Viola picked at the loose button on her sleeve. While Sister Isabella unbuttoned the back of her dress, Viola pulled off one of the gold-set pearls from the fabric. With luck, she might manage to get a few more of the gems off the dress before they noticed.
It took a surprisingly short amount of time—less than an hour—for the sisters to assist Viola with changing her clothing. She stood in front of them wearing the kirtle, squared at the neck, fitting close at her torso and flaring from her waist to her ankles, her delicate skin itching from the sturdy linen smock underneath. Sister Isabella gathered Viola’s dress in her arms. “I leave her in your trusted hands, Sister Anne.” She nodded and left the room.
Sister Anne tightened a simple, brown, leather belt around Viola’s waist. “I have been appointed by the mistress of the novices to guide you, at least until you become comfortable with your surroundings.” She handed Viola a thin, leather thong and reached for the embroidered bag. “Tie back your hair while I divulge your request to Mother Superior.”
“Wait,” Viola called out. “Inform my father that my possessions are to be returned to England.”
Sister Anne nodded and closed the door behind her.
Viola sat down on the bed, straw, not soft feathers. If she were able speak with her father, her mother’s jewels would be safe, unless, of course, he’d already pledged her belongings to the convent. Either way, they wouldn’t be with her.
She looked at the buttons in her hand. They weren’t much. If the abbess let her retain her mother’s prayer book and rosary, she could remove the gold and silver threads from the bag. Doubtful they would gain her passage back to England, nor would the income they would provide support her when she arrived, but at least she had something
She scratched her arm. She couldn’t keep the buttons in her hand the entire day. She dropped them into her shoe and edged in her stocking foot. The buttons rubbed against her toes, like a pebble. She wouldn’t be able to stand comfortably on her feet, let alone walk. Viola tucked them under a corner of the bedspread, then smoothed out the fabric. It would have to do for a time.
The minutes felt like hours, and still Sister Anne hadn’t returned. Viola stood up and looked out the window. Below, several women tended to a rather large garden, placing their pickings into baskets. She watched them wave and motion to each other, speaking without words.
She heard footsteps in the hallway. Quickly, she tied her hair back.
Anne entered the room without knocking. It was obvious Viola would have limited privacy. She handed Viola her mother’s prayer book and rosary without the embroidered bag. “It was agreed; you are to retain these possessions.”
Viola’s chest tightened. “And my trunks?”
Anne lowed her voice. “I was unable to speak with your father.”
Viola sighed. Worthless dolt. She sent up another prayer that her father would retain them.
Anne smiled. “In time you will take your vows. Meanwhile, you must acquaint yourself with your new home. Your room must be left neat and orderly at all times. Your bed must be made when you leave your room. At night, you will leave your clothing outside your door where it will be collected and washed. Each morning, the waking sisters will leave clean garments. Soon you will learn to dress yourself. ’Tis not difficult, after a time. You shall have a lay servant to scrub your floors, pound your mattress, and empty your chamber pot. When you become a novice, she will assist with your dress.”
Viola glanced around the room. Keeping it clean and organized would not be difficult.
Anne continued. “There is a strict code of silence. We may communicate for one hour a day during recreation; otherwise we work and pray in silence. For the next few days, I have been granted permission to break that silence to assist and instruct you as a candidate for the veil.”
How could anyone not speak but an hour a day? Viola remembered when her father would be gone for weeks at a time. The servants stayed out of her way and only spoke to her if necessary. It was just as well then as now; She didn’t really want to acquaint herself with too many of such stature, anyway.
“Let us go for a walk and I will show you all you have here.”
They walked past the evenly spaced doors until they reached a smaller staircase leading up to the third floor. Anne pointed. “This is where Mother Superior’s rooms are located, including her study.”
“Was that not her room below?”
“That was the receiving room. We do not allow visitors to venture past the first corridor. The only men who reside here are the priest and Horace who keeps the gate and drives the cart. Come. I will show you the tapestry room.”
