The Now Former Lady Deveroux Ch. 03

Samantha shakes his head and nips the evangelism in the bud. "I promised Esther that if I did convert, she could do it."

Simon laughs, warm and full, and rests his back into his chair. "Then I'll not steal her opportunity." He watches her, studying the discomfort written across her body. "It seems as though it's been a long evening. Would you like to sleep here tonight and continue this conversation tomorrow?"

"I want to pray," she replies, surprising everyone in the room. It was only the two of them.

"Oh?"

"I have some choice words for my father," she explains, "but if I cannot say them to him, I'll say them to your guy."

"He can take it," Simon chuckles. "Come, you can pray in the sanctuary, should you desire. The acoustics are perfect for shouting."

-- — --

The sanctuary was a quiet place to be. However, once Samantha spends more than a few minutes in the silence, she realizes it is actually quite noisy. The bell tower atop the church creaks in the wind, and while it only ever chimed to signal noon, the bells almost seem to hum in the still air. A little drip of water splashes onto the stone in some hidden corner, a gentle and rhythmic occurrence, almost like a metronome on its slowest possible setting.

Her eyes creep open, drowsy and heavy, gazing upon the world before her sideways. She couldn't remember falling asleep, nor could she really remember much of her time shouting into the stone-and-wood hall the prior night. She can recall bits and pieces of her conversation with Simon, and most of her time with Bill, though the walk between the two locations slips past her memory. She takes a long inhale and stretches her legs out from their curled position, enjoying the warm and comfortable place her neck rests upon.

She only just realizes that her head is not resting on her arms, as she believed, but is instead carefully placed into the lap of another person, when a voice sweetly whispers to her, "Good morning, Miss Deveroux. I was told you wished to never see me again?"

Samantha closes her eyes and rests her head more deeply into Esther's robes. "I... I was inebriated," she explains.

"That is a relief," the Sister says. "I was hoping to stop by for dinner this evening to speak with you."

The patters of guilt in Samantha's chest push forward, and she's only a little surprised to hear herself mumble, "Please don't leave me." She pushes her face down and inhales the gentle scent of the cotton. "Please."

"Don't fret," Esther coos, her fingers now gently pulling through Samantha's hair. "I was going to tell you that I felt refreshed and recentered, ready to be alongside you once more."

"Thank God."

"Speaking of which," her hand begins another journey through Samantha's hair, playfully ruffling it as she goes, "you implied to Father Billings that you wished to convert?"

Samantha smiles and sits up, turning her face away so Esther could not see her embarrassment. "Don't get your hopes up," she says from the corner of her mouth. She immediately misses the warmth of Esther's touch.

"Alas, they are sky high, my dear," the nun smirks. She flourishes the trail of her habit, "Soon we'll be giving you your own set of robes."

"You would have to suffer the embarrassment of no longer being the most beautiful Sister," Samantha warns, the feeling of shame slowly withdrawing from her stomach.

"And what a punishment, to see you overtake me so," Esther lifts her legs up onto the pews, curling up against the backboard. "I'm sure I'd never recover."

Samantha meets Esther's eyes, which gaze upon her like she was the greatest companion a person could have. The Sister is very nearly glowing, comfortable in her presence like nothing had occurred between them, and that they were closer than ever. There's a timid part of her that welcomes the compliment from her, thrives upon the banter, and she carefully tries to push it away. She would not allow herself the false expectation of spoiling Esther's commitment to her peace. She would not risk cutting open their friendship for sport or for affirmation.

"I'd never wear the veil," Samantha declares, looking at the white semi-hood which hides Esther's hair. She wears her white robes today, which are slimmer and tie around her waist with a simple rope cord. Samantha likes the white ones better on her. "It's too gaudy and I love my hair too much."

"True to form," Esther nods, "not even a nun and you're already asking for special treatment. Mother Superior would throw a fit." She smiles at her and rises to her feet, extending a hand to Samantha to help her up, which she takes and then quickly drops. "Come, we're in the middle of breakfast for the young ones. You'll love it."

The main floor of the orphanage, housed in a building which nestles up against the west side of St. Bartholomew's, served a wide variety of purposes. A row of bunk beds line the far wall, with neatly folded blankets and sheets, with large chests at the base of each of them. A row of low-hanging bookshelves sag alongside the wall which touches the church, sporting a rugged array of tomes which the nuns use for educating the children. There were a variety of stacked papers and sticks of charcoal for the children to practice writing, but the tables which they typically sat upon have been moved to a single-file line through the center of the room to serve as a makeshift breakfast table.

