Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

“ M a’am?” Frederick greeted. “You asked to see me?”

Tugging down his jacket, Frederick strode into the sitting room and watched the nun pacing and fingering her rosary. Her face was placid under her wimple and as she moved her head, he spotted a grey curl.

She curtsied, then tucked her hands into the opposite sleeves of her habit and spoke. “You may call me Sister Agnes, Your Grace. I am sorry to brother you, but I have a particularly important matter which I must share with you.”

She wants to know if Miss Bradford is here.

“Please come with me to my study,” he offered. “Such important matters should not be discussed here.”

She nodded. “Indeed. Please, lead the way.”

He led her into his study, then gestured to a chair across from his desk. “Would you like some tea or a refreshing glass of lemonade?”

“Thank you but no, I am comfortable,” Sister Agnes replied as she sat down, looking around the room.

He wondered if she judged the clean grandeur of his Hellenistic-themed private sanctuary as vain because, surely, wealth and influence saturated every bit of gilt and stone in the antique furnishing.

“How may I be of service?” he asked, sitting on his chair across from her.

“Recently there was a girl, Gemma Bradford, who cunningly escaped our priory school and is somewhere in these parts, as far as we can discern. I need to make you aware that this girl is trouble. She will lie, deceive and try to trick you, if she comes across you, that is, into believing the many tribulations and trials she endured at our convent.”

They are far from lies. I have seen and recorded the suffering she has endured at your hands.

“Is that so?” he asked while wondering if this nun also had a hand in his sister’s death. “Is there a reason she would state such a thing? Do these girls indeed suffer there?”

“No,” the nun said, her face straight while she lied.

“Then why would you state your words in that way?” he pressed.

“We are strict on policy and ensuring these girls lean the demure and humble way of life though prayer and penitence?—”

“Penitence for what?” Frederick asked with one brow raised. “These girls are orphans and cast-offs of peasants, poor farmers and outcasted mistresses, are they not? For what are they atoning? The sins of their birth?”

“Well, no,” Sister Agnes flattened her lips. “Some of these girls come to us after a rather squalid life on the streets. They are pickpockets, mud larks, and some of the older ones have dabbled in…the oldest profession in the world, if you understand my meaning. They have carried such worldly traits with them and are bad influences on the others.”

“Is Miss Bradford a bad influence?” he asked.

“She is a disobedient wench,” the nun’s disdain came out in a venomous sneer. “Her mother placed her in our care from the day she was seven years old, telling us that she was a stubborn child, and to this day she has never lost that trait. She had no regard for piousness or the transformation of prayer.”

Frederick leaned towards Sister Agnes, interlaced his fingers under his chin and held her eyes with his. “How old is she?”

“Three and twenty,” the nun replied.

“Who is her mother, and why did she leave her there?” he pressed.

Sister Agnes’s face twisted with displeasure at being pressed. “As much as I can see your interest, Your Grace, her mother has no bearing on this matter, and neither does the reason she was left at the convent. What matters here is that the girl is a skilled manipulator and she is not to be believed.”

“I see,” Frederick sat back in his chair, the quill in his hand a mere distraction to quell the rising storm within him. “Were you at St. Catherine’s when Lady Helen Wyndham was sent there?”

Recognition flickered in Sister Agnes’s eyes before she concealed it behind a mask of indifference. “No, Your Grace. I do not recall the name.”

An obvious lie.

“Helen Wyndham was my sister,” Frederick said, his voice laced with restrained anger. “She was sent to your convent sixteen years ago after falling in love with a man deemed unsuitable by my father. She carried his child.”

Sister Agnes’s lips thinned. “A scandal indeed. How unfortunate for your family to have been burdened by such impropriety.”

His fingers tightened around the quill, nearly snapping it in two. “Impropriety?” he repeated icily. “My sister sought refuge and understanding, but instead, she was met with neglect, cruelty, and a death that should never have occurred. When we came for her, we found her body cold on a cot—and not a word of explanation from your convent.”

The nun offered a slight shrug, her tone dismissive. “Women like her are weak, Your Grace. Perhaps the weight of her sin hastened her end.”

Frederick rose from his chair so swiftly that it scraped against the floor.

“My sister was not weak,” he growled, his voice low and cutting, “She was failed—by the nuns who should have cared for her, by the father who sent her to that wretched place, and by a system that denied her happiness. And you, Sister Agnes, have the audacity to speak of her sin? I tell you now, the only sin greater than hers was the cruelty she suffered at your hands.”

Sister Agnes adjusted her skirts, her rosary clutched in her hands like a shield.

“I am sorry you feel that way, Your Grace, but my concern is for the living, not the past. If this Bradford girl crosses your path, I urge you to return her to us. Jezebels like her have no place in society,” she said.

Hell will freeze over before I send anyone back to that place.

Frederick’s jaw clenched as fury surged through him.

“You are no longer welcome here,” he responded, each word precise and venomous. “Consider this your last visit to Blackridge. If you or anyone from St. Catherine’s sets foot on my land again, you will find yourselves escorted off by force.”

Her cheeks flushed red, but she held her head high as she stood. “May God have mercy on your soul, Your Grace,” she said, her tone dripping with false piety.

Frederick stepped aside, his gaze cold as ice. “I will not need it, Sister. Not from the likes of you.”

