LITMIR.BIZ

       4

      Summer passed, fading into autumn. Time did nothing to alleviate the pain permeating every pore of the Pierce household. It seemed to ooze forth from the very castle itself, chokingly pungent as the pus of a plague sore.

      A year passed. Then another and another.

      Father Alec marvelled at how one night, one incident, no matter how outrageous, could impact so much. What had been a vivacious, energetic household was sluggish, strained. The halls no longer teemed with the erudite and noble guests who once had flocked to the Pierces’ door. It had once been an honour to receive an invite to the Pierce table; indeed, it was something of a competition and those who had been fortunate to stay on at Sumerton always returned to their respective homes boasting of the privilege, thus elevating their own status by association.

      Now the extra apartments, which had always been kept ready and waiting for occupants, were empty. The great hall was vacant. The voices of the children echoed in rooms too big, rooms meant to be warmed by the bodies of friends. But had the Pierces any true friends they would have remained. It was a sad illustration of human nature to Father Alec, a lesson of hypocrisy and judgement at its apex. Bile rose in his throat whenever he thought of it.

      Lord Hal was slowly welcomed back into the arms of a society moved to pity and he found other locales in which to gamble.

      Except now he was losing. More and more, a piece of art could be seen missing, an expensive vase, a portrait, plate that had once belonged to Lord Hal’s grandmother. Gone in a night. Jewels began to disappear as well and soon Lord Hal’s fingers were bare.

      Lady Grace remained cloistered in her apartments. She never went out of doors again after that night. She no longer took her meals with the family. She escaped her shame, or wallowed in it, alone in a world she created for herself, a hard world softened by decanters of wine no one refused her till she remained in her bed, quivering, drooling, and incapacitated.

      Though Father Alec visited her, attempting to bring what comfort he could, she stayed her course with a steely determination that would have been admirable had it been directed into a more honourable pursuit.

      “We all make our choices, Father,” she had told him. Father Alec stared at her in bewildered consternation. She took in little nourishment, save bread and broth, and was reduced to a white, sore-covered, skeletal wraith. “This is my life. This is what I want.”

      It churned Father Alec’s gut with both frustration and agony to see her willingly render herself mad. He shook his head. “You cannot mean that, my lady. You are destroying yourself and the body God lovingly fashioned for you.” He retrieved a hand glass and held it before her. She averted her head as though she had just looked into the depths of Hell. Father Alec seized her chin and with gentle force faced her toward the glass again. She closed her eyes.

      “Open your eyes, my lady,” he urged her. “Open your eyes!”

      Grace submitted, slowly opening her glazed eyes, struggling to hold her image in focus.

      “Look what you have done to yourself,” he told her, sitting beside her. “Lady Sumerton, you have children in your care and a husband. You must reconcile yourself with past transgressions that you might recover and be of some good to them!”

      Grace offered a bitter, hoarse laugh. “No, no,” she said in offhanded tones. She rolled on her side. “Your counsel is appreciated, Father. But I no longer require it.”

      He was dismissed.

      And so he left, shoulders slumped, weighed down by the anguish of the household. Thus Father Alec took to distracting the children. They must be protected from the stranglehold of despair, and since no one else had stepped in, he considered it his sacred duty.

      Mirabella was found in the chapel or praying before her priedieu. Her interactions with the rest of the family were limited and she saw Lady Grace as little as possible. But Mirabella still confided in Father Alec and he listened, trying his best to soothe her anger with urgings that she forgive and find peace in God. The ritual of her prayer and incantations became as much her escape as wine was Grace’s. Father Alec did not know if this was a good thing. He had always fancied that the true calling to God should be taken up with a peaceful heart, not one filled with the acute desire to avoid reality. But then he could not judge Mirabella. His reasons for entering the priesthood had been no better.

      The glimpses of hope and indeed the only place from which a measure of sanity prevailed came from Cecily and Brey, whose light seemed so misplaced in this dark place. Yet there it was, white, shining, emitted like rays of sunshine bursting through the clouds in their giggles and plots and shrill, happy voices. Bosom companions, Cecily and Brey collected animals and insects together, making the nursery a veritable menagerie. No one stopped them, and if anyone dared, Father Alec would have had their head. The children would be allowed their happiness and Father Alec thanked God they found it in each other. Cecily emanated joy; it came natural to her. She was by no means simpleminded. Her wise eyes could be seen making their observations and Father Alec wondered what went on behind them. What conclusions had she drawn about this place so tinged by tragedy? She

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