A Finer End

“And you end up as peacemaker?”

“Not very successfully, obviously. But what bothers me most is Jack. His obsession with this seems to be growing. You’d think he’d be discouraged by our lack of progress, but it seems to have the opposite effect. It’s as if he feels there’s a clock ticking. And I can’t hear it.” As Winnie spoke she realized just how alone that made her feel.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Here you’ve tumbled into this unexpectedly wonderful relationship, then he goes and gets into bed with a rival you can’t even see.”

“It’s not like that!” Winnie protested, then laughed at her own discomfort. “Well, maybe it is, a little. Tell me about you,” she added, eager to change the subject.

“Not much to tell, unfortunately.”

Winnie studied her friend’s face. “You look a bit transparent round the edges.”

Fiona shrugged. “It’s not that I expect to control what I paint—that’s never been the case—but nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“You’re still painting the little girl, then?”

“They’re so dark, these paintings. There’s no happiness in them. I’ve begun to dread the urge to paint. And Bram hates them; I can tell—”

The banging of the back door silenced her.

“Sorry I’m late, Fi,” Bram Allen said, coming into the kitchen and kissing his wife’s cheek. “Waiting on an international call. Winnie,” he added, favoring her with a perfunctory nod. “Good to see you.”

As Fiona readied her husband’s meal, Winnie watched the couple with a stirring of envy. Married more than twenty-five years, they still seemed as devoted as newlyweds. Did she and Jack have such a future ahead of them? Or would Jack’s involvement with Simon lead him down a path she couldn’t follow?

She had been happily self-sufficient until she’d met Jack Montfort, unaware of any void in her life. So why, now, did the thought of a future without him fill her with such desolation?

They had made themselves comfortable in Jack’s kitchen—Winnie and Jack, Nick, Garnet Todd, Simon, and the girl, Faith. The heat wave that had plagued southern England for weeks had abated, and there was a crispness that presaged autumn in the breeze that blew through the open windows. From where Winnie sat, she could see the slope of the Tor rising beyond the neglected back garden, a solitary sheep grazing in the green grass.

Lazing over cups of tea, they indulged in the sort of desultory chat associated with warm summer afternoons. Jack sat with a notepad ready.

Suddenly, his pen began to move across the paper. Jack continued his conversation with Simon, seemingly unaware of the actions of his own hand. As often as Winnie had experienced the phenomenon, she still found it uncomfortably eerie, and, in spite of herself, the word possession came to mind.

As soon as Jack stopped writing, Simon began to translate.

Brother Francis has given me my own carrel. We work on the north side of the cloister where the light is best, and my carrel is near a window, a much-coveted spot. Brother Francis has set me the Abbot’s own missal to copy, as I have learned so quickly, but warns me against the sin of pride.

Simon looked up from the page, frowning. “Then there are a couple of lines I can’t make out at all—then something … something … meadowsweet, I think. The scent of meadowsweet. Then … much rain … Glaston rises from the flooded plain … an island in the mist. Supplies come by boat from Abbey holdings further afield, but our visitors are few, and this suits me well.”

“Have you noticed he’s suddenly giving us the present tense?” asked Winnie.

“I don’t know that linear time means much to someone in Edmund’s … uh, condition,” said Jack.

“Really, Jack, there’s no need to spare Winifred’s sensibilities by avoiding the word ghost or spirit,” said Simon. For once, Winnie had to agree with him. Who was she to quibble over dogma, if Edmund, who had been a Catholic monk, seemed to have no objection to being a ghost?

“Winnie’s right,” said Garnet. “It is a change—it’s as if the past has become more immediate to him. Is there anything more, Simon?”

Simon glanced round the table, but Nick was watching Faith, who was gazing at Garnet. Clearing his throat, he waited until he had their attention, then took up the notepad again.

Nothing interrupts the rhythm of our days, long in the summer twilight. Down the night stairs for Matins, the stone cool under our feet. We sing the Office in that state between sleeping and waking … then are we closest to God.

The times are now ripe for the glory to return. You must strive to restore all that was lost.… It was my sins brought such misfortune upon us.…

“That’s all.” Simon looked up, and Winnie came back to the present with a start. For a moment, she had seen the Great Church, illuminated by candlelight, and heard the voices raised in worship. The longing she felt for this vision was so intense she found herself blinking back tears.

Had the others felt it too? Faith’s face was luminous. Their eyes met, and an acknowledgment passed between them.

“What exactly is it that we’re supposed to strive to restore?” Jack sounded exasperated. “Not to mention how to go about it, if we knew what it was.”

Winnie said hesitantly, “I—I might have an idea.…” They all turned to stare at her. Would they think her barmy? But she knew it didn’t matter.

“I don’t understand how.… But he … Edmund … I could feel his joy, and a sense of—I guess you would call it complete harmony. I don’t know how else to describe it. Everything felt right with the world and with God. I think that’s what he wants you to know—that this is possible.”