The Miracle at St. Bruno's

Some months after our grand ball Honey caught a chill. It was nothing much but I was always uneasy when either of the children were not well. I had made a nursery for them next to the room which had been mine and Bruno's bedchamber and was now more often mine alone, for he had lived more often in his tower. Honey had a persistent cough which was apt to wake her. I kept a bottle of cough mixture by her bed which my mother had made and which was always effective and as soon as she started to cough I would be in her room with it.

On this cold January night she started to cough. I was out of bed and into the children's room. Catherine was sleeping peacefully in her cot. Honey, now big enough for a pallet, gave me that intensely loving look when I appeared.

I said: "Now, my pet, we will soon stop that nasty old cough.”

I gave her the draft, propped up pillows and put my arm around her as she lay sleepily and happily against me.

I think she was almost pleased to have a cough so that she could have my special attention.

"Gat's fast asleep," she whispered delightedly.

"We mustn't wake her," I whispered.

"No, don't let's wake her. This is nice.”

"Yes. Are you cozy?”

She nestled against me. I looked down at her; the thick lashes making an enchanting semicircle against the pallor of her skin, her thick dark hair falling about her shoulders. She was going to be our beauty. Catherine was vivacious, careless, lighthearted; Honey was intense and passionate. If she were displeased and it was usually through her jealousy of Catherine that she was, she would be sullen for days, whereas Catherine would fly into a storm of rage and a few moments later she would have forgotten her grievance. They were completely unalike. Catherine was pretty-her lashes were light brown tipped with gold; her hair was brown with light streaks in it; her skin delicately tinted. Catherine was enchanting, more lovable, less demanding, but Honey was the beauty. She disturbed me even now because of her continual watchfulness lest I should show I cared more for Catherine than I did for her. I was the center of her world.

If she were proud of some achievement, I was to be told first; for me she gathered flowers-often those from my own garden. She watched me continually and she wanted me to remember always that she was my girl and that she had come to me before Catherine.

I assured myself that she would grow out of this. At the moment she was but a child.

Yet she was seven years old-an age they say when character is developed. I had given them lessons from the time Honey was four, remembering my father's maxim that a child cannot be taught too young. They must read as soon as it is possible for them to do so, my father had said, for thus a world is open to them which would otherwise be shut. I was in agreement with this and I was determined that my girls should be scholars if they had a tendency to be so, and if not at least educated ladies.

Later I should arrange for Valerian to teach them. I had already spoken to him of this and he was delighted with the idea. He was a very good teacher. All this I thought as Honey and I exchanged whispers and finally she was quiet so I knew that she slept.

Gently I removed my arm and crept back to my own room.

It was a moonlit night and still thinking of the children I went to a window and looked out. The sight of the Abbey buildings never failed to excite me and I could never become accustomed to living in such a place. I fell to thinking of the strangeness of my life and how different I had imagined it would be in the days when my father was alive. I thought of the strangeness of my husband and when I tried to dissect my feelings for him I could not do so. I had begun to suspect that I did not wish to because I was afraid of what I should find. He was a stranger to me in so many ways. Our closeness had always been a physical closeness. We could be lovers still.

Was it because we were both young and felt the need of such contact? From his thoughts I often felt completely shut out; and I wondered whether he did from me-or whether he considered such a matter at all. I had disappointed him because I had not produced a son. We were always hoping that I should do so.

Then suddenly I began to think of Rupert and the tenderness he showed to me whenever we met, and I admitted that was something I missed in Bruno. Had he ever been tender?

I had felt tender toward him on those occasions when I believed that he needed me; and he did need me. In what ways? He needed to prove something.

I switched my thoughts away because I was fearful that I might make some discovery.

And then I saw a figure emerge into the moonlight. Bruno again coming from the tunnels.

 I watched him make his way to the tower. I saw him enter. I watched and then I saw the light of lantern at his window.

It was the second time I had seen him coming from the tunnels m the night. I wondered why. It could only be because he did not wish anyone to know that he was there.