But Matilda was not a ghost. She was alive. And she had fled because of him. He could not allow her to believe she was unworthy of love.
“Peace,” he said bitterly under his breath. “If she thinks peace is found by forgetting, then I’ll have to prove her wrong.”
He descended the steps and strode toward his waiting horse. He had no direction, no map, only her name and his resolve. But he would find her.
He would not let her disappear into silence while he still had breath to call her back.
Chapter Forty
The first bell of St. Brigid’s Abbey rang before sunrise. Its deep, measured tone rolled through the stone halls and out across the quiet fields. It was solemn sound, but not mournful; more like a heartbeat, steady and certain.
Matilda opened her eyes to the faint silver of dawn spilling across the narrow chamber. The air was cool and smelled faintly of beeswax and lavender. For a moment, she lay still, listening to the sound of silence. It was her first morning in the abbey.
She rose, washed in the small basin by the wall, and dressed in the simple grey gown she had been given upon her arrival. The fabric was plain and coarse, but clean and soft with wear. It felt strange against her skin, for it was so different from the silks and satins she had worn all her life. Yet as she tied the cord at her waist, she thought that perhaps it suited her.
No one would look at her here. No one would expect beauty, or charm, or grace.
When she stepped out into the corridor, Sister Agnes was waiting for her, her kind eyes bright even in the dim light.
“Good morning, Matilda,” she said with a smile. “Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough,” Matilda replied softly. It was not entirely true, though. Her sleep had been light and restless, filled with dreams she could not quite remember, but she would not trouble the woman with that.
“Come,” Sister Agnes said, turning down the passageway. “Morning prayers begin soon, and afterward we’ll break our fast. Then I’ll show you more of our routine. There’s much to learn, though it all becomes second nature soon enough.”
They moved through the quiet cloisters, where the air was crisp and smelled faintly of damp stone and rosemary. A few of the sisters were already in the chapel, kneeling in silence before the altar. The flicker of candlelight touched their bowed heads, and for a moment, Matilda felt something stir, something akin to a fragile reverence.
Sister Agnes leaned close and whispered. “We begin the day in silence. The sisters believe that in the stillness of morning, one may hear the voice of peace.”
Matilda nodded and bowed her head, though she heard nothing but the echo of her own heartbeat.
After prayers came breakfast in the refectory, which was a simple meal of bread, fruit, and warm milk. The sisters ate in silence while one of them, seated apart, read softly from Scripture. Matilda found herself watching their faces, so serene and content. None of them looked weary and none of them looked haunted. That gave her hopes for her own mind and soul.
Afterward, Sister Agnes led her through the abbey’s small library and into the garden, where several women were tending to the herbs.
“We each have our tasks,” the sister explained as they walked. “Some sew, some keep the books, some care for the sick in the nearby villages. We live by the rhythm of prayer and work:ora et labora.It is the way of peace.”
Matilda listened quietly. The words were gentle, the order simple, and yet her heart resisted.Peace. The word had become a refrain these past days, a promise and a plea, but inside her, there was no such thing. There was onlyhim.
They passed a group of novices hanging laundry to dry. The wind caught the linen and made it billow like pale sails. The sight was oddly beautiful.
Sister Agnes glanced at her. “Would you like to help in the garden this morning? Or perhaps with the mending?”
“Whichever you think best,” Matilda said.
The nun smiled. “The garden, then. The roses are stubborn this year. They might respond to a new hand.”
About half an hour later, Matilda found herself kneeling by the rosebushes, her fingers brushing over the damp leaves. The scent was faint but familiar, and for an instant it carried her back to the garden at Aberon House, to the rain, to the moment she had kissed him.
She drew in a sharp breath and turned her face away, ashamed of how easily memory could undo her.
You came here to forget,she told herself.You came here for peace.
But every time she closed her eyes, she saw him, the look in his eyes before she’d walked away and the sound of his voice when he’d said her name.
Sister Agnes approached with a small basket of tools and knelt beside her. “You handle the thorns carefully,” she said approvingly. “You’ve done this before?”
“My mother kept a rose garden,” Matilda said absently. “She said one must expect to bleed a little, if one wanted beauty.”
