Thunder On The Right by Mary Stewart Read Free Book Online

didn't know of her death till now?" asked the old nun at length.
    Jennifer shook her head.
    "I suppose you wouldn't, at that. We none of us knew she had relations; she never spoke of them. I don't know why, but we never thought she had any people." The short strong fingers touched the turf again like a caress. "This is her grave, you know."
    Jennifer nodded again without speaking. The feeling of the warm springy grass beneath her was comforting, and before her eyes the small starry flowers were swimming now into focus. She put up a hand and brushed away her tears.
    "You cry if you want to," said Sister Louisa. "I'm old and more than a bit silly myself, and I get a bit confused when I think about things that aren't what her ladyship calls 'of the earth,' but I know what's a comfort at such times and what isn't, and it's not the least use telling you just yet that your cousin's better off where she's gone to, because you're just not going to listen, and very natural, too." She pushed a small plant into place with a decisive gesture. "So you go ahead and cry.
    When you've finished being unhappy for yourself, then's the time you can begin to think about how lucky she is."
    "Lucky?"
    The old nun's eyes lifted for a moment. "Yes," she said. Then she picked up another plant, and began lovingly to straighten out its roots.
    "They told you how it happened, child?" She jerked her head, peasantlike, toward the silent buildings.
    "Yes." Jennifer found that her voice was steady enough. "She—the Sister who brought me out here—she told me."
    Sister Louisa sat back on her heels. " She told you? Where was the Reverend Mother when you came?"
    "I understood she was busy. The Sister saw me instead."
    "Sister nothing," said the old nun roundly, and in tones that could be called worldly in the extreme. "She's not a member of our Order—no, nor won't be either, as long as the Reverend Mother's got any say in the matter, and that's flat."
    She met Jennifer's surprised look, and grinned like a slightly shamefaced elderly gnome. "Maybe I do set overmuch store by the things of the earth, at that. I'll do penance for this, but I'm naught but human, and her ladyship tries the patience, that she does. 'Sister Maria Louisa'"—the mimicry, in the sturdy Midi accent, was irresistible, and in spite of herself Jennifer began to smile—" 'looks after the things of the earth. . . 'Holy Virgin, what does she do, with her silk gowns and mantillas and rings on her fingers?" She seized a plant and clapped it smartly into place. "She'd no business to see you and upset you like that. There's ways and ways of telling people bad news, and it's easy to see she's not the one to do it. I'll not deny she runs the place well—second to none—but she shouldn't try and do the Reverend Mother's job for her as well as everything else! I've said it before and I'll say it again!" She gave the plant a sharp monitory prod and then slanted a blue eye at Jennifer. "Ah, I've made you smile, child. Much'll be forgiven me for that."
    It was obvious now that it had been pointed out: the Spaniard's richly solemn black had been given the conventual air only by its setting, and by the accessories of cross and rosary. It had in fact been, not a nun's habit, but a copy—no doubt deliberate—of the dress of some pious and medieval lady. No wonder it had looked wrong, thought Jennifer, looking now at Sister Louisa's rough serge habit and cotton veil and at the wimple framing the cheerful old face with its lovely white. The cross on Sister Louisa's breast was of silver, and on her earth-grimed hand was the plain silver ring of her spiritual marriage. Her habit, as she knelt, was rucked up to reveal thick black stockings and rather appalling old shoes.
    She was rattling happily on. "Yes, Dona Francisca's our bursar, and a very good one she is, with a head on her shoulders and a way with her. She teaches, too—Oh, yes, whatever she lays her hand to she does well, I'll grant you that, if