“I don’t think so,” she whispered.
Miss Prim did not turn to take a last look at the house and garden. In accordance with her wishes, which had been expressed as firmly as a military order, neither the children, nor the cook, nor the girls from the village, nor even the Man in the Wing Chair were at the door to see her off. Miss Prim disliked farewells. Despite all the unfounded accusations of sentimentality, she was very conscious that she wasn’t comfortable with emotional scenes: she didn’t know how to handle them or how to strike the right tone. This couldn’t be said of him, she reflected as she huddled in the back of the car and glanced out of the corner of her eye at the gardener’s solemn face. The Man in the Wing Chair always, or almost always, knew how to behave; was capable at all times of finding the appropriate look, the happy or serious expression. Miss Prim believed it came down to manners. Not the kind that could be acquired from magazines, or books on etiquette, or even the kind displayed by people who boasted of having good manners. What he had, and she appreciated it, was quite different, perhaps because it couldn’t be studied or emulated. It couldn’t be taught or learned. It was simply breathed in. It seemed so natural, so simple, so intrinsic to the person that it took you some time—a few weeks, even months—to realize how serenely harmonious such behavior was. Magazine columns, books on etiquette, and correspondence courses couldn’t compete with a code instilled from the cradle, perfected over the centuries since the forgotten dawn of chivalry and courtly love.
As she mused, the car rounded a bend in the road and the huge, solid structure of the abbey of San Ireneo came into view. The librarian contemplated its ancient stone walls, admired its symmetrical beauty, and then glanced at her watch. She had plenty of time to get to the station. She had allowed almost two hours for a journey that took half an hour by car; Miss Prim was a staunch advocate not only of punctuality but also, and above all, of precaution. Out of respect for precaution she had decided to set out two hours early and by that glorious virtue, at that precise moment, without knowing why or even how, she felt a strong urge to meet the venerable monk who lived within those walls, the elderly man whom she had so assiduously avoided throughout that long cold winter in San Ireneo de Arnois.
“Could we stop at the monastery for a moment?” she asked the gardener.
“Of course, miss. Do you want to buy some of their honey?”
“No,” she replied, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. “Actually, I’d like to have a quick word with the padre.”
“With the padre?” asked the gardener, flabbergasted. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” she said, lifting her chin resolutely. “Could you help me?”
“Of course,” said the gardener, taking the turn that skirted the fields and led straight to the abbey.
After speaking to the monk at the gatehouse, Miss Prim entered the monastery and was ushered to the reception rooms, where she was told to wait. She stared at the bare walls until a young monk, wearing an apron over his habit, greeted her warmly and asked her to follow him to the vegetable garden.
“He’s getting some fresh air,” said the monk by way of explanation, apparently seeing nothing unusual in this on a morning when the temperature was several degrees below zero.
She was led down a corridor, through a hushed, austere cloister, and eventually to a corner of a small kitchen garden where a very elderly man was sitting on a bench.
“Miss Prim has come to see you,” said the young monk, before indicating to the librarian that she should approach.
The old man sat up, dismissing the younger man with a tender smile, and invited his visitor to sit beside him.
“Please, take a seat,” he said in a low tone. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Have you?” she asked, worried he had mistaken her for someone else. “I’m not sure if you know who I am, Father. My name’s Prudencia Prim and I’ve been working as a librarian for the past few months at—”
“I know exactly who you are,” interrupted the monk gently. “I’ve been waiting for you. You’ve taken a long time.”
Miss Prim observed the old man’s wrinkled face and thin, frail body and wondered if he was of sound mind.
“They’ve often talked about you,” he said, and she thought she glimpsed delight in his eyes.
“They? Do you mean the man I work for?”
“I mean all the people who know you and are fond of you.”
She blushed with pleasure. It had never occurred to her that anyone might visit the ancient monk and mention her. She’d never dreamed that her presence could have penetrated those rigid walls, filtering into the Benedictine’s routine of silent contemplation.
Before she could say anything, the monk continued: “You’re going to Italy.”
Miss Prim replied that yes, indeed, she was.
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes.”
She frowned a little. She was reluctant to explain herself. The circumstances and reasoning behind her departure were private and she had no desire to share her private life with the old man. And more to the point, she thought suddenly, did she herself really know why she was leaving?
“I suppose I’m not entirely sure. If you asked people who know me you’d get different answers. Some would say I’m going because I’ve been disappointed in love, others because I need to shed my modern hardness, and yet others would claim I’m leaving to look for a husband.”
The monk smiled suddenly and his open, serene expression immediately set his guest at ease.
