Chapter Eight - Unfurling

Gradually, as the audience drifted away from the artist’s endeavours, and the scratching of charcoal the only sound, Anne snuggled closer to Jeanette and whispered, ‘Tell me about the horses.’ Anne loved to hear about the horses the most. Jeanette was able to answer any questions about the time when they had a father and a mother, and they lived in a house with beautiful things and a servant who worked with their father on the farm. Once Jeanette had frowned at her. ‘Annie? Are you sure you remember nothing?’ Anne had assured her she did not. ‘That’s why you have to tell me!’ So, Jeanette continued her stories about the peaceful childhood they’d shared, how their mother cooked delicious things, and they always had treats, and birds sang in the beautiful trees outside and everyone had a puppy each. As Jeanette told it, the weather was always delightful, and Jeanette remembered when Annie was young a butterfly would alight on her hair when she went outside in the sunshine. The touches of butterflies were like their parents’ gentle kisses.

As she always did, Anne whispered longingly, ‘Why did we leave?’ And, as she always did, Jeanette refused to answer any more questions. ‘There is no answer.’

Hampered by Jeanette’s raiments, Anne caressed her older sister to elicit more magical tales. Jeanette whispered to her that the farm grew linen, and the beautiful blue flowers would stretch as far as the eye could see over the fields and far, far away. And the stalks would lie on the ground after they’d been pulled out to be dried and retted, and the smell would warm up the world.

Their father’s family was nearby - their father’s father owned the big house on the hill - the older brother farmed the big farm. ‘Tell me what it was like when we were a family.’

‘Hush, hush, we’re still a family, you, I and Claude, no matter what.’

‘Come a little closer, please?’ Maynard came up to the grille and stared at Jeanette. ‘Could you please lift your head a little?

Jeanette stared back.

‘No, really, it’s not good enough.’ Maynard turned to Anne. ‘I need to work without this grille. Can I get permission to sketch her outside, do you think?’

Anne thought for a moment. ‘I can ask the Mother Prioress.’

Maynard considered Jeanette who barely moved apart from a small bow of assent. He nodded too. ‘It’s best if I do.’ Turning to Anne he said, ‘Would you mind fetching her so that she might see for herself?’

Anne leapt to her feet.

‘Please don’t explain. Just tell her I’d like to see her.’

As Anne left, she saw Maynard stand in front of the parlour grille and smile at Anne’s sister.

Jeanette fixed the gold raiments around her, prevented the crown from slipping from her head, and looked at him shyly.

Maynard, with his long brown hair and beard, looked so suitable in that setting that Anne almost laughed to see the pair. She turned to go.

By the time she returned, Maynard had pulled his stool right up to the grille and Jeanette sat on the bench that previously had been her heavenly cloud. Anne’s arrival interrupted their conversation. Both sprang to their feet when Anne ran into the parlour and announced, ‘She’s coming.’

Anne noticed that while Maynard moved closer to the middle of the room, Jeanette stepped back from the grille and seemed to invisibly move backwards until she’d almost left the parlour. Anne knew her sister was still there, though possibly the Mother Prioress might not have noticed her when she slowly walked in. Her arthritis was playing up again and Anne went forward to offer her shoulder as a leaning post. The Mother was out of breath.

‘Good evening, Reverend Mother.’

She paused for a moment, eyeing the young man who greeted her, before indicating Anne should lead her to the comfortable chair. After she seated herself, she looked up at Maynard. ‘How does the staircase go?’

Maynard nodded. ‘As you saw earlier, I brought the repurposed oak that was available in my father’s workshop, but I must source more. I suspect another three days before I return with my father to build.’

‘Very well.’

‘But, Mother Prioress, I beg pardon. I have made initial drawings of the Assumption scene but I’m not happy with my efforts so far. I find this grille disruptive to my work. I beg permission to draw the Virgin Mary with no grille in the way and more time so that I can work in metal point rather than this charcoal.’

‘Let me see your work so far.’

Maynard spread out the drawings out on the floor. ‘As you can see Mother … ‘

‘Yes, the charcoal smudges. I see.’ The Mother looked toward the invisible Jeanette thoughtfully. Anne was not sure if Jeanette was still there. Then the Mother looked back at Maynard. ‘You may not touch her. She will be chaperoned. Tomorrow at the same time.’

His fingers were blackened with the stalk of charcoal still motionless in his hand. It had been sharpened by the continual smoothing of the instrument upon the page. He let it fall on the last sketch, one of Jeanette looking up to heaven.

Maynard repeated, ‘Tomorrow.’

It was not a question but to Anne it seemed as if Maynard did not believe it.

Again, Anne walked him through the gates but this time she did not bother him with small talk. She watched him walk down the road, past the high wall of the convent and he kept his eyes downcast.

Anne went to find Jeanette in her cell. ‘Did you hear? ’

Jeanette stopped and closed her eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘What can you do?’

