“Tell me about it,” Marie-Claire said gloomily. “Guess who FaceTimed just before I messaged you?”
“Don’t say Mr. Bouchard!” Lizzie made a face.
“Yep! From New York, begging me to come back—”
“I hope you said no to the two-faced lizard,” her friend retorted.
“I won’t deny it—I was tempted.”
“Marie-Claire,” said Lizzie sternly. “You do know who he took to New York with him?”
Marie-Claire’s heart sank. “Amelia?” she said dully.
“The very one! She’s been prancing around the office like the cat who got the cream since we came back after the break. Soon as she heard you were gone, she was trying to find out why. She even had the nerve to ask me, knowing that you and I are besties.” Lizzie scowled.
“What did she say?”
“She said ever so sweetly in that breathy little voice of hers, ‘Lizzie, is everything OK with Marie-Claire? I hear she’s gone back to Ireland without giving notice, leaving Marc completely stuck.’ So I stared at her and I said, ‘Excuse me?’ And gave her one of my looks—”
“Lizzie!” Marie-Claire laughed. One of Lizzie’s looks was enough to intimidate anybody. “What did she say to that?”
“Oh, she started to stutter, and I said, ‘Amelia, if you need to talk to me about anything work-related, fine; otherwise I’m very busy. I don’t have time for idle chitchat and office gossip.’ She was twittering something about being concerned about you as she backed out the door. I was so tempted to say, ‘Girl, if you were that concerned, you wouldn’t be sleeping with her partner’—and I would have, if you weren’t keeping shtum about it,” Lizzie said grimly.
“So he took her to New York with him?” Marie-Claire said dejectedly.
“He did. No point in me sugarcoating it, honey.”
“And then he has the nerve to beg me to come back! I don’t get it.”
“He’s an opportunist. If you married him, you’d never have a minute’s peace of mind. Guys like Marc are genetically incapable of being monogamous. You know something, Marie-Claire, you had a lucky escape.”
“I know. But it still hurts,” Marie-Claire admitted as an aching pain tasered her heart. “I told him to give me a while—”
“Oh, do keep him dangling.” Lizzie clapped and gave her the thumbs-up. “Honestly, he’s like a bear with a sore head these days. He asked me why had you left. I said his guess was as good as mine. ‘Didn’t she confide in you?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t she confide in you?’ I asked back. You should have seen his face! He didn’t know whether he was coming or going.”
“Oh, Lizzie you’re such a great pal.” Marie-Claire laughed. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, honey, but I’m glad you finished with him before you got in too deep. Go to bed and put everything out of your head; it won’t look so bad in the morning,” Lizzie advised kindly, and blew her a kiss before hanging up.
Marie-Claire turned off the iPad and took some cotton pads out of her toilet bag and began to wipe off the expensive products that had gone into making up her elegant façade. Would things look better in the morning as Lizzie suggested? She hardly thought so.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Brigid woke to the shrill beep of the alarm clock on her phone. It was six-fifty a.m. She had ten minutes’ snooze time, a luxury she allowed herself when she was in the Four Winds. She was so snug and warm and she lay drowsily enjoying the comfort of her bed until a memory slithered into her consciousness and her stomach lurched.
Best face the music and get it over and done with, Brigid decided. She got out of bed reluctantly and brushed her short grey hair in front of the mirror, noting her pale visage. Thanks to the brandy, she’d slept the night through, much to her surprise.
Her pallor was the only outward sign of her inner turmoil. The stomach-knotting, heartsick, roiling emotional havoc that last night’s incident had wrought would be kept suppressed. It was her way.
She gazed at the veil and habit she’d worn for practically all of her adult life, hanging on the hook on her bedroom door. It was a garment she had no right to wear. I’m a fraud, Brigid thought sadly.
She hurried into the bathroom across the landing and performed her morning ablutions, listening to the rattling of the elderly radiator pipes that already had the house warm from the frosty chill outside. Slipping silently back into her room, she donned her habit. Though she felt undressed, unfinished without her veil, she had decided she would never wear it again. Next week, after she’d things sorted out, she would ask Marie-Claire to bring her shopping for lay clothes. Taking a deep breath, she opened her door and stepped onto the landing.
