Hecate brushed herself down and adjusted her hat. She could feel that the wide brim was bent on one side and was aware she presented a somewhat pathetic spectacle.
“I am most grateful for your assistance,” she said, mustering her dignity and taking hold of the handlebars. She was sufficiently shaken to walk home rather than ride.
“If you’re sure you’re not hurt…” When she nodded and smiled, the young man touched his cap and went on his way.
Upon arriving home she discovered her father was out with Phileas and that the pair would return together in time to dine.
Beatrice was shocked by her appearance.
“Whatever has happened to you, Hecate? Your hat … and your hem is ruined.”
“I took a tumble on my way home. It is nothing, Mother, do not concern yourself,” she replied, bracing herself to defend her beloved bicycle.
“Nothing indeed! That is your best day dress.”
“Which can no doubt be repaired,” she said, removing her hat and examining it. “As, no doubt, can my poor hat.” She turned for the stairs, trotting up them as evenly as she could, determined not to give any hint of her injuries.
Her mother called up after her. “There is always a cost to pay for carelessness.”
“Not on this occasion, for I shall attend to the repairs myself,” she called back, reaching her room and closing the door on her mother’s further comments on the matter.
Much as she would have rather not had a terse exchange with her mother, she was glad of the excuse to be in her room. She was not in the state of mood required for chatting in the sitting room, even with Charlie. She needed time to think, to try to make sense of her conversation with Brother Michael. As she undressed she replayed the encounter in her head, committing the monk’s words to memory, smiling to herself at the enormity of what had taken place. A gleeful giggle rose up inside her. It was true. She had spoken with a ghost. And from what Brother Michael had told her, she had seen, and been seen by, at least two more. She sat at her desk in her undergarments, recalling how real, how solid, Mrs. Nugent had appeared to be as she polished those brass railings. And yet the dean had been oblivious to her. And the sorrowful soldier in the Stanbury Chapel … when she had noticed him, he had seemed in every way real, and solid, and ordinary. Except that now she thought about it, his uniform was not of the modern kind.
And then there was Brother Michael. Casting her mind back to when she had first noticed him, she realized he had been watching her since the day she arrived. And he had known, straightaway he said, that she had, as he called it, the gift. What a strange gift it was! And was it that same aspect of herself that was allowing her to connect so strongly with the Mappa Mundi? She had collected herself sufficiently, during their conversation, to ask the monk about the map and what she had heard and seen, but they had been interrupted by the arrival of John. He had discovered she was left alone in the library and come to make sure she had everything she needed, so he had told her. She felt a little badly about how she had responded to his solicitous visit. After all, he was only being kind, considering this was but her third day at the cathedral, and being concerned for her. She had not, she knew, been receptive to that kindness. All she had been able to think of was how quickly Brother Michael had faded and disappeared, leaving her, heart pounding, with so many unanswered questions. She felt mounting excitement at the thought that she might see him again the next day. Or perhaps encounter the phantom soldier. Or talk with the industrious Mrs. Nugent. What, she wondered, would Mrs. White make of the fact that she had a lost soul assisting her in her work? Of course, she could never tell her. Beyond her father, she could not imagine sharing her secret with anyone.
And now she was forced to wait. To make use of the time, she turned her attention to her torn dress. Despite assuring her mother that she would see to the repairs, they both knew that her talents at needlework were poor. She lacked the requisite patience, or indeed interest, to have properly mastered the skills that would produce neat and durable results. With a sigh she turned the hem over in her hands. The fabric was mangled and stained with oil. The damaged section would have to be cut out.
“Good,” she said to herself. “How much better if the whole thing were several inches shorter?” She opened a drawer in her desk and took out a large pair of scissors. She cleared a space of books and papers and writing paraphernalia and laid out the skirt of the dress. Pausing only for a moment, she took hold of the fabric and started to cut, becoming more and more determined with each snip of the blades. In no time at all she had removed the ragged hem. She lifted the dress and held it up to herself, turning to study her reflection in the large looking glass in the corner of the room. It was shockingly short, revealing not only her ankles but two inches of her calves at least, more if she strode about.
There was a quiet knock at the door and at her response the maid, Stella, entered the room. She was carrying her sewing basket. On seeing Hecate she stopped, mouth open.