Jeanette shook her head hopelessly. ‘The religious life is safe. You know that.’ Jeanette turned back to her cell. ‘You’ve heard Marie Therese for as long as you have been here.’

Anne stood in front of her. ‘Maynard is my friend.’

‘I’m allowed one day out of the convent before the profession.’

‘On that day, then.’

‘I’ll confess all, you know that.’

‘What? That you went on a picnic with me and Claude?’

‘Oh, Anne. If only life was that simple.’

‘Maybe it is! Trust in God!’

And the bells rang for Compline.

‘Hush, you must go. Rest well, my dear little sister. May the saints protect you.’

Anne slept with Clotildé and Léonie in their little bed, top and tail. At times it was good in the winter when they could cling together, warm, and safe. They whispered and giggled. When they finally got to sleep there were subconscious fights for blankets often leaving one or more cold. Even though the days were warming up now, in late spring, the bare floor was dreadfully cold in the morning.

Sister Gertrude shouted when they did not get up in time for Prime. There were lots of young girls in the room. Léonie cried and said she had nightmares. Sister Gertrude grabbed Léonie, who had wet the bed, pulled her out and took her away to tend to her. Which left Anne and Clotildé lying in the wet. Then Marie Therese punished Anne for wetting the bed because Clotildé insisted she didn’t do it.

Anne had to take the linen down to the laundry and set the boiler going to wash the sheets and all those sheets they had used for the Assumption scene. This took hours and the fire burned hot.

At first Léonie tried to help her but Anne determined she’d do it by herself. She tried to obey Sister Agnes’s call to be careful and make the best of things, but it was difficult. Anne’s anger and resentment washed over her like a towering wave. This was how she learned to deal with her sense of injustice. She’d fling herself in fury at the source of her pain and she’d get lashed for the effort. She’d learned to survive. If she worked hard by herself heaving laundry in a hot hell the agony would pass.

After Terce, Sister Agnes looked in at the laundry to see how Anne was faring. It was almost time to rinse the linens in the stream and, after strong suggestions from Sister Agnes, Léonie and Clotildé came to help stretch the sheets out in the pastures.

After Sext and lunch, Maynard didn’t have much to say to anyone. He unpacked thick paper sheets, coloured blue and pale yellow. He took a desk from the library and propped a board at an angle best to capture the light coming in from the open door and the window above. Then he took a wooden stick which held a strip of metal and smoothed it over the surface of the paper. Anne was fascinated and came to stand, too close, as she discovered when he shooed her away.

When she persisted, he explained yes, he was using a stylus of silver and that any metal would make a mark on any paper if she cared to try. But he preferred to work on specially prepared paper. Yes, sometimes he liked to use white paint to make highlights, but he’d do that later. When he said, ‘Let me concentrate, please,’ Anne finally realised how annoyed he was.

Jeanette arrived soon afterwards. Anne knew it was only because she’d not yet professed that Mother Prioress had allowed Jeanette to model for the Virgin Mary.

Maynard sat her under the gap in the ceiling. She could look up and pretend it was heaven. He asked her to wear the blue shawl instead of the raiments. Anne had seen that flash of recognition in the parlour, but she hardly knew what it meant. There were no words to describe it. Who says words? Not Maynard. Not Jeanette. Anne could see them looking at each other. Longing? She didn’t understand. What was it they longed for?

Anne couldn’t imagine why Jeanette wanted to be a nun. Anne wasn’t sure she could live the religious life. She loved the village too much.

Maynard worked as if in a trance. His look was so intent, so intense, it was as if he was touching Jeanette, but in the lightest, most appreciative way imaginable. Anne thought he knew nothing of the passing of time. He heard and saw nothing but the young woman in front of him, every particle of her softness, every drape of her shape, and Anne thought he wanted to capture her forever.

It was as if he wanted her so badly, he scrambled his marks on the paper, engraving her likeness repeatedly, letting the lines live and grow. His arm moved directly, strongly and the marks grew and compounded. Anne watched in amazement as her sister’s visage grew. Reproduced so perfectly, she almost expected to see a tear roll from the eye. Even though the marks could not hold colour, Anne imagined she did see shades of pink and blue therein. She even thought she saw breath.

The bell for None rang out and Jeanette shifted obediently, trained as she was to respond to God’s voice through the resonance of the bell.

‘No!’ Maynard sprang alert to the world once more.

Anne saw him realise he’d startled Jeanette, and then he added, as an afterthought, ‘You moved.’

Jeanette was apologetic but she continued to stand. ‘I must … ’

It was as though all the air left Maynard’s body. ‘Will you return?’

‘If the Mother allows.’

