A Finer End

“Right. Faith, on the other hand, seems totally oblivious. The girl has something about her that inspires devotion. She’s quite self-contained in a way I’ve never seen … and yet there’s something vulnerable about her.”

“Family trauma?” mused Fiona.

“I don’t know. I’d like to help her, but I haven’t been able to find a chink in her armor.”

“There’s more,” Fiona prompted, nibbling on a shiny black olive.

“Nick is terribly jealous of Simon—understandably so. I think Nick saw himself as a necessary part of the equation; then he introduced Jack to Simon Fitzstephen—”

“And now Jack’s spending more time with Fitzstephen than Nick, and Nick feels abandoned.”

“Classic, isn’t it? Damn Simon. I suspect he’s playing up Jack partly out of spite towards me and you can bet that whatever other motives he has aren’t unselfish. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him. And then there’s Garnet—”

“Garnet Todd?” Fiona’s hazel eyes widened. “You didn’t tell me Garnet was part of your group.”

“Didn’t I? Do you know her?”

“Who doesn’t? Garnet’s a fixture round here. She always had a talent for stirring things. I take it that hasn’t changed?”

“She seems to have taken a dislike to Nick,” admitted Winnie.

“And you end up as peacemaker?”

“Not very successfully, obviously. But what bothers me most is Jack. His obsession with this seems to be growing. You’d think he’d be discouraged by our lack of progress, but it seems to have the opposite effect. It’s as if he feels there’s a clock ticking. And I can’t hear it.” As Winnie spoke she realized just how alone that made her feel.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Here you’ve tumbled into this unexpectedly wonderful relationship, then he goes and gets into bed with a rival you can’t even see.”

“It’s not like that!” Winnie protested, then laughed at her own discomfort. “Well, maybe it is, a little. Tell me about you,” she added, eager to change the subject.

“Not much to tell, unfortunately.”

Winnie studied her friend’s face. “You look a bit transparent round the edges.”

Fiona shrugged. “It’s not that I expect to control what I paint—that’s never been the case—but nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“You’re still painting the little girl, then?”

“They’re so dark, these paintings. There’s no happiness in them. I’ve begun to dread the urge to paint. And Bram hates them; I can tell—”

The banging of the back door silenced her.

“Sorry I’m late, Fi,” Bram Allen said, coming into the kitchen and kissing his wife’s cheek. “Waiting on an international call. Winnie,” he added, favoring her with a perfunctory nod. “Good to see you.”

As Fiona readied her husband’s meal, Winnie watched the couple with a stirring of envy. Married more than twenty-five years, they still seemed as devoted as newlyweds. Did she and Jack have such a future ahead of them? Or would Jack’s involvement with Simon lead him down a path she couldn’t follow?

She had been happily self-sufficient until she’d met Jack Montfort, unaware of any void in her life. So why, now, did the thought of a future without him fill her with such desolation?

They had made themselves comfortable in Jack’s kitchen—Winnie and Jack, Nick, Garnet Todd, Simon, and the girl, Faith. The heat wave that had plagued southern England for weeks had abated, and there was a crispness that presaged autumn in the breeze that blew through the open windows. From where Winnie sat, she could see the slope of the Tor rising beyond the neglected back garden, a solitary sheep grazing in the green grass.

Lazing over cups of tea, they indulged in the sort of desultory chat associated with warm summer afternoons. Jack sat with a notepad ready.

Suddenly, his pen began to move across the paper. Jack continued his conversation with Simon, seemingly unaware of the actions of his own hand. As often as Winnie had experienced the phenomenon, she still found it uncomfortably eerie, and, in spite of herself, the word possession came to mind.

As soon as Jack stopped writing, Simon began to translate.

Brother Francis has given me my own carrel. We work on the north side of the cloister where the light is best, and my carrel is near a window, a much-coveted spot. Brother Francis has set me the Abbot’s own missal to copy, as I have learned so quickly, but warns me against the sin of pride.