She could see lights under doors. The occupants, like her, were getting ready to attend Lauds in the small oratory downstairs. Her lip trembled and she bit it in an effort not to cry. Be composed, she told herself sternly. This too will pass.
A door to her right flew open, and she knew without looking that it was Marie-Hélène. There was nothing calm and serene about the younger nun. She’d always been a whirlwind of action.
“Ah, mornin’, RM. I hope you slept well in spite of everything. Are you doing OK?” Marie-Hélène dropped a comforting arm around her shoulder.
Brigid’s face crumpled at her colleague’s kindness.
“Come in here.” Marie-Hélène led the way into her bedroom, which looked like a bomb had hit it. Fortunately, Veronique, who had slept in the other bed, which was made perfectly and untroubled by cases, clothes, and other personal belongings, had already gone downstairs.
“Oh dear, this is dreadful. I need to be composed,” Brigid said in a voice that shook, as tears slid silently down her cheeks.
“No you don’t, Brigid,” Marie-Hélène said firmly, handing her a tissue. “Now you listen to me. You have been an outstanding nun. You have given of yourself selflessly. The past—and it’s the far distant past, I hasten to remind you—should not be allowed to diminish one iota of all the stupendous good you’ve done with your life. And it certainly should not be allowed to ruin your future.”
Brigid smiled through her tears. “Marie-Hélène, you’re such a beacon of positivity. It’s something I hugely admire about you, but all I feel now is shame, emptiness, and utter mortification.”
“The shame isn’t yours; it’s Imelda’s. Her behaviour was totally unacceptable. Remember the time I was hauled up before the Mother General and the congregation for getting pissed the night we celebrated getting the Papal award? Dr. Onondaga produced a bottle of gin, and boy, did we give it socks!” She grinned at the memory. “And when Mother Perpetua berated me—and let me tell you I had the mother and father of a hangover—and said I wasn’t fit to be a nun, I told her, ‘Let he or she who is without sin cast the first stone.’ ”
Brigid laughed. “Marie-Hélène, you always were incorrigible. I well remember the stunned silence and then the titters.”
Marie-Hélène chuckled. “First time ever, Perpetua was stuck for words. She was incandescent. But that’s my motto. If it was good enough for Jesus, it’s certainly good enough for you and me. Now, come downstairs with me and hold your head high, RM. Let’s go.”
“Thank you, dearest Marie-Hélène,” Brigid said humbly, greatly moved by her friend’s support.
They were at the return on the stairs when Brigid heard the Mother General say behind her, “Good morning, I trust you both slept well. Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”
“Good morning, Mother General.” Brigid glanced behind her to look at her Superior.
“Last night’s storm has passed.” The Mother General looked at Brigid kindly as they continued into the Oratory. “We will walk together,” she said as Marie-Hélène opened the door and stood back to allow the two Reverend Mothers to precede her.
The candles on the altar reflected their flickering light in the beautiful stained-glass window of the Holy Family, and Sister Anthony’s organ music rippled around the lamp-lit, peaceful room where
several of the nuns were already kneeling in prayer. It had been Brigid’s intention to take a seat at the back, but with the Mother General’s firm pressure under her elbow, she was ushered to the front row and knelt beside her to pray. Her knees were shaking, but a wave of relief and gratitude enveloped her at the support of stalwart friends.
When Lauds was over, they all trooped into the refectory, where Una was ready to serve breakfast. Brigid found herself surrounded by her fellow Sisters, everyone asking if she was all right, telling her not to worry about the previous night, and urging her to enjoy her retirement. There was not one word of judgement, not one snide remark. As she sat nibbling on a piece of toast—all she could manage to eat—Brigid realised her harshest critic was, and always would be, herself… and of course Imelda.
Later, when it was time for the French nuns to depart, Brigid stood in the small parlour, thanking Mother Aloysius. “Brigid, if everyone in our Order was even half as conscientious and dedicated as you have been, we would be doing very well indeed. My last instruction to you as your Mother General is to enjoy every second of your well-deserved and hard-earned retirement. This is your time now. Use it well. And spend every penny your brother gifted you on yourself,” she added, laughing.