The number of children fluctuates constantly. There were a handful who lived there permanently, and whose corresponding beds had scraps of artwork or personal effects to signify their status. Others would stay only temporarily, a few days or weeks, sometimes months, usually because their families did not have enough food to support them or who needed to travel for work and could not bring them. Sometimes children would be adopted, though, according to Esther, that was often a rare occurrence. At present, there are twelve children seated amongst the Sisters at the table.

Samantha had met most of the Sisters at some time or another, but only a few of the children. She was most familiar with Judith, who sits at the end of the table with Sister Pullwater, and when all eyes in the room briefly turn to watch Esther and Samantha arrive, she quickly decides to join Esther in sitting beside Judith.

"Apologies for my tardiness, Sister's, children," Esther says to the room, bowing her head respectfully. "But, please welcome my friend, Miss Deveroux, who I am sure is quite nervous to be here."

Samantha waves timidly, and is relieved when Sister Pullwater speaks up, breaking the briefly awkward silence of her arrival. "Welcome, Miss Deveroux," her wizened voice greets, and with its approval the table returns to its pleasant chatter as before. "Alastair," the Mother Superior looks at a small redheaded boy across from her, "would you please inform Sister Mabel that we'll require another bowl?"

The boy nods and springs up from his seat, dashing off to the kitchen which sits behind a door in the back corner. Sister Pullwater supplies only one mildly disapproving glance at Esther and Samantha arriving together, but decides to say nothing of it.

One of the Sister's, a middle-aged and studious-looking woman named Patrice, meets Samantha's eyes and smiles. "Welcome, Miss Deveroux."

"Thank you," she bows her head back. Unsure of what might be expected of her at the table, especially in her interactions with the Sister's, Samantha turns to Judith at her left and says, "Good morning, Miss Velore."

"Good morning, Miss Deveroux," the twice-born girl chirps happily, her posture shaping up to match Samantha's cool poise. "How are you?"

"Better, I suppose."

"Father Billings said you slept on the pews last night," Judith glimmers. "How holy!"

Samantha raises a hand to her stiff neck, massaging it without much thought. "And uncomfortable."

"And your braid still looks lovely!" The girl exclaims, her own haphazard short-braid dancing as she speaks. "Could you teach me how to braid like that?"

"Of course, I'd be delighted to," Samantha says, fondly raising her hand to inspect Judith's hair and flick it playfully. "Your hair is very nearly long enough."

Alastair returns with a bowl of porridge in hand and places it before Samantha, scurrying back to his seat on the table. It must have been his duty this morning to serve everyone, and the seriousness in his expression tells that he felt his duty was an important one. She gently pokes at the mush with her spoon without much interest or appetite.

"Could you teach me as well?" A shy girl with deep brown hair asks, sitting to Esther's right and across from Samantha. "None of the Sisters know how to braid like that."

Sister Patrice leans forward, propping her elbows up onto the table. Her eyes peer jokingly down onto Wendy, and she complains, "I'm a decent braider."

"Sure you are," the girl huffs back.

Patrice releases a satisfying puff of laughter. "I am!"

"I'm sure the Sisters get less practice when their own hair is tucked into a veil each and every day," Samantha says from the corner of her mouth. Wendy and Judith look delighted.

Sister Chauncy, one of the oldest in the convent, shimmies forward and gazes down from the center of the table. "Mine is braided," she contests, then snorts and adds, "Not very well, mind you."

Samantha finds herself with a pleasant grin upon her face, and she turns to Wendy and says, "I could teach you as well, if you'd like."

"Yes, please," Wendy pips between bites.

After a few moments of eating, with a scattered array of conversations across the table, Sister Patrice glances back between Esther and Samantha. "So, Miss Deveroux, it is lovely to meet the friend that Sister Levy is so proud of."

Samantha raises a brow and shares a look with Esther. "Proud of?"

"My first friend in Bellchester," she explains.

"And here I was, worried you were instead proud of having a friend of notorious history," she quips.

Wendy interjects again, very narrowly avoiding speaking with her mouth full, "Are you not hungry, Miss Deveroux?"

"I... erm..." Samantha turns her spoon through the unappealing mush once more.

"She is used to the refined palette of a Lady," Esther saves her, leaning over the table to take a scoop of Samantha' food and eat it. "Or, of preparing the food to her specific and unimpeachable opinion. She's oft relieved me of the duty of cooking midway, spuriously criticizing my poor technique."

"To speak in my own defense," Samantha pushes the rest of her bowl to Esther, disinterested in it, "you are a lousy cook."

"Why don't you cook here, Miss Deveroux?" Judith asks, her voice painfully genuine. "If you don't like the porridge, maybe you could make it better?"

And hearing the polite interest in Judith's tone, the voice of a child asking for the attention of an adult they seemed to admire, and looking at Esther's amused grin as she awaits Samantha's reply, it's hard to find a reason not to. She nods and smiles back at the girl, happily answering, "I think I just might."