“Ah. I see Mother did not trust me with my own repairs. She need not have worried,” Hecate insisted, twirling. “As you can see, I have removed the damaged material and in the process rendered the dress far more suitable for bicycle riding.”
Stella appeared to be searching for the right thing to say but failed to find it.
Hecate continued. “I’d be grateful if you could turn a new hem for me, though. I confess I would make a poor job of it.” She held out the dress and then an idea came to her. “In fact, although shorter, the skirts still present a hazard in combination with the chain, particularly when I execute any … irregular maneuvers. What is needed is some way of securing them to my leg on the inside. Some manner of strap, perhaps, about … here.” She indicated the ideal position. “What do you think, Sella? Could you fashion such a thing?” She gave the girl her brightest smile.
The maid took the dress with a slow shake of her head. “I could, Miss Hecate, but what will the mistress say?”
“You leave Mrs. Cavendish to me. After all, my safety is her main concern, wouldn’t you agree? Now, can it be done?”
Stella nodded then, focused on the task. “T’would be a simple matter to stitch in a strap. The tricky part would be making openings in the petticoats that lined up perfectly.…”
“I know you have many demands upon your time, but I would be so grateful for your assistance.…”
Stella glanced at the scissors on the desk. “Of course I will help you, miss. But please, do not take to cutting any more of your clothes without first consulting me,” she added.
“I promise! No need to tell my mother of the finer details of what we are about. Well then, let’s set you up under the best light, over here I think,” she said, pulling back the desk chair.
While Stella worked away at the dress, Hecate put on a simple blue evening gown, refusing the maid’s offers of help. She knew her mother would be scandalized by the length of her skirts and so formed the idea to purchase a new, longer pair of brown leather lace-up boots.
When the grandfather clock in the hall chimed the half hour, Stella hurried away to continue her duties. They agreed she would continue with the alterations the following day. Hecate could barely contain her excitement as the moment to share her news with her father drew nearer. She felt certain he would be as astonished, as full of wonder, as she herself was at what she had to tell him. He, too, would have questions. Thinking of this, she hurried to the pile of books on the floor beside her little sofa. This small selection from her father’s study had been her essential reading before beginning work at the cathedral, and all contained some information or other about its history. Quickly, she flicked through the pages of the oldest, weightiest tome, searching for details about the setting up of the library. Alas, it did not dwell on the matter of who might have assisted the bishop and the dean of the day, choosing instead to concentrate on what manuscripts had been included. She continued her search. At last, in a tiny pamphlet regarding the development of the collection, she found a small entry that made her heart race.
“‘To assist the Master of the Library in his endeavors, there was sent from Shaftesbury an elderly monk, whose labors at the Abbey had been of great value due to his knowledge of the manuscripts held therein.’ Brother Michael,” she muttered to herself.
The sound of the front door opening and voices in the hall announced the arrival home of her father. Hecate left the book and hurried downstairs. She found him and Phileas in ebullient moods, handing their hats to Stella.
“Ah, my little Hecate,” her father greeted her with an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “Here we are, all workers returned from our tasks.”
Phileas took her hand and bowed over it as was his habit, although she had long ago noticed that he did not greet other women in such an old-fashioned and charming way. “I prevailed upon your father to lend me his good judgment.”
“Sterling is to be a social philanthropist,” Edward announced.
“Oh?” Hecate was finding it hard to attend to what they were saying.
Phileas explained. “Hardly that,” he insisted. “The chamber of commerce know I am a man with time to fill and a small amount of influence. They have asked me to oversee a housing project on the west side of the city. I have this day been to examine the site.”
“How very laudable,” Hecate replied, following them toward the drawing room, hoping to corner her father privately at the soonest opportunity.
Edward expanded on the subject. “The plot of land where once stood Grayfriars Abbey is to be put to good use at last.”
“The abbey?” She could not help but be struck by the coincidence that her father, too, had spent the afternoon thinking of long-dead monks. “Well, I’m sure the community would have approved of it providing homes for those who need them.”
Her father raised an eyebrow at her. “The present community,” he asked, “or the original brethren?”
“Both,” she said, smiling, and then whispered urgently to him, “Father, I simply must speak with you!”
He looked at her more closely, taking in the brightness of her eyes and the excitement written clearly on her face.
