Authors: Veronica Black
Vow of Sanctity (21 page)
‘For my own community, yes.’
‘I’ve enjoyed knowing you, Sister,’ he said. ‘It makes me feel good to know that all over the world there are people who’ve chosen the religious life and nobody thinks they’re peculiar or medieval.’
‘Oh, I can be pretty peculiar in other people’s eyes sometimes,’ she assured him.
As they reached the other shore he suddenly clapped a hand to his head with an exclamation of dismay.
‘Oh dear, I must be getting peculiar myself! I completely forgot to give you this.’
‘What is it?’ She took the envelope he held out to her.
‘When I brought the boat over this morning to take you across to mass, just before you arrived, the minister – Mr Sinclair – galloped up on a big horse and gave me the letter for you. He said to give it to you after the service, but I nearly forgot. The minister seemed an odd kind of person – very grim looking but quite pleasant spoken. Anyway I’ve
remembered
in time.’
‘Yes you have. Thank you.’ Clutching the letter she landed safely on the driest part of a small sandbank and made her way higher up the shore.
It would have been sensible – even a test of self-discipline to wait until she had climbed up to the retreat before opening the envelope. She hesitated for about three seconds and then flung self-discipline to the autumn breeze and sat down on a large rock to read her letter.
It was fairly short, written in a bold hand with a steady pressure.
Sister
Joan,
I
am
writing
to
you
in
the
strictest
confidence
and
I
trust
you
to
keep
what
I
have
to
say
private
to
yourself.
That
imposes
a
burden
upon
you
for
which
I
apologize,
but
even
a
minister
of
the
kirk
sometimes
feels
the
need
for
confession.
I
have
never
been
a
very
sociable
man,
so
perhaps
it
was
a
mistake
for
me
to
go
in
for
the
ministry,
but
I
wished
to
serve
God
in
the
place
where
my
ancestors
had
once
been
lairds.
What
I
failed
–
no,
what
I
refused
to
see
was
that
my
wife
was
lonely
here.
I
adored
Catherine
and
so
I
believed
that
we
shared
the
same
tastes.
She
was
a
good
wife
and
a
good
mother,
but
after
Morag
went
away
to
school
she
became
increasingly
restless.
She
frequently
took
shopping
trips
to
Aberdeen
and
spent
the
night
away,
but
I
was
occupied
with
my
ministry
and
never
enquired
too
closely
into
her
activities.
Six
years
ago
she
went
out
one
night
– for
a
walk,
she
said.
I
was
writing
a
sermon
at
the
time
and
so
took
little
notice,
but
when
the
storm
came
up
I
became
a
little
concerned.
I
had
promised
to
visit
a
parishioner
–
an
old
lady
who
was
sick,
so
I
walked
over
to
the
cottages
to
see
her,
and
was
hurrying
back
when
I
saw
Catherine
tying
our
boat
up
at
the
wharf.
She
seemed
distressed,
and
I
helped
her
into
the
house,
and
asked
her
what
was
wrong.
She
told
me
that
she
had
parted
from
a
lover.
A
lover
?
I
was
her
husband;
she
had
no
need
of
lovers.
I
had
trusted
her
completely
and
she
had
betrayed
me
with
another
man.
I
am
not
a
man
who
easily
reveals
his
feelings,
and
I
listened
with
apparent
calm.
She
had
recently
suffered
a
bad
dose
of
influenza
so
it
was
an
easy
matter
to
persuade
her
to
take
some
sleeping
tablets
in
a
hot
drink
before
she
retired.
I
dissolved
several
tablets
in
the
drink
and
added
a
splash
of
whisky
and
handed
her
more
tablets
to
take
with
the
drink.
She
was
completely
unsuspecting.
In
the
morning
I
‘found
’
her
dead
–
accidental
death
was
recorded.
I
have
never
tried
to
find
her
lover.
Men
are
by
nature
weak,
women
are
the
ones
who
tempt
them.
I
left
him
to
his
conscience
and
cleansed
my
own
house
of
betrayal.
Since
then
I
have
lived
with
my
memories.
I
have
tried
to
forget,
but
Morag
grows
more
like
her
mother
every
day.
One
day
she
will
marry
and
betray
her
husband
in
the
same
way.
Rather
than
let
that
happen
I
would
kill
her
with
my
own
hands.
Indeed
there
have
been
occasions
recently
when
I
have
found
myself
devising
ways
and
means
of
doing
it.
I
will
give
this
letter
to
the
monk
who
rows
you
across
to
the
island.
By
the
time
you
read
it
I
will
have
suffered
a
fatal
accident,
in
my
car,
I
think.
I
wanted
to
tell
one
person
before
I
leave
–
to
make
them
understand
that
I
am
not
doing
this
because
I
killed
Catherine
but
in
order
to
prevent
myself
from
killing
again.
Sincerely,
Alexander
Sinclair
When she had read the letter through a second time she sat, her eyes fixed on the loch. Such a tangle of motives and actions, stretching tentacles across the years to twist emotions. She sighed deeply once or twice, then with slow deliberation tore letter and envelope into tiny, undecipherable fragments and sent them like scattered pieces of a prayer into the autumn breeze.
‘So you really are leaving now?’ Brother Cuthbert said, leaning on the oars of the boat. ‘Mind you, with the weather turning so cold it’s not suitable –’
‘For an elderly lady of thirty-six to stay there in the retreat for very much longer?’
‘I was only teasing you, Sister. I wouldn’t have said things like that to a really old lady. I had a sister once – only three years older than me, but she used to look out for me, you know. She died – cancer. I still miss her a bit. And now I’ve talked about my life before I entered the community and that isn’t allowed – I wonder if I’ll ever get the hang of it.’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Brother. You’re doing very nicely,’ she encouraged.
‘Well, I try. Father Abbot would tell you that I’m very trying. Did you know we’ve just sent five hundred pounds to the children in Africa? Can you imagine that – on our small income? Father Abbot works financial miracles.’
‘Doesn’t he though?’ said Sister Joan.
‘It was sad about Mr Sinclair,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘Fancy crashing his car off the bridge like that. We were very sorry to hear about it.’
‘Yes, it was a very sad accident. His daughter plans to turn the old manse into a small guest house. I think Rory McKensie is to go into partnership with her.’
‘He’ll find her a handful,’ Brother Cuthbert said with a
grin. ‘You’ve heard we’re to be one fewer now?’
‘In the community? No, I’m not on gossipping terms with the abbot.’
‘Brother Brendan – you’ll not recall him perhaps – the lay brother who worked in the kitchen? He’s been on an internal retreat for the last couple of weeks. He leaves us tomorrow – some unfinished business in the world. With so few novices entering it’s a pity to lose anyone.’
‘I guess he’ll probably find his way back if it’s where he was meant to be,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Saint Brendan the Voyager,’ Brother Cuthbert said musingly. ‘I often wondered if he chose that name because he’d been to sea, but Brother Jerome told me that he’d been a commercial traveller once. Funny old world, isn’t it?’
‘And sometimes a beautiful one,’ Sister Joan said, and raised her head to smile at the loveliness of the shining loch.
Echo of Margaret
Pilgrim of Desire
Flame in the Snow
Hoodman Blind
My Pilgrim Love
A Vow of Silence
Last Seen Wearing
Vow of Chastity
My Name is Polly Winter
© Veronica Black 1993
First published in Great Britain 1993
This edition 2011
ISBN 978 0 7090 9701 3 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9702 0 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7090 9703 7 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7090 4954 8 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Veronica Black to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
