It wasn’t like that now. Now, Elvera was pale and distracted, and the smooth young brow wore a frown. It was almost, Helewise reflected, as if the reality of what had happened had only now got through to her.
Was that it? Was it simply a case of delayed shock? Helewise had seen such phenomena, following both physical injury and bereavement.
Slowly Helewise shook her head. That wasn’t the answer, she was quite sure, tempting though it was to accept it and pursue the matter no further. No. Something had happened to upset Elvera, something that had occurred since Gunnora’s death.
Twenty-four hours since Elvera had been stricken. Twenty-four hours since Josse d’Acquin had blown into their lives and, as suddenly, gone off again. And it was common knowledge within the Abbey what he had come for and where he had gone.
The coincidence was too strong to be dismissed; the conclusion was, quite obviously, that something about Josse or, more likely, about his mission to Gunnora’s family, had unsettled Elvera.
Why should either be a cause for distress? And in Elvera, of all people! The youngest of the sisterhood, the most recently arrived, the only person who could have been called, even in the loosest of terms, a friend of Gunnora. Helewise shrugged off an unaccountable sense of foreboding; I am being needlessly dramatic, she told herself, allowing my imagination to run away with the thought of a mystery, an intrigue, when, in all probability, what Elvera is suffering from is no more than reaction to what was, after all, a truly horrific event. And, naturally, a certain apprehension, since a girl as bright as she is must have worked out that, sooner or later, she would be summoned to speak to the man who has come to investigate Gunnora’s death.
Yes, Josse said he wanted to talk to the girl, Helewise remembered. Said, when I remarked that she probably wouldn’t last much longer in the Abbey, ‘Don’t let her go till I’ve spoken to her.’ There wasn’t the occasion before he left for Winnowlands, but there’s plenty of time now.
Getting to her feet, Helewise left the cloister and went across to the Abbey’s rear gate. Going on along the track until she could see down into the valley, she noticed a familiar figure just beginning on the walk back up to the Abbey.
Smiling to herself, she retraced her footsteps. On the way back to her room, she beckoned to one of the novices.
‘Sister Anne?’
Sister Anne bobbed a rather graceless curtsey. ‘Yes, Abbess?’
‘Would you please find the postulant Elvera for me — I believe she may be with Sister Beata in the herb garden. When you find her, ask her to come to see me.’
‘Who?’
Sister Anne, Helewise reminded herself resignedly, was not the brightest of women. ‘Elvera, Sister Anne.’ Chastising herself for her momentary irritation, she made herself smile and added, ‘If you would be so kind.’
Sister Anne managed to look both interested and faintly shocked. A summons from the Abbess was — or could be — a serious matter. And for a postulant to be sent for! What could she have done? Helewise could imagine the lurid possibilities racing through Sister Anne’s mind.
There was enough gossip and speculation rampant in the Abbey already; with a quelling look, Helewise said, ‘It is not a matter to interest anyone save Elvera and me, Sister Anne. Now, off you go.’
‘No, Abbess,’ Sister Anne only seemed slightly contrite. ‘Sorry, Abbess.’
Helewise watched her hurry away, white veil flapping, large feet slipping about in the solid wooden clogs: Sister Anne’s particular way of serving God in the Hawkenlye community was in the vegetable patch. Ah, well, Helewise thought, producing a large, tasty cabbage was just as important and, no doubt, as pleasing to the Lord, as spending most of the day in fruitless speculation over the motives of some innocent postulant.
Dismissing both Sister Anne’s cabbages and her own rueful thoughts from her mind, she turned and made for her room. Josse, she was sure, would look for her there; it would be interesting to observe Elvera’s reaction when they came face to face.
Chapter Nine
Helewise, sitting behind her oak table, had only been waiting for a few moments when Josse arrived. She inclined her head in response to his greeting, then, even before she could invite him to sit down, he announced that he’d seen Gunnora’s father and had been given permission for Gunnora to be buried at Hawkenlye.
‘Thank God,’ Helewise murmured fervently. Her mind already turning to the details of the service and where Gunnora might be laid to rest, she was distracted by an awareness that Josse had more to tell her.
‘I am sorry,’ she said, giving him a swift smile. ‘What other news do you bring?’
He told her.
‘Her sister dead, too, and by such ill chance!’ she exclaimed. She couldn’t recall if she had been aware that Gunnora had had a sister. The business of her admission to the convent had been conducted by her father and her aunt. The father, she remembered, had, although weak with exhaustion after the long ride, still managed to summon the energy to give both his sister and his daughter severe and almost brutal reprimands during the course of the brief visit. She said, ‘How is Sir Alard?’
‘Dying,’ Josse said starkly. ‘He is wasting away with the lung rot. He cannot, I fear, have long.’
‘And, with both daughters dead, there is no one to whom he may leave his wealth.’ She should not, she admonished herself, have gone straight to the practical matters; she should have said a few words about the poor sick man, whose sufferings were now so greatly increased by bereavement. Should have made a moment for a brief, compassionate prayer.
But Josse didn’t seem to have noticed. ‘I was going to ask you,’ he was saying, ‘was there any question of Sir Alard bequeathing money to the Abbey? There was a dowry, I presume, but I wondered if possibly he intended to ensure favour in Heaven by a gift?’
‘He provided Gunnora’s dowry, yes, although one had the sense he did so grudgingly.’ She recalled the scene, enacted right here in her room. Sir Alard had looked seriously ill a year ago, so much so that Helewise had thought him unwise to have undertaken the journey. Not that he was the sort of man to whom you could say such a thing, even had she been given the chance; Sir Alard had made his laborious way into the room, supported by Gunnora’s aunt and by a heavy stick, flung a small bag of coin on the table, wished Helewise and her nuns well of Gunnora, and stumped out again. ‘But there has never been any mention of a bequest.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I would consider it highly unlikely. Especially since his daughter’s death has removed her from our community.’
‘Not the man for a magnanimous gesture?’ Josse suggested.
She hesitated, not wanting to speak ill of a dying man. But Josse was after the truth. And, besides, she did not think he would think the less of her for her plain speaking. ‘That was my impression.’
‘Hm.’ Josse was frowning. Aware that, sooner or later, he would tell her what he was thinking, she waited. Presently he said, ‘It looks as if the estate and the money will go to a niece. She’s got a new husband, a fashionable young fellow who seems all too eager to get his hands on his uncle-by-marriage’s fortune.’
‘You met them?’
‘No. The niece, I was told, is staying with her husband’s family somewhere near Hastings. I saw him, though. The husband.’ He laughed briefly. ‘Can’t say I was impressed.’
‘A little uncaring, wouldn’t you consider,’ Helewise said thoughtfully, ‘for a niece who stands to inherit her uncle’s estates not to be present when he is dying?’
‘I do indeed,’ Josse replied, with some heat. ‘The least she could do, I’d have thought, is to show some respect, even if she couldn’t manage genuine tears of regret.’