And Jeanette was gone, discarding the blue shawl in a heap on the floor. Maynard sat, bowed in silence for a moment. Then he rose. He stood as if he walked in his sleep. Anne thought perhaps he was still dreaming as he moved forward to pick up the blue shawl. He couldn’t help it, Anne could see that, his movements were without thought. He grasped the shawl in his hands and buried his face into the fabric. He breathed in. Anne wondered if he could smell Jeanette? Could he feel the remnants of her warmth? Anne understood he didn’t know she was there; he didn’t know where he was.

Although curious, she backed away, granting him a moment to compose himself. She turned back to see him standing as still as a statue in the middle of the room, with the blue shawl in his hands.

After None, Anne went back to the calefactory. She wondered if he’d left some of the sketches behind. He was still there himself, working intently at his makeshift desk in the afternoon light.

To avoid disturbing him, she went outside to sit in the garden. From the bench she could see the door through which she knew he’d have to exit. She stared at the buds on the rose bushes, the bright new leaves with bloodstained tips. After the ecstasy of the transcendental drawing she’d just witnessed, it was as though her own eyes were freshly opened to details and colours. The smells too, caught her attention. The dark scent of thyme just flowering mingled with heady lavender perfume. She could smell, too, the crushed bright yellow-green of tender chamomile shoots dotted on the gravel path where she’d trodden moments before. She could hear bees as they hummed and bumbled through the air, collecting clumps of pollen on their comical thighs, ready to return to the convent’s hives down by the mill. She could hear the faint buzz of flies and the peeping of young birds in nearby trees and shrubs. A flock of chaffinches drifted overhead. As she sat, warming herself in the sun, a young, red-breasted robin fluttered to her bench and perched beside her. He eyed the ground under the chamomile fronds carefully, completely disregarding Anne. She held her breath while she turned her attention to see the ants crawling beneath the chamomile.

What a beautiful sun-soaked moment, crowned by the visit of a crowd of blessed multicoloured butterflies that visited a small forsythia bush, glowing with golden flitters and flashes.

Yet the butterflies darted away and the robin too flashed and was gone.

They had seen, before Anne did, a sparkle of silver and green and a wide expanse of skirt. Anne was soon face to face with a stomacher, highly patterned in leaves that swirled down the front of a shining green silk dress.

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, little one. I’ve frightened him away.’ It was Hendrika de Tailly de Bruges, by herself. ‘Do you mind?’ She indicated the bench beside Anne. ‘I count myself fortunate I found you.’

Anne had no choice for the lady sat beside her without waiting for permission.

‘I would love to chat with you, would you love that too? It’s probably not allowed, is it? But I’m so fascinated by you, little Anne.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you, of course, who else is there? I want to know, are you allowed to grow your hair? You’re so pretty! In a few years it will be your turn to play the beauties. You are going to have such a future.’

Anne looked at this sparkly woman and wondered what she was doing here in the convent. She was so worldly and well dressed. Why would she come to their small town and hide away? Was she being punished by some decree?

‘I’m sure I’m grateful, Mijnvrow de Tailly, but I fear I’m nothing special.’

The noble woman said, ‘My dear Anne! Let’s see how it all turns out. Come and visit me in my rooms, you little darling!’

Anne looked at her in amazement.

‘Come tomorrow after your lunch, my sweet pet.’

Anne nodded her acquiescence and, as the noblewoman rose and left, watched the glittering fabrics dance away through the garden in the summery weather. What did she mean, how what all turns out? Of course, Anne would go, what sensible young girl would not? Yet Anne could not understand why Mijnvrow de Tailly should single her out. Anne stared up at the sky, wondering what her life could be like if it were to be outside these walls.

It was impossible.

At last, Anne became aware of the man standing beside her. He was breathing haphazardly. His eyes were closed as he held his face to the sun. He held his travelling case with one hand and his folder of sketches under his other. She sprang to his assistance. He seemed distracted as he went through the double gates. Anne watched him and began to follow. Not only did she walk him back down the road to the town, but she saw him to the door of his father’s workshop.

When would he return? When sufficient aged oak had been collected and building would commence. She couldn’t go further than the sight of his workshop door because she knew she’d be in trouble if she delayed further, but she made note of how she could find the place again. She’d turned to go when she heard her name.

‘Anne,’ said he, ‘When will I be able to see her again?’

Anne shook her head for she didn’t know that it would ever be possible. Seeing his hopeful face, she couldn’t form a negative sentence, so she said, ‘I’ll try to find out.’

‘I must see her, Anne.’ Maynard stepped forward, his look direct and honest, ‘Just one more time. I don’t know how to live if I can’t ever see her again.’

Anne took time to consider and then she smiled at him. One of her most sincere and meaningful smiles that seemed to affect people the most. And he almost smiled in return.

Anne gestured to his folder. ‘You have her pictures.’

A slight shake of his head. ‘Not enough.’

She agreed, seriously, and turned away. She made it back to the convent just in time for Vespers. His burden made her feel like an adult. The weight of it was deadening.