Anne took her through a maze of twists and turns with an occasional staircase, then stopped at a doorway, past which a large room with windows on both sides captured the full light of day. Two women sat in front of the loom; one looked up and smiled in greeting.
Sister Anne said, “Once you become a novice you will be required to spend at least three hours a day weaving a tapestry. Do not worry, you will be taught. Many of our tapestries are sold to lords and provide a substantial income for the convent. Mother Superior holds high hope our King will purchase one.” She giggled.
Viola began to fear that she would be quickly lost without the guidance of Anne, who now proceeded to show her the scriptorium, recreation room, infirmary, kitchens, choir room, and rooms Viola didn’t remember walking past, much less their use. All the while, Viola kept a keen eye out for her father. Finally, Anne led her outside to the grounds. They passed a vineyard, kitchen garden, herb garden, animal pens, slaughter house, hanging house. The sisters had everything they needed to be secluded from the world.
Anne pointed across the courtyard. “There, the choir nuns have their own rooms. Do you sing? If you’re a songbird, you may be in the choir, once veiled.” She lowered her voice. “You would be excused from working in the tapestry room if you use your voice to honor Him.”
Viola shook her head. Quite often, she’d been told she had the voice of an angel, but she planned to keep that information to herself. The less they knew about her abilities, the better.
“And now I shall show you my favorite place. It is my hope you will find it as gratifying as I do.”
Following Anne, Viola rolled her eyes. For someone who had taken the vow of silence, Anne was quite the clack.
They reached the small chapel, its walkway covered with a colorful mosaic display of tiny pebbles. Anne opened the door, which groaned on heavy hinges. The chapel was quaint. Sister Anne took her up a small set of stairs set toward the back of the alter. They circled their way up the steep, creaking staircase.
In the ringing room sat a girl with a piece of parchment sketching out an image of the Virgin Mary. A small broom leaned against the wall in the corner. To the right on a table, under a rope hanging from a small hole in the ceiling, sat a small hourglass, its sand slowly sifting to the bottom. The girl smiled and nodded.
Anne leaned forward and whispered, “Sister Mary is a fine artist. She chose to be a bell ringer to have more time to devote to her drawings. On occasion, she provides artwork for the tapestries.”
Viola glanced back down and noticed a large painting loosely covered by a cloth. For a brief moment she thought of Anon, the unknown painter. His identity was to be revealed at the Berkeley Ball, but she had departed prior to its announcement. She would have to ask her father if he had heard, to see if she knew the man who claimed the work. That is, if her father ever spoke or wrote to her again.
They reached the top of the bell tower. It was taller than the stone walls surrounding the convent and had a magnificent view of the landscape.
“This is a favorite place of mine. I come to find peace and solitude and to witness the grand display of our Creator.”
Small homes filled the landscape through which a dirt road wound, leading up to the gates. Through the trees, she could see a carriage heading back to the town. Squinting her eyes, she saw that its hood had trunks tie
d to it. Could it be her father’s carriage? She sincerely hoped so. Ahead of the carriage, on the horizon, she could barely make out the port where her father’s ship would be docked. She watched the carriage and prayed.
“Though,” Anne continued, “you do not want to be here when the bell tolls.” She lifted her hand to her ear.
Viola gave a small smile to appear thankful. Sister Anne was trying to be friendly, but friends were not what Viola wanted. She wanted to return to England to complete her destiny.
CHAPTER THREE
It had been a grueling three days since Viola had entered the convent. She hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep since she arrived. Bits of straw poked at her delicate skin while she slept. And the women took to prayer at all hours. They were up before dawn and in bed shortly after dusk. They seemed to Viola like children, stumbling around in the dark, unaware of the world outside of the walls.
As instructed, she set her soiled linen tunic outside her door at night, and in the morning, she found a clean one left in its place. Dressing herself in the mornings was not as difficult as she thought it would be.
