’d probably prefer Heather without the child, but even she wouldn’t hear of that, meek little thing though she is. Can’t think what Freddie saw in her!”

  “Pop,” said Sarah, “you must do whatever you think is right for Adelaide. It is very generous of you to give me a dowry for the convent. I know you don’t want me to go back, but it’s where I belong.”

  Sir George looked away again and murmured, “On that we shall have to agree to differ, my child.”

  Wanting to change the subject, Sarah said, “Do you know how Molly is? Molly Day and her baby?”