Bride of a Distant Isle by Sandra Byrd Page B

never met her mother,” Edward insisted. “It’s not likely you’d know.”
    â€œI do remember seeing them once.” Morgan stroked his beard and looked at the ceiling, where porcelain cherubs floated ethereally. “Ah, yes. In a portrait of the sisters, in the ballroom.”
    I looked at Morgan, fear coursing through me. He smiled and winked.
    He had been following me, stalking me like the prey he’d had mounted in his townhome.
    Edward got up and made his way down the vestibule—leaving me alone and unchaperoned with Mr. Morgan!
    â€œI should like to have your portrait painted,” Morgan said. “What shall you wear?”
    â€œYou shall not have my portrait painted,” I answered.
    â€œWe’ll start with a cameo, then.” He bit into his egg, and I heard a doorway open in the distance, and then close again. Edward made his way back and said nothing further, though he gave me a hard look.

CHAPTER TEN

    HIGHCLIFFE HALL, PENNINGTON PARK
    JULY, 1851
    T rue to her word, as I knew she would be, Lady Somerford arrived on Sunday to fetch me, unusually, herself, so that I might attend Mass at Pennington. Her footman helped me, and I sat opposite her for the short ride. Although the driveway was uneven, this ride was smooth because of their expensively appointed carriage.
    â€œI cannot thank you enough,” I said. “I was in despair over losing the comfort and guidance of my faith. I prayed, and magically you showed up with a solution.”
    â€œNot magically, my dear.” She reached across the aisle and squeezed my gloved hand in hers but for a moment. “Divinely. And I’ve been looking forward to your company.”
    â€œI, too.” The carriage rolled down the drive and onto the now smooth, better-tended road that led us west. “I’m delighted to learn you’ve provided the property for the Benedictine school. Your name had never been mentioned.”
    â€œMy husband does not like it to be trumpeted about,” she said, and then quoted Holy Scripture. “ ‘But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth.’ ”
    I nodded. “I felt such comfort there.”
    â€œThe sisters are wonderful, godly women,” she agreed. “Not all are called to take solemn vows. But we can each assist those who are.”
    In saying that, Lady Somerford teased forth a thought that had been but a wisp when I’d lived in Winchester and had steadily spun into a sturdier thread in the past weeks. I should have to ask Father Gregory about my idea.
    The carriage soon pulled up in front of Pennington, an imposing estate perhaps twice the size of Highcliffe. It was centered by a three-story column, two-story wings extending to the right and left. It seemed to me that those wings were arms flung wide open, and as soon as I entered through the heart and into the grand hall I felt embraced.
    The chapel was a large room; perhaps it had once been an additional study that was repurposed for the sake of worship. Until only a few decades earlier, and since the English Reformation some three hundred years past, Catholic worship had either been outlawed, forbidden, or, if one was highly enough placed and well-to-do, frowned upon and overlooked. Some large towns, like Winchester, had actual churches. But in the country, it was mostly house chapels.
    Lord Somerford had thoughtfully provided pews with padded kneelers, and he knelt contritely. I spied several others who were well dressed, and some tradesmen, and finally low-born servants. In this household, at least, all were equal in the presence of God.
    Lady Somerford arranged for my confession to be heard and afterward for me to speak with Father Gregory. His vestments were neat and carefully fitted, his body slender and his warm eyes the middling brown of autumn leaves; all round them his skin was crinkled with age, just like those leaves. His smile,