She couldn’t find a safe place to hide the pearl buttons, with Sister Anne and the waking sisters entering her room without warning, so she secured them between her breasts, inside her bindings.
Instead of being assigned a position, Viola spent her days in study with the mistress of the novices, a heavy-set woman with a plump, red, pitted face who gave Viola books to read and who watched her intently from across the room. It was no wonder to Viola that the woman ended up here; no man in his right mind would have her.
The meals were as bleak and mundane as her time in study. The lukewarm soups were watered-down and featured tiny bits of cabbage and came with a small piece of hard bread. For one meal a day, they had a serving of meat—dry, stringy, tough. Viola didn’t inquire as to the type of meat; she was almost afraid to ask. Anne promised her that the meals were much better on holidays. Viola discovered the majority of the vegetables grown in the garden were sold at market to provide an income to the convent.
Though her days were spent in silence, the only place she found any peace was in the bell tower. Sister Anne indicated that she was quite pleased at how Viola was taking to the changes. Not many, she added, made it through the first night without incident.
Viola had had no idea of what Sister Anne spoke until her second night when a young girl, whose father could not afford the dowry for both his daughters, cried all night and kept everyone awake. During prayer, she tried to stifle her sobs, but it didn’t work. The choir sang louder than it had on the previous day.
However, Viola was not integrating herself into her new way of life, as Sister Anne believed. She wanted to learn the layout of her temporary home and determine the weaknesses of those around her, which wasn’t easy. The nuns set about their tasks in complete silence, unless words were absolutely needed. They were allowed to speak during recreation, but if someone read a story out loud, the room was quiet and they sat and listened. They acknowledged her presence with a simple smile. Other than Sister Anne and the mistress of the novices, no one had spoken to her.
Then again, Viola thought, that suits me just fine.
A gentle rap at the door brought her back.
“Come,” the mistress of the novices called out.
The door opened and Sister Anne stepped into the room, her brow creased. She looked directly at Viola. “Mother Superior would like a word with you.”
Viola stood up and followed her from the room. Maybe her father had a change of heart. No, he was determined to hide her away. Maybe the abbess wanted to interview her and assess her skills for placement. She straightened her back. If she were to be assessed for a position, she wanted one that would not hinder her.
The abbess’s office was fit for royalty. Expensive, intricately carved furniture filled the room. A large bookcase on one wall held more books than Viola had ever seen in one place. Tapestries, paintings, and fine fabrics covered the walls; over the mantel, a painted Madonna held young Jesus in her arms.
The abbess sat behind a highly polished oak table, her face inversely unreflective, creased. Mother Superior looked ten years older than she did three days ago at Viola’s arrival. She glanced down, her black dress laid upon the table. Her heart sank. Her dress was here; did this mean her father had donated all of her belongings? She dared not ask.
“Viola, the seamstress brought me the dress you wore when you arrived. It was to be cleaned, mended, and sold to provide income for the convent. It appears several buttons are missing.”
Viola didn’t respond. Her mind reeled. She had secured the three pearls in her bindings this morning before terce.
The abbess lifted at the folds of the gown. “Do you know of any reason for this to happen?”
“No, Mother Superior, though a few were loose when I arrived. I fear I may have caught my sleeve in the carriage. My thoughts were preoccupied with my arrival.”
“I remember your clothing fitting perfectly when you arrived. Several of them on the back appear to have been ripped off. Sister Isabella is currently searching your cell. You will wait until she arrives with her conclusion.”
Viola stood stiffly with her hands clasped before her. The minutes ticked by. Viola stared at the lit candle, watching the wax slowly drip down the side. It cooled before making it to the bottom. A bit more wax began to drip, and Viola watched it intently as if, somehow, everything she held dear depended upon the melted wax making its way to the bottom.
“Mother Superior.” Sister Isabella walked briskly into the room to the desk.
Viola took a sharp intake of breath and stared. It was the woman who had assisted Anne with dressing her the first day she had arrived.
