But first, before the Abbess could be heard in the room on the other side of the grille, when her long skirts swished against the bare floorboards with a sound that reminded Maisie of small waves drawing back against shingle at the beach, she would offer her own words to any deity that might be listening. She would sit in the chair, calm her breathing, temper her thoughts, and endeavor to channel her mind away from a customary busyness to a point of calm. It was as if she were emptying the vessel so that it could be filled with thoughts that might better serve her.
The wooden hatch snapped back, and when Maisie looked up she was staring directly at Dame Constance. The Abbess always seemed beyond age, as if she had transcended the years, yet Maisie remembered a time when her skin was smoother, her eyes wider, though they never lost an apparent ability to pierce the thoughts of one upon whom her attention was focused.
“Maisie. Welcome to our humble house. I wonder what brings a woman of such accomplishment to see an old nun.”
Maisie smiled. There it was, that hint of sarcasm on the edge of her greeting; a putting in place, lest the visitor feel above her station in a place of silent worship.
“Beneath the accomplishment is the same woman who was once the naive girl you taught, Dame Constance.”
The Abbess smiled. It was what might be called a wry smile, a lifting of the corner of the mouth as if to counter the possibility of a Cheshire cat grin.
“Shall we pray first?”
Dame Constance allowed no reply, but bowed her head and clasped her hands on the shelf before her, her knuckles almost touching the bars of the grille separating Maisie and herself. Maisie rested her hands on her side of the same shelf, feeling the proximity of fingers laced in prayer.
She recognized the words of Saint Benedict as Dame Constance began.
“And let them pray together, so that they may associate in peace.”
When the prayer was finished, when Maisie had echoed Dame Constance’s resolute “Amen,” the Abbess allowed a moment of silence to envelop them as she folded her arms together within the copious sleeves of her black woolen habit.
“What brings you to me, Maisie Dobbs?”
Maisie tried not to sigh. She had anticipated that first question and had sampled her answer, aloud, a hundred times during the journey to Romney Marsh. Now it seemed trite, unworthy of the insight and intellect before her. Dame Constance waited, her head still bowed. She would not shuffle with impatience or sigh as a mark of her desire to be getting on with another task. She would bide her time.
“I am troubled . . . I feel . . . No. I have a desire to leave, to go abroad, but I am troubled by the needs of those to whom I feel responsibility.” Maisie picked at a hangnail on her little finger. It was a childhood habit almost forgotten, but which seemed to claim her when she was most worried.
Dame Constance nodded. To one who had not known her, she may have seemed half asleep, but Maisie knew better, and waited for the first volley of response with some trepidation.
“Do you seek to leave on a quest to find? Or do you wish to run from some element of life that is uncomfortable?”
There it was. The bolt hit the target dead center, striking Maisie in the heart. Dame Constance raised her eyes and met Maisie’s once more, reminding her of an archer bringing up the bow, ready to aim.
“Both.”
Dame Constance nodded. “Explain.”
“Last year . . .” Maisie stopped. Was it last year? Her mind reeled. So close in time, yet almost a lifetime ago. “Last year my dear friend Dr. Maurice Blanche died.” She paused, feeling the prick of tears at the corner of her eyes. She glanced at Dame Constance, who nodded for her to continue. “He left me a most generous bequest, for which, I confess, I have struggled to . . . to . . . become a good and proficient steward.” She paused, choosing words as if she were selecting matching colored pebbles from a tide pool at the beach. “I have made some errors, though I have found ways to put them right, I think; however . . . however, in going through Maurice’s papers, in reading his journals and the notes he left for me, I have felt in my