Devious - Lisa Jackson [40]
“I’ve talked to the archbishop,” Father Paul said softly. “Told him about the situation.”
Charity closed her eyes. “This is such an embarrassment for the church,” she whispered.
“We’ll ride it out,” Paul said, and she saw the weariness in his eyes. “Have faith.”
“My faith is not the issue.” She sighed and shook her head. “There is a chance, Father, that Camille was with child.”
He glanced up sharply, disbelief and something else—suspicion? —in his eyes. “No.” He shook his head. Foolish old man. As if he could decide what was the truth.
“I’m not certain, but I overheard a conversation between her and Sister Lucia.”
The lines in his face deepened. “I hope you’re wrong,” he said. Then his weak smile. “I don’t put much faith in gossip.”
He checked his watch and she understood. He was a busy man. And he was dismissing her, hiding his head in the sand, hoping that she, again, would clean up the mess. “I’ll talk to Father Frank,” he said benignly, as if that conversation would change anything.
Inwardly, Charity seethed as she left him and his skewed view of the “situation,” as he so callously referred to it. Didn’t he understand the significance of Sister Camille’s murder? The ramifications to St. Marguerite’s? Of course not. Whenever there had been a “situation” in the past, she’d taken care of it.
She walked briskly, hurrying through the passageway between his quarters and her beloved convent. She trailed a finger along the old walls, composed of more than mortar and brick. Years, no centuries, of history were a part of this institution; if she tried, she could almost feel the love, determination, and anguish of those who had walked before her down these hallways, which had withstood hurricanes and floods and political madness.
She reached the far end of the windowless corridor and started toward her office when she heard her name.
“Reverend Mother,” Sister Zita said. She had a melodic voice and a tall, lithe appearance that wasn’t hidden by her habit. Her skin was a warm mocha color, her eyes sparked with intelligence, and she had never given Charity one second of trouble.
“Yes, my child.” She smiled warmly.
“I was wondering about St. Elsinore’s,” she said somberly. “Sister Camille and I worked in the orphanage together ever since Sister Lea left and now . . .” She rotated her palms upward.
“I see.” Charity was nodding. “There are lots of spaces that will need to be filled now that Sister Camille has passed on. Why don’t you see if Sister Maura or Lucia . . . or maybe Sister Edwina can go with you?” She offered a reassuring smile. “Even though the orphanage is moving to a new location, trust me, we here at St. Marguerite’s will be involved. I’ll see to it. Now, come with me.”
She led the tall woman toward her office and, once inside, sat at her desk, unlocked a big drawer, and retrieved the staffing schedule. As Zita had said, Sister Camille was scheduled the next day at St. Elsinore’s orphanage, which was actually across Lake Pontchartrain and closer to Slidell than New Orleans. A place dear to Charity’s heart. She hated to see the orphanage’s venerable old doors closing, but it was already decided, the move in progress.
“Let’s see . . . Yes, either Maura or Devota should be available. They both work there fairly regularly. Lucia . . . let’s leave her out of it. She’s been through enough in the last twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll talk to them,” Zita said.
“Good.” Then, automatically, “Bless you, my child.”
Zita left, and once again, Sister Charity was alone in her office, the picture of the current Pope and the crucifix her only solace. In so many ways, these were troubling times. Much earlier, when she was a young novitiate, before Vatican II, things were so much easier to understand.