Isabella placed three pearls set in gold on top of Viola’s dress. “I found these beneath the covers.”
The abbess lifted one of the buttons and inspected it. Viola could tell that it was from her dress. But the ones she tore off were secure in her bindings. Viola glanced at Sister Isabella; she was looking directly at Viola with a small grin on her lips. Viola wondered if Sister Anne noticed. She hadn’t. Sister Anne was focused on what was in the abbess’s hand.
“Viola, do you know of how buttons matching those on your dress ended up in your bedding?”
“No, Mother Superior.” Viola moved her eyes from the abbess to Sister Isabella and back. “I am unaware of how they happened into my cell.”
The abbess sighed and glanced at Sister Anne. “I am afraid your charge is not as forthcoming as you mentioned.” She looked at Viola. “Have you received duties?”
“No, Mother Superior. I have been sent to study.”
The abbess nodded her head. “You shall hold confession with the priest and take to the kitchens. You do remember your way to the kitchens?”
Viola nodded. “Yes, Mother Superior.”
“I had hoped you would become a fair scribe as your father recommended. Your penance shall be scrubbing pots for a week. That should remind you that you are no longer an earl’s daughter and each of us is the same. We are here to serve God.”
Viola cringed. The abbess waved her hand in dismissal.
* * *
The lingering scent of incense and oils in the empty chapel reminded Viola of her mother, giving her a sense of comfort. She made her way to the altar and called out: “Father?” Her voice echoed, then fell into utter silence. “Is anyone here?” she called out again.
The thought of giving confession tore at her and going to the kitchens pleased her even less. Had she been home, in her father’s house, she would have been sent to her room for a spell until her father’s anger subsided. But here, they treated her no better than a scullery maid.
Viola wondered how Isabella found buttons from her dress in her cell. Then she remembered Isabella tugging at her hair while unbuttoning her gown. The insolence of that woman, Viola thought. How could Mother Superior not notice her scandalous behavior? It was dishonorable, di
srespectful. Her face reddened: there was nothing she could do to prove her innocence.
Still unattended in the chapel, Viola fidgeted with the beads of her mother’s rosary in the empty room.
At least she could pray privately in the chapel. Viola removed the rosary from the thin leather belt at her waist and went to her knees, reciting familiar words while moving practiced fingers across smooth beads.
Her thoughts drifted to Mother, lying in bed just before her death. Since she had been a small child, her mother had promised her the hand of Alexander Dohetry. Marriage to him would result in wealth beyond her imagination, a prophecy given to her mother before her birth. But her mother didn’t succeed and her father pledged her to someone more suitable to her station, Alexander’s older brother, George. Years after her mother passed from the earth, George followed. It was then that Viola regained the hope of marriage to Alexander.
Shortly thereafter, a mere merchant’s daughter, Rachel Drovere, caught Alexander’s eye and he broke his engagement with Viola. Viola trusted her half-brother James to dispose of the twit; instead, James chose to court her as well. Then he disappeared from England. Had he done as she requested, had he removed Rachel, Viola would not be here today. She would have married Alexander Dohetry and used his newly found wealth for a better purpose and fulfilled her mother’s last request: to make England faithful again.
And now she was no better than a scullery maid, blamed for hiding buttons in her cell. Her title, her jewels, her freedom—lost.
Viola felt someone squeeze her hand. She opened her eyes; Anne was kneeling next to her.
“Were you able to take confession?”
“No. I did not hide those buttons.” She needed Anne to know. Sister Anne was the only one to show her kindness since she had arrived.
The bells overhead tolled. The sisters would gather in the chapel for nones.
Anne nodded and lowered her voice even more. “I shall stand with you. Afterwards, take your confession and I will walk with you to the kitchens. Finish your penitence and I will acquire ink and parchment. Then you can write your father.”
A Perilous Beginning (The Pearl Heirloom Collection Book 4) Page 2