“Thank you, I’m so grateful for your understanding and kindness, and so sorry for—”
The Mother General laid a gentle finger on her lips. “We all have secrets, Brigid,” she murmured.
Standing on the front step, waving at her fellow nuns as the pale, wintery sun made a dazzling appearance from behind the hills on the horizon, Brigid heard the words pop into her head: A new dawning. It was almost as though a voice had said it to her.
It was a new dawning in her life, and today was the beginning of it. She had the strangest sense of liberation.
“I think,” she said to Una, who was waving vigorously beside her, “that I’ll get the number of the hairdresser in the village and see if she can fit me in for a haircut. My veil-wearing days are over.”
* * *
“Morning, Maman,” Marie-Claire said warily, standing at her parents’ hotel room door. She’d walked along the beach from the Four Winds.
“Morning,” Keelin said.
“Are you in a snit?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? You and your father ganged up on me last night,” Keelin retorted, stepping back to let her in.
“Yeah, well, I got a shock. It’s not nice, finding out that your parents have lied to you.” Marie-Claire walked over to the window and looked out at the glistening sea.
“We never lied,” Keelin protested. “We just never told you.”
“You lied by omission,” Marie-Claire pointed out snootily.
“What are you, a priest?” Keelin raised an eyebrow and stared at her daughter.
Marie-Claire, taken aback at the riposte, stood with her mouth open for a second before catching her mother’s eye and dissolving into giggles.
“That’s good! That’s very good,” she chortled.
“I have my moments.” Keelin smiled, and held out her arms. “I’m sorry, dearest. I did feel shame, on my behalf and your father’s. How could we not feel shame here in Ireland? It’s in our blinkin’ DNA!” she sighed into Marie-Claire’s hair, hugging her daughter tightly. “And as you’ve so rightly pointed out, I need to deal with my feelings about the past and let them go, if I’m to live any sort of an authentic life.”
Marie-Claire leaned into her mother’s embrace. The shock had not fully worn off that they had hidden something about her origins from her, but she was glad to be reconciled with her mother.
* * *
“Keelin, I’m heading off with John and Philly now, I’ll go round to Imelda’s and sort out your luggage, pack whatever needs packing; then you can collect it from our house. That will save you having to go back there until you feel you want to,” Felicity said kindly, leaning down to kiss her sister-in-law, who was sitting in the conservatory, enjoying a second cup of coffee.
“You’re so good, Felicity. Thanks a million.” Keelin stood up and embraced the other woman warmly. “I need time to calm down and… what is it the Americans say? Process all that’s gone on with Mam. If I went near her in the next few days she’d be a very sorry woman.”
“That’s understandable. And don’t worry; we’ll keep an eye on her,” Felicity reassured her.
“I won’t be worrying,” said Keelin. “And I know that’s a horrible thing to say. Do you wish you’d married an orphan?” She grinned. “Have you ever met a family like us?”
“Well, look at it this way: you’re never boring.” Felicity chuckled.
“I don’t know how you’ve managed not to throttle my mother, living so close,” Keelin remarked.
“Ah, she’s a sad old soul really, and who’d want to be like her? I ignore her carry-on for the most part. It’s the only way to deal with her,” Felicity said matter-of-factly.
* * *
“She’s gone to the hairdresser’s, to get her hair cut,” Una informed them when Marie-Claire and Keelin walked into the kitchen, red-cheeked, after walking from the hotel. “She’s not wearing the veil anymore and she wants you to bring her shopping for clothes, MC,” she added for good measure, enjoying the look of astonishment on their faces.
“Isn’t that marvellous? Every cloud has a silver lining,” Keelin rejoiced. “I never thought she’d give up wearing the veil.”
“It’s very significant, if you ask me. Retirement from veil and job bodes very well for the future,” Marie-Claire enthused. “Una, we’re going to ask her to come to France with us. What do you think?”
