Traces of Mercy (7 page)

“But what if they come and we aren’t ready?” Mercy asked. “What if God sends them early and there are no beds and the room still smells like paint and there isn’t enough food for everyone? What if …”

“God’s timing is always perfect,” Mother Helena said.

“But …”

“Have you used up all your paint, Mercy?” Mother Helena asked.

Mercy looked into her bucket and nodded. “Yes.”

“There are some rags in a basket in the larder,” Mother Helena said. “Why don’t you go and get them so we might clean up the spatters on the floor.”

Carrying an oil lamp for light, Mercy slipped into the larder behind the large kitchen. She had been inside the place only one other time—when Oona had shown it to her shortly after her arrival. The coolness of the room was an instant pleasure, and she thought how nice it would be if they could all fit inside and take their meals there instead of in the warm kitchen.

She found another lamp and lit it and took a moment to look around. Shelves held glass jars filled with jams, jellies, vegetables, and other kitchen staples. There were bags of coffee beans, containers of lard, and sacks of potatoes stacked in neat rows. Oona had explained that during the war, several of the local families in St. Louis had been generous to a fault with foodstuffs for the nuns. But true to form, Mother Helena had given most of the food away to soldiers passing through town, to prisoners they went to visit, to any young mother looking to feed her hungry family. The nuns were praying for a bountiful harvest from the garden so they would have plenty of food for all the orphans once they arrived.

Mercy held the lamp up as she made her way across the floor. She paused in front of a full-length cheval glass tucked into a corner between two bushels of potatoes. The sight of her own face still took her by surprise, and she took a moment to study her image. Her brown hair had grown since the last time she’d seen herself. The longer it got, the more she noticed the waves that seemed to appear of their own accord. In the heat of summer, her curls stuck to her cheeks and seemed more annoying than anything else, but the sisters assured her that her hair was quite beautiful. She wiggled her eyebrows at herself, then raised one brow the way she’d seen Mother Helena do on occasion. She looked both serious and ridiculous and laughed as she turned to look at her blue dress from all angles. She remembered doing the same thing after she’d first arrived and Oona had taken her into the larder to see her reflection.

“Is this the customary place to keep a mirror?” she’d asked Oona. “Doc keeps his mirror on the wall in the clinic. It seems more useful that way.”

“We consider vanity to be a sin,” Oona answered with the Irish lilt in her voice that made everything sound pleasant. “’Tis why we keep the lookin’ glass in here. In case of an emergency.”

Mercy laughed. “What kind of emergency?”

“Let’s say you’ve got a nasty bit of somethin’ in your eye and everyone is busy with their chores or they’re prayin’ or just in the contemplative time of the morn. You can slip in here and take care of your eye yourself.”

“Has that ever happened to you?”

Oona looked sheepish. “Once or twice,” she admitted. “But not because I feel the need to stare at my reflection. God made me a plain woman, and I’m glad for it. It’s just that sometimes, when I’m missin’ my family back home, I come in here and look in the glass. I see their faces in mine, and it makes me a wee bit less homesick.”

Mercy didn’t see any faces but her own. She turned from the mirror and spotted the basket of rags. As she started to lift the basket, something on the floor beside it caught her eye. Her clothes!
Her
clothes. The brown shirt and green pants were lying on top of a heap of rags as if they were waiting to be burned with the rubbish. She remembered Mother Helena saying they would put the clothes away for her. Away in the larder with the rest of the rags is what she meant! The thought was quick and bitter, and Mercy felt a stab of anger that someone had so easily discarded one of the only things she had of her past. She plucked the clothes from the floor.

With her back to the mirror, Mercy dropped her dress to the floor and stepped out of the puddle of blue fabric. She drew her pants up over her slim hips and fastened them. They were snug—but they fit. She shrugged into the shirt and buttoned it over her cotton camisole. When the scratchy wool material settled itself against her skin, she felt inexplicably complete.

Mercy slowly turned to face the mirror. She looked at her reflection—this new reflection in her proper clothes—and willed her mind to find something familiar about the image. But after several seconds of studying herself, the only thing that seemed familiar was her disappointment in her own ability to remember. Her dress still lay in a heap on the larder floor. The blue fabric was so much lighter, prettier, infinitely more feminine than the brown wool of the shirt she had on—so why was she so drawn to these clothes? She shook herself from her pondering and started to unbutton the shirt just as she heard someone coming. Mercy blew out both lamps and ducked around to the back side of the shelves in the dark room.

