Land of a Thousand Dreams by BJ Hoff Read Free Book Online

Dublin’s poor.”
    The nun leveled a look on Morgan that clearly said she recognized his dissembling.
    â€œYou may be direct with me, sir. If you are wondering what undisclosed stain on my record has brought me to this place, you have only to ask.”
    Morgan flinched at the nun’s perception, but made no protest. Instead, he occupied himself by straightening the pages of her file on the desk in front of him.
    â€œYou are no doubt wondering if I am under discipline, and, in a manner of speaking, I am. You have every right to know that I am considered entirely too radical in matters of religious education. I have been severely reprimanded for my teaching methods in that regard.”
    Morgan shot her a startled look. A radical nun? Unthinkable!
    As if reading his thoughts, Sister Louisa nodded.
    â€œI am accused of departing from certain teachings of the church as pertain to the reading of Holy Scripture and the Mass.”
    Morgan managed, with difficulty, not to gape.
    In the same controlled, direct voice, the nun went on. “According to Mother Superior, I have failed in my duty to give proper instruction concerning the Mass. I stress a personal relationship with Christ, you see, and I feel that certain parts of the Mass provide a perfect means for illuminating the various stages of this relationship.” She paused, but only for a moment. “There is some thought that my approach tended to undermine the importance of the confessional.”
    Morgan’s jaw dropped. “You took issue with a sacrament ?”
    The nun narrowed those dark, unreadable eyes. “According to the interpretation of some.”
    Morgan leaned forward, altogether fascinated. “And your own interpretation?”
    A glint of something—was it amusement?—suddenly flickered across her features.
    â€œI suggested to the young women—they were not children, by the way—that as we mature in the faith, we come to recognize our Lord’s desire for us to have close fellowship with Him, to come directly to Him with our needs.” The stubborn chin lifted a fraction. “Not only for confession, but for communion and worship as well. You might just as well know that I advocate a personal study of the Holy Scriptures. Some of my superiors believe me to be in rebellion.”
    She sat unmoving, perched forward on the straight-backed chair, her small hands folded neatly in her lap. For one deranged moment, Morgan was struck with a vision of the decorous, self-contained sister waving abanner of rebellion above her head and marching off to battle amid the rattle of drums and the thunder of smoking cannon.
    Immediately he gave himself a mental shake in rebuke for such sacrilege.
    â€œI have often observed,” he said carefully, “that it is the rebels among us who ultimately make the difference, who get things done.”
    The nun’s face brightened, and she seemed about to speak, but Morgan went on. “One might even refer to our Lord as a Rebel—of a kind. Unfortunately,” he went on with a grim smile, “rebels are more often than not crucified or persecuted or imprisoned. I have a friend who even now reaps the consequences of his rebellious ways.”
    â€œSmith O’Brien,” said the nun.
    Morgan looked at her. “Aye. You know of him?”
    The sister nodded. “And who in Ireland does not? The fallen hero of the Widow McCormack’s cabbage patch.”
    Bitterness welled up in Morgan’s throat. Smith O’Brien now languished in gaol, judged guilty of high treason and sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. Morgan and a number of the patriot’s followers were even now exhausting all measures to have his life spared.
    In the meantime, the English press had orchestrated a deliberate, ruthless campaign to make a mockery of O’Brien and the failed rising of 1848 by attempting to reduce the man and the final battle to a farce. Unable to