Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [45]
“But she’ll want to see me,” he cried urgently.
“Are you a relative?”
“A relative? Yes, of course,” he lied desperately.
“No relatives are allowed to see her,” she said firmly, beginning to close the little flap.
“No, no, please wait.” He pushed the flap open again. “You don’t understand. I’m—I’m her fiancé. I love her, you sec, and she loves me. She can’t die, I won’t let her die. Not without seeing me, please Sister, I’m begging you….”
He saw the indecision on her face and added quickly, “The lass was going to be my wife. How can you forbid me to see her?”
“Please wait a minute,” she said, turning away. He listened to the soft slap of her sandaled feet on the flagstones as she disappeared, then paced up and down, swinging his arms. The February night was raw and he had no overcoat. His jacket of good Yorkshire tweed was almost threadbare, newspapers were stuffed into the soles of his boots to keep out the cold and wet and he had exactly five dollars to his name. But none of it mattered; beautiful Francie was dying and he knew he had to save her.
He heard the nun returning and peered anxiously through the flap. “Reverend Mother says you may come in,” she told him, unlocking the massive gates. “She wishes to speak to you.”
Pulling off his cap he followed her across a flagged courtyard and through a door into an anteroom.
“The Reverend Mother asks if you will wait here. She will be with you as soon as possible.”
The nun disappeared through a second door and Josh paced the room anxiously. It was small with rough plaster walls and uneven terra-cotta-tiled floors; there was a plain oak table and two straight-backed wooden chairs. On one wall hung a beautifully carved wooden figure of Christ on the Cross. The single window was placed high so that no one could see either out or in, and the room was as cold as the icy night outside. He groaned, thinking of Francie Harrison in this cold place; a girl like her needed to be where there was warmth, life, color. And it was all his fault. He thought of his sister, Annie, at home in Yorkshire, and wished she were here. Aye, Annie would have looked after her properly. She would have fed her nourishing soups, she would have banked up the fire and plumped up the pillows. Annie would have had her right in no time.
“Good evening.”
He turned, startled; he hadn’t heard the Reverend Mother enter. Like the other nun, she was wearing a long gray robe and a stiff white linen wimple that hid her face. From the rope belt around her waist dangled an ebony rosary and a bunch of silver keys, and a large simple gold cross hung from a chain around her neck.
“You wish to see Miss Harrison?” she said, in a voice so soft he had to strain to hear it.
“Yes, ma’am—Reverend Mother. You see, I know what happened, what she has been through. I love her, Reverend Mother, and I believe I can help her.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, but Miss Harrison is dying. We think it only right to let her do so in peace. Even her father is refused admittance.”
“Her father!” Josh exploded, his face twisted in a sneer of contempt. “Why, he’s the one who almost killed her.”
There was silence while she regarded him from beneath the shadowy wimple, then she said, “Why do you think you can help her, Mr. …?”
“Aysgarth. Josh Aysgarth.” Then he said urgently, “With love. Pure love. Just like the Lord gave to us.”
Silence fell again. He stared down at his hands, blue with cold. Then she said, “Very well, Mr. Aysgarth. The Lord gave us love. I accept that it must have its chance. Please follow me.”
He paced anxiously behind her as she glided along the dim tiled corridors to a room lined with gray hospital beds covered in bright scarlet blankets. Only two were occupied; in one an old lady who was sleeping, and in the other a boy of about twelve, his face red with fever and his eyes wide and dark with pain. A large screen partitioned off a section of the ward from the rest and the Reverend Mother beckoned him behind it. And there, pale and still as death in the middle of the little iron cot, lay Francesca Harrison.