Frederick had rarely been so embarrassed—for Miss Lane and for himself.
“I am sorry,” Miss Lane said, yet again. “It was my fault.”
They had all gathered with Mr. Mayhew in his office—Rebecca, Frederick, and Sister Celeste Marhic.
“I am the reason Sir Frederick chased after you,” Rebecca explained. “I thought you were ... someone else.”
The woman raised a skeptical black brow. “Who? You have other nuns in this place? Chase them as well?” The sister’s accent was wry and decidedly French.
Miss Lane’s face reddened. “No. Not exactly.”
Mr. Mayhew spoke up, saying in diplomatic tones, “May we ask what brings you to our hotel?”
“My brother is chef here,” the woman replied. “Monsieur Yves Marhic?”
“Ah yes. Of course.”
“Our order lives now in Winchester, but I am here to visit my brother for his birthday.”
Siblings are siblings, wherever and whatever else they may be, Frederick mused, thinking of Thomas’s birthday visit.
“Why did you run?” he asked.
The woman looked at him, eyes dark and sincere. “If you experienced what I have, young man, you might run too.” Despite her accent, she spoke excellent English.
“During the revolution, manyreligieuxwere persecuted, pressured to deny their vows, and if they refused ... executed. Some of us fled to save our lives. Perhaps we were wrong to do so. Weak. But we are human too—fearful and faithful at once. Now many of us live as exiles. Even here, we are discouraged from wearing our habits. I traveled here in secular clothing, coward that I am.
“But in this place built by a woman of faith, I receive courage to don my habit once more.Béni soit Dieu!Today, I walk through the cloisters where many sisters have poured out their prayers. I feel close to them. Close to God.
“But then?” She gestured toward Frederick. “This man chases me. Shouts at me, and all the terror comes rushing back. I ran, instinct taking over, to my shame.”
“You have no reason to feel ashamed,” Frederick assured her. “It is I who am deeply ashamed of my actions.”
“Again, it is my fault alone,” Miss Lane insisted. “You see, there are legends about this place being haunted by the ghost of an abbess who is buried here. Over the last few days, I have seen someone dressed much like you, and I thought ... Well, again, please forgive me.”
The woman watched her with interest. “If you saw someone dressed like this before today, it was not me. Either a ghost, as you say, or another nun, which I doubt, or someone with reason to disguise themselves.”
“Yes,” Miss Lane agreed.
But what exactly was that reason?
After the awkward interview was over and all had dispersed, Rebecca happened to pass Mr. Mayhew in the corridor.
“Again, I am sorry, Mr. Mayhew,” she said. “I hope I have not caused Sister Celeste too much hardship, nor you.”
“Not at all, Miss Lane. Sister Celeste is all gracious forgiveness, as one might expect. I have put her in a better room at no extra cost and have sent up a hot bath and tea tray with my compliments. I have also given her brother time off to spend with her. He is cooking for the pair of them now. Both seem well satisfied.”
“I am relieved to hear it. And...” she added sheepishly, “somewhat surprised you have not tossed me out for the trouble I have caused.”
He regarded her, his expression thoughtful. Then he said, “You and I are not well acquainted, Miss Lane, but Sir Frederick clearly thinks highly of you, and that is good enough for me.Not to mention, I believe Lady Fitzhoward would see me put out of business if I dared speak one word against you.” He ended his little speech with a grin, and she returned the gesture, chagrined and grateful in turns.
Rebecca continued through the hotel, looking for Sir Frederick. Eventually, she saw him in the courtyard. She pushed through the door and approached him, still not sure what or how much to say.
He turned at her approach, his expression difficult to decipher.
She clasped damp fingers together and said, “Again, I am sorry about Sister Celeste.”
He waved a gracious hand. “It is over. And I am sorry about my mother’s rude behavior toward your employer.”
