“Society can be different and difficult for a young woman,” she said. “Especially one who does not fit in. You have always struck me as somebody who was not made for the life of a high societylady. But you’ve also struck me as somebody who is not meant to be a nun.”
Marianne looked up. “I love God. I do. And I taught Lucien to pray for Henry when he was ill.”
“That means you are a good Christian at heart. But it does not mean that you’re meant to be a nun.”
“But as you said, I am not meant to be a society lady either.”
“It sounds as though your husband is not meant to be a society husband either, but rather a father.”
She shrugged. “Yes, I do think he was meant to be a father. I think he’s a father above all else. And he loves Henry. He adores him. I can see it in his eyes, all the love and affection. And I thought I saw that same look in his eyes for me, even if only for a brief while. But then it was gone. Then it evaporated. Like a flame extinguished.”
“It sounds to me as though he attempted to speak to you before you left.”
“He did say that, but I did not wish to listen anymore. He has never been forthright with me. And every time I have given him a chance, he has...” She shrugged. “I do not know why it matters.”
“It matters because it weighs on you. I can see it. You are miserable. And you will not find what you’re looking for here if you cannot unburden your heart. You love him. Your husband.”
“I do,” she said, feeling miserable as her shoulders rolled forward and she sank into herself.
“But you do not wish to be with him?”
“I do,” she said. “He does not wish to be with me. He made it very clear.”
“He did, but then he attempted to talk to you. Maybe he was finally ready. I have found that we all find our path in due course. Perhaps what it took for him to find his was you leaving. Even if just for a few days, maybe that showed him that he had to talk to you, that he had to show you what is truly in his heart. But you would not listen.”
“Do you blame me?” Marianne asked, already exasperated.
“I could never blame you. Once upon a time, I was in your position.”
Marianne stared at her, her jaw dropping open. “You were a high society lady?”
“I was, long ago. My father was a baron. The line is now extinct. I had no brothers, and my father did not either, so upon his death,the title and the land returned to the crown. But that was long after I arrived here.”
Marianne could barely believe it. “We knew that one of the nuns here was a lady, but I had no idea it was you.”
Sister Bernadette’s blue eyes narrowed. “You knew one of our nuns was a highborn lady? How?”
“My housekeeper. She told Juliet after she arrived. She said she once knew a highborn lady who came to our very convent and became a nun and stayed here. We thought it must be Sister Mary Agnes.”
“Mary Agnes?” Bernadette said and laughed. “Surely not. Her father was a clergyman. She was always meant for the convent, although so was I.”
She paused. “Pray, who is your housekeeper that she knows of me? Since my family’s line was extinct, I did not think anybody still bothered with us. We were rather low in the rank of society, even before the title went back to the crown.”
“Mrs. Greaves,” she said. “That’s the housekeeper’s name.”
“Mrs. Greaves?” Sister Bernadette blinked. “Dora Greaves? She is your housekeeper?”
“Yes. So you know her.”
“Certainly I do. She was my lady’s maid when I was a young girl. Oh, I adored her. She was my dearest friend. We wrote to one another for many, many years, even after I became a nun. But contact ceased perhaps fifteen years ago or so. I am uncertain why. We became preoccupied with our lives, I suppose.” She smiled. “Goodness, I cannot believe that she is your housekeeper.”
Then she gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I am silly. I should’ve put it all together. Wexford. You are now Lady Wexford. And your husband is Lucien. She used to write about him often. Of course, when she wrote me letters, she would do away with the titles, which were terribly improper, of course, but we were friends, and nobody else was ever going to see the letters. She used to refer to him as her little Lucien. Oh, how she adored him.”
“She still does,” Marianne said, feeling odd now that she knew that Sister Bernadette knew Mrs. Greaves and, by extension, at least knew of Lucien.
“The stories she would tell. She thought of him as her own grandchild. His father was a terrible man. Very unkind. The poor boy. It is no wonder he has become the way he has become. With a father like that...” She shook her head.
She paused. “You know, the two of you are not so unlike each other. Your father was not a very good father to you either, and neither was his. I can see what would draw you together.”