He watched as she descended the stairs, her unmarked carriage waiting outside. The door slammed shut behind her, and he stood at the window, ensuring her departure.

The moment the carriage disappeared from sight, he turned away, his fists clenched.

He would never allow another soul to endure what Helen had suffered—not while he lived.

“Are you comfortable here, my dear?” the Dowager asked gently, her voice breaking the silence.

Gemma could feel the Dowager Duchess’ eyes on her as they sat across from each other in the breakfast hall.

The clatter of silverware against porcelain had been the only sound between them, the atmosphere calm but laced with unspoken questions.

The Dowager reached for her tea, taking a small sip, her gaze never leaving Gemma’s face.

Gemma hesitated, her fork hovering over her plate as she offered a polite but distant smile. “Yes, thank you. It is… it is a vast improvement on where I used to be.”

Vivian nodded and set down her cup. “I imagine so. My grandson has a habit of taking in strays, though I must say, none have been quite as interesting as you.”

Gemma looked up, her brows furrowing slightly. “Interesting?”

“Yes,” the Dowager replied with a knowing smile. “You have a certain fire about you. Most women in your position would be cowering by now, but not you. You are stronger than you know.”

Gemma’s fingers tightened around her fork, her eyes dropping back to her plate as she absently pushed her food around.

“I do not feel strong, Your Grace,” she muttered, her voice barely audible.

Vivian watched her for a moment. “Strength does not always feel like strength, dear. Sometimes it is simply surviving that which would destroy others.”

Gemma’s grip on the fork slackened but she didn’t say anything, her silence speaking volumes.

The lady decided to shift the conversation gently, “Tell me,” she began, her tone light, “what brought you to St. Catherine’s? I gather it was not by choice.”

Gemma froze, her body becoming rigid as the Dowager Duchess’ words hung in the air. For a moment, she didn’t move, and didn’t speak. Her eyes darted to the window, as if searching for an escape route.

“With all due respect, my lady, I… I would rather not talk about it,” she finally whispered, her voice strained.

Vivian set down her knife and fork and folded her hands in her lap.

“Of course,” she said softly, her sharp eyes catching the subtle shift in Gemma’s posture, and the way her breath quickened ever so slightly. “You needn’t share anything if you are not ready.”

Gemma gave a small, barely perceptible nod, but the tension in her frame didn’t ease. She stabbed at a piece of food on her plate, though she made no move to actually eat it.

“I must confess,” the Dowager said quietly, “our family does not have the best history with nunneries.”

Gemma’s head snapped up, and her eyes became wide with curiosity. She opened her mouth as if to ask something but quickly closed it again, her expression wary.

Vivian smiled gently. “You need not be afraid to ask questions, Miss Bradford. I know your time at St. Catherine’s must have been… unpleasant. But you should know that you are safe here. No harm will come to you within these walls.”

Gemma blinked, her hands still fidgeting with her fork. “What did you mean when you said that you do not have a good history with nunneries?”

The Dowager Duchess of Blackridge sighed, leaning back in her chair as her gaze drifted to the window. Dark clouds were beginning to gather in the distance, casting a faint shadow over the room.

“My granddaughter Helen was sent by her father to St. Catherine’s convent. She… never came back.”

Gemma’s eyes widened and her mouth parted in a small gasp.

“I… I am so sorry,” she said softly, her voice filled with genuine empathy.

Vivian gave a sad smile. “Thank you, dear. It was a long time ago, but some wounds never truly heal.” She paused, her gaze softening as she looked at Gemma. “That is the reason Frederick is so… persistent. He does not want what happened to Helen to happen to anyone else. Especially not someone like you.”

Gemma’s brow furrowed, confusion clouding her expression. “Someone like me?”

Vivian tilted her head slightly, her eyes twinkling with both amusement and empathy. “You have spirit, my dear. You remind me of our Helen in many ways. She, too, had a fire that could not be extinguished, no matter how much the world tried to snuff it out.”

Gemma swallowed hard, her throat tight as she processed Vivian’s words.

She had never thought of herself as either strong or brave, but hearing the Dowager speak of her granddaughter in such a way made her wonder if perhaps she had underestimated herself.

The room grew quieter as the wind began to pick up outside, the dark clouds now looming larger in the sky, and casting a noticeable shadow over the formerly bright breakfast table.

The lighthearted conversation had taken a turn into deeper, darker waters, but there was something comforting about it. Gemma felt less alone in her struggle, knowing that this family—despite their power and wealth—had faced their own demons.

Vivian reached out and placed a gentle hand over Gemma’s. “You do not have to face this alone, you know. Frederick may seem harsh, but his heart is in the right place. He only wants to protect you.”

Gemma stared at the Dowager’s hand, her heart pounding in her chest. She did not know how to respond to her kind words or make sense of the emotions that had suddenly erupted within her in the aftermath of her caring touch.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her voice was barely audible, but filled with gratitude.

Vivian smiled softly and gave Gemma’s hand a reassuring squeeze before withdrawing.

“Now, enough of such dark topics,” she said, her tone brightening as she glanced back toward the window. “It seems we might be in for a storm.”

Gemma followed her gaze, watching as the dark grey clouds continued to gather, casting a foreboding shadow over the estate.

She nodded slowly, her thoughts still lingering on the conversation they had just shared, but grateful for the change in subject.

The storm, it seemed, was only just beginning.