came to a decision, the door opened, and a beaming Andrew, clutching the hand of his nurse, appeared on the threshold. He had not expected his mother. His smile wavered.
Since the fire at the croft and the loss of his sister, his mother’s moods were no longer predictable. There were long periods when she sat in silence, seeing and hearing nothing around her. Andrew was four years old. The events of the past weeks seemed liked a lifetime ago. At first, he had missed Isobel terribly, but as time passed, he grew accustomed to her absence. There were tenant children to play with, and although they could not replace the constant companionship of his sister, they did not burden him either. He no longer worried whether Isobel was content or warm or fed or whether some thoughtless act would bring on one of her tantrums. Isobel’s death dissolved his restraint. Andrew was liberated. He became more childlike, more impulsive, more inclined to laugh. For that, his mother condemned him.
Riddled with guilt, Jeanne could not bear the sight of her son. Andrew had been her favorite, her even-tempered child, the apple of her eye. She would never forget the circumstances of Isobel’s death. Lured by a few precious hours alone with her son, she had left her daughter to die. Whenever she looked at Andrew’s sturdy body, heard his laugh, watched his cheeks glow with health, the lump of misery that never left her rose in her throat. The thought of another child, a son like Andrew or, God forbid, another Isobel, made her sick with despair.
“Hello, Mama.” Andrew’s voice lifted bravely. “I’m having breakfast.”
Over his head, Jeanne’s eyes met those of his nurse. “That’s fine, love,” she said. “I haven’t eaten yet. Why don’t I join you?”
The servant’s face softened. Without a word, she transferred Andrew’s hand from her own to his mother’s and stepped back into the room.
Tears misted Jeanne’s eyes as the small fingers grasped hers and she looked down into the trusting eyes of her son. “Shall we eat in the hall or the sitting room?” she asked.
Andrew cocked his head to one side. “In the garden,” he said at last. “I want a picnic in the garden.”
The heaviness inside Jeanne’s chest lightened. For the first time in weeks, she laughed, a clear pure sound that delighted her son and rattled the diamond-paned windows above their heads. “Very well, Andrew. We shall picnic in the garden.”
Sometime later, in the middle of salting her healthy portion of oats, it came to her like a streak of light illuminating the night sky. The passageway was not in the wine cellar; it began at the very top of the house in the priests’ sanctuary. She could hardly contain her excitement. She looked across the table at Andrew. He smiled engagingly, and her heart melted. Despite everything that had happened, perhaps happiness was possible after all.
“Hurry and finish, love,” she said. “Mama has something to do this morning, but later we’ll take out your pony.” She reached over to caress his cheek. “Would you like that?”
Andrew’s brow wrinkled as he considered the matter. The ride across the moors on Jeanne’s full-sized mare had ruined him forever for the small Highland pony he called his own. He wanted to ride a horse. Should he tell his mother and remind her of the nightmare that had taken Isobel from her? He chewed his oatcake and looked across the table into the wide, light-filled eyes fixed on his face. “Yes,” he said at last. “I would like that.”
After breakfast Jeanne left Andrew with the maid and proceeded up the stairs to the top of the house. Carefully she climbed the twisting stairs, turning sideways to squeeze through the narrow turns. The climb was steep. By the time she reached the top, she was out of breath. Bracing herself against the wall, she stopped to rest and look around.
The sanctuary looked very much as it had when she was a child, dark and old and very quiet. Jeanne could not remember the last time services had been held here. An altar with a statue of the Blessed Virgin stood against the far wall. Stunted candles, their wicks dark, stood in congealed pools of wax near a brass urn, empty now but at one time most likely filled with holy water. Stained glass covered the small windows and pillows for kneeling were scattered across the wooden floor.
Jeanne drew a deep breath, pushed herself away from the