Una turned to look at them where she was filling the kettle at the sink. “I think that’s a great idea, ladies. And you know it couldn’t come at a better time. That cranky old boot Emmanuelle has booked in for a few days next week. I didn’t tell RM. I didn’t want to ruin her stay.”
Keelin’s face darkened, but Marie-Claire didn’t notice; she was too entertained by the housekeeper’s description. “A cranky old boot? Is she a nun?” she asked, cutting a couple of slices of brown soda bread.
“Allegedly,” sniffed Una derisively.
“I take it you don’t like her.” Marie-Claire grinned, spreading butter on the bread.
“I do not, nor does RM—or your mother for that matter,” Una said chattily, heating the teapot. “She’s a mean-spirited, nasty little witch and I’ll never forget the day she called you a—”
“Una!” remonstrated Keelin warningly.
“Oh, Keelin, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Forgive me.” Una’s hand shot to her mouth.
“What did she call me?” Marie-Claire asked, staring at her mother.
“Don’t ask me that. It was a long time ago and best left in the past,” Keelin snapped, glaring at Una.
“Was it because you were a nun and Dad was a priest?”
“Yes, something like that, although she didn’t know your father was a priest.”
“Did she call me a bastard?” Marie-Claire probed.
“Oh, what does it matter, Marie-Claire?” Keelin sighed. “Let it go!”
“You know this was my first home. The nuns are my family. Una is my family. I’m fed up with secrets. Tell me,” Marie-Claire demanded.
“Please, Marie-Claire, leave Keelin alone. I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth,” Una pleaded.
“She called you a child of sin. She didn’t want you and me living here. She was the only one of the congregation to raise an objection when I came back to Ireland, pregnant, and Brigid asked if I could stay in the Four Winds until you were born. She was here the day Brigid asked the staff if it would be OK by them. When she was overruled up in Dublin, Emmanuelle took her complaint to the bishop. He told her she should be more Christian like her Sisters. She never came back to the Four Winds until you and I had moved to Dublin,” Keelin said flatly.
“Oh!” Marie-Claire murmured. What a horrible woman this nun seemed to be. “A cranky old boot indeed, Una.
” She tried to lighten the mood, although she was gutted for her mother.
“Oh, she was something else, that wan. But RM let her have it that day. I never saw anyone skedaddle out of here as quick as she did. Of course, she was always jealous of RM, especially when she got promoted. Emmanuelle never made it to the top like Brigid—and why would she? She hadn’t a Christian bone in her body and she was as thick as a plank. A plank with notions, I might add.” Una scowled, pouring out the tea for them.
“Stop it, Una,” Keelin murmured. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Indeed and I will, and I’ll be giving her the lumpiest bed in the house, too. I have me ways and means,” the housekeeper said crossly.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Why did she have aching shoulders? Imelda wondered drowsily, stretching luxuriously in the warmth of her double bed. She yawned and turned sideways to glance at her alarm clock and got a start when she saw it was almost midday and sunlight was peeping through the top of the curtains. What on earth was she doing sleeping in until this hour on a Saturday morning?
And then she remembered. She should have been waking up in that nice little hotel in Butlersbridge, having celebrated Brigid’s eightieth and retirement party. Her heart sank.
No wonder her shoulders ached, she thought wearily. Driving through the torrential rain and gusting winds on those winding country roads until she got to the motorway had been nerve-racking. At times the rain had been so heavy the wipers couldn’t cope and she felt she’d been driving through a waterfall, unable to see where she was going.
Imelda got out of bed and threw open the curtains. It was a sparkling, clear-skied, sunny day, all traces of yesterday’s stormy weather erased. The blackbirds were feasting on the apples she’d left out for them; the robin was perched on the birdbath, surveying his territory.
All seemed normal, but Imelda knew she’d gone too far this time. It was possible neither Keelin nor Brigid, nor even Marie-Claire, would speak to her for a long time, if ever, she thought as she slid her feet into her slippers and wrapped her snug pink dressing gown around her. Well, feck them, she told herself grumpily as she marched into the bathroom. So what if she’d offended them—none of them had had to put up with what she’d had to put up with.
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 23