A circle of light from a lamp floated into the larder. The woman carrying it, Sister Agnes, was cast in a small glow as she headed purposefully toward the shelves that Mercy was tucked behind. Sister Agnes was humming softly—a happy, catchy little tune that put a half smile on her face. Mercy already knew it was too late for her to say anything, so she practically held her breath and hoped that the sister would be quick about her errand and go on her way. Sister Agnes stopped in front of the shelf that held the jellies and jams and all things sweet and moved things around until she finally withdrew one particular jar. As Mercy watched, the nun pulled a spoon from the long sleeve of her habit. Popping the lid of the jar, she dipped in her spoon and moaned in ecstasy with the first taste. Lip-smacking, satisfied sounds followed as she made short work of the contents.

“Maybe just one more wee bite of … something,” Sister Agnes muttered, raising her lamp. The light wandered over bags of beans and baskets of potatoes, but they didn’t make Agnes pause. She kept shoving things from one side to another. Finally, Mercy saw her smile broadly. “’Twas a good year for raspberries, as I recall.” She stretched out a hand toward a small jar right in front of Mercy’s face, but then seemed to slip. Agnes caught herself with a hand to the shelf and looked down, then her face dipped out of Mercy’s view. When she stood back up, Mercy could see she held a swath of fabric in her arms. Sister Agnes put her lamp down on the shelf at the same time Mercy leaned in from her hiding place to get a better look at the sister’s find. Mercy realized her mistake too late. The eyes behind the shelf met the eyes in front of the shelf, and Agnes screamed so loudly it echoed off the larder wall. The nun spun on her heels and ran.

By the time Mercy came to stand at the threshold between the larder and the kitchen, Agnes was already surrounded by concerned nuns. A few of them were consoling her even as they tried to get to the bottom of what had frightened her.

Agnes clutched blue fabric to her bosom and tried to put her fright into words. “An eye … hiding … watching … a sneaky, dreadful demon!” She shuddered.

Mother Helena sailed into the kitchen with Oona and Deirdre on her heels. All three of them were paint splattered. Mother Helena still held her brush in her hand when she crossed to Agnes.

“What’s all this, then?” she asked.

“Something in the larder near scared the life out of her,” Sister Ruth said.

“What was it, then?”

Mercy stepped all the way through the threshold. “It was me.”

All eyes turned on her as she stood barefoot in her shirt and trousers. The sisters parted to give Agnes a better view of her demon in the dark.

“
You
?” Sister Agnes asked. “That was you hiding in the dark?”

“I didn’t mean to be hiding,” Mercy stammered. “I just didn’t want anyone to see me.”

“Then that would be hiding, Mercy,” Mother Helena said.

“Yes, Mercy.” Agnes sniffed. “
That
would be hiding.”

“Jelly, jams, marmalade—sugar cubes—have gone missing in recent weeks, Mercy. What were you doing in the larder?” Sister Ruth demanded.

“Mother sent me to find some rags,” Mercy said, though she looked at Sister Agnes.

Mother Helena nodded. “That’s true. Though I was starting to wonder if you’d lost your way back.”

Ruth turned to Agnes. “What were
you
doing in there, Sister?”

Agnes’s gaze flew around the room, but before she could answer the question, Sister Margaret pointed a finger at Mercy.

“I have a better question. Mercy, why are you dressed in those dreadful clothes?”

Mercy felt every eye upon her, and she took a step back—away from their accusing stares. “I found them, and I put them on. I would have changed back, but Sister Agnes has my dress.”

Agnes looked down at the fabric she held against her chest as if she had never seen it before in her life. “Oh. Um.” She thrust the dress out toward Mercy. “Here.”

It was Mother Helena who took the dress and then walked toward Mercy.

“You may change now,” she said, holding out the dress. “Then we can get back to work.”

Mercy looked at the dress, at the sisters with their judging stares—and at Agnes, who couldn’t seem to pull her gaze from the floor.

“It makes more sense to clean up paint spatters in these clothes,” Mercy said.

Mother Helena raised her brows. “We’ve discussed this before, Mercy,” she said. “Maybe you don’t remember …”

“I remember,” Mercy said.

“Then you’ll remember that those clothes are inappropriate for a young woman,” Mother Helena said.

“Why?” Mercy challenged, powerless to stop the surliness in her voice.

“Because they suggest that the young woman doesn’t want to be seen as a young woman. Because they offer a familiar view of your form that should be left behind closed doors. Because I believe the clothes we wear can shape the people we are.”

“And if I’m a person who would rather be in this,” Mercy said, sweeping her hand down her side, “than that?” She pointed to the dress. “What does that make me?”

Mother Helena held the dress toward her one more time, a look of determination on her face. “It’s pointless to speculate,” she said. “Let’s put this behind us. Just change into your clothes, and we can get back to work.”

“
These
are my clothes!” Mercy yelled. “The same clothes someone threw next to the basket of rags in the larder as if they were rubbish.”

“There is no need to shout,” Mother Helena said crisply.

“I think you need to ask her about the missing food, Mother,” Sister Ruth said.

Mother Helena sighed and looked at Mercy. “Is there something you want to tell me, Mercy? Something you need to confess?”

Mercy looked at Sister Agnes, whose fingers were flying over her rosary beads, but then shook her head. “I have never taken any food from the larder. As for other confessions, I have no idea—but I would gladly confess to thievery of any kind if it meant I could remember it!”

“You don’t mean that,” Mother Helena said.

“And you don’t know that! You can’t pretend to know me when I don’t even know myself. I might be a conniving, sinful, murdering thief who has found shelter with women who have taken a vow not to judge and to always forgive.”

“We don’t believe you are any of those things, Mercy,” Mother Helena said.

“Then stop looking at me as if you do!”

Mercy felt the room grow warmer; the walls crept closer—and her anger edged out her humiliation.

“I know what you all think of me! I see you back up when I come too close. I see how hard it is for you to pray for the sins you think I’ve committed!”

“We
do
pray for you, Mercy,” Mother Helena said.

“I fear that it may be a lost cause, Mother,” Mercy said. “I don’t hear God, and He doesn’t hear me. Save your prayers for those who believe they’re doing some good.”

She felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. She couldn’t breathe and couldn’t look at the collective group of holy women who all knew exactly who they were and what they wanted to do with their lives.

“I need some air,” Mercy finally said in a strangled voice. She turned and ran from the kitchen.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

Mercy ran. She ran straight to Lucky without being aware she was doing it.

The horse snorted as she threw open the gate of the corral. As he came closer to investigate, she grabbed a rope hanging from a post, climbed the fence, and threw a leg over his back. He danced anxiously as she settled herself squarely astride, her bare feet dangling at his sides. She made a slipknot in the rope, looped it over his head, leaned forward, and pressed her face close to his neck.

“Go!” She jabbed her heels into his sides, and he took off.

The horse and rider lunged through the gate and galloped past the convent. Mercy was vaguely aware of some of the nuns calling for her to stop. She tightened her legs around Lucky, leaned as close to his body as she could manage, and hung on. He wove in and out of the trees that lined the road to the convent, as if he intended to camouflage their escape. Instinctually, she gave the horse his head and held tight as he thundered across the ground—going from the cover of the trees near the convent to a copse of trees in the distance. Both Lucky’s raw power and his speed left her breathless. She closed her eyes and gave in to the feelings—the warm air rushing past her face, the coarse coat of the horse where her cheek skimmed his neck. As Lucky moved deftly through a canopy of gnarled oaks, the landscape became a dappled checkerboard of sun and shadow. She and Lucky were racing toward something indefinable when the sounds around her became a procession of indistinct moments jumbled together. Something hissed past her ear—like an invisible snake slicing the air in half. Bang-whistle-cracks filled the space around her, and she flinched with each new noise. Her eyes flew open, and she ducked even closer to the horse, pressing her face tightly against him. She could feel Lucky’s pounding pulse against her own skin and felt her stomach twist with fear for his safety. Booming, thunderous explosions and showers of sparks fell like rain. Sounds of panic vibrated against air that smelled of sulfur. Her nose burned from the acrid fumes, and she held her breath.
Don’t breathe … don’t breathe. Faster! Go faster!
Her lungs felt as if they might explode as she rode through clouds and clouds of billowing blue smoke.
Don’t breathe … don’t breathe.
When she and Lucky finally shot out of the trees into the open, she couldn’t wait any longer and sucked in long, even breaths of nothing but the sweet air of the beautiful Missouri countryside.