Part 56 (1/2)
”I understand that.”
”He and Eugenie Nicolet sailed for France on the same s.h.i.+p. Eugenie returned to Canada with an infant daughter.” I took a breath. ”The bones don't lie, Sister Julienne. And they are not judgmental. From the moment I looked at elisabeth's skull, I knew she was a person of mixed race.”
”That doesn't mean she was a prisoner.”
”No, it does not.”
Another pause. Then she spoke slowly.
”I agree that an illegitimate child would not have been well received in the Nicolet circle. And in those days a mixed-race black baby might have been impossible. Perhaps Eugenie viewed the convent as the most humane solution.”
”Perhaps. elisabeth may not have chosen her own fate, but that doesn't diminish her contribution. According to all accounts, her work during the smallpox epidemic was heroic. Thousands may have been spared by her efforts.
”Sister, are there any saints from North America whose bloodlines included Native American, African, or Asian ancestry?”
”Why, I'm not sure.” I heard something new in her voice.
”What an extraordinary role model elisabeth could be to people of faith who suffer prejudices because they were not born Caucasian.”
”Yes. Yes, I must speak to Father Menard.”
”May I ask you a question, Sister?”
”Bien sur.”
”elisabeth appeared to me in a dream and spoke a line I cannot place. When I asked who she was she said, 'All in robe of darkest grain.' ”
”'Come pensive nun devout and pure; Sober steadfast and demure; All in robe of darkest grain; Flowing with majestic train.' John Milton's Il Penseroso.” Il Penseroso.”
”The brain is an amazing archive,” I said, laughing. ”It's been years since I read that.”
”Would you like to hear my favorite?”
”Of course.”
It was a lovely thought.
When we hung up I looked at my watch. Time to go.
During the drive I turned the radio on and off, tried to identify a rattle in the dashboard, and just drummed my fingers.
The traffic signal at Woodlawn and the Billy Graham Parkway took a lifetime.
This was your idea, Brennan.
Right. But does that make it a good one?
I arrived at the airport and went directly to baggage claim.
Ryan was draping a garment bag over his left shoulder. His right arm was in a sling and he moved with an uncharacteristic stiffness. But he looked good. Very good.
He's here to recover. That's all.
I waved and called to him. He smiled and pointed to an athletic bag circling toward him on the carousel.
I nodded and began sorting my keys, deciding which should go to another chain.
”Bonjour, y'all.” y'all.”
I gave him a minimal-contact hug, the kind people use when picking up in-laws. He stepped back, and the too-d.a.m.n-blue eyes looked me up and down.
”Nice outfit.”
I was wearing jeans and a s.h.i.+rt that didn't bunch too high with the crutches.
”How was your trip?”
”The flight attendant took pity and moved me up front.”
I'll bet she did.
On the ride home I asked about the state of his injuries.
”Three fractured ribs and one perforated a lung. The other bullet preferred muscle. It was no big deal, except for some blood loss.”
The no big deal had taken four hours of surgery.
”Are you in pain?”
”Only when I breathe.”
When we got to the Annex, I showed Ryan the guest room and went to the kitchen to pour iced tea.
Minutes later he joined me on the patio. Sunlight was slanting through the magnolia, and a troupe of song sparrows had replaced the mockingbird.
”Nice outfit,” I said, handing him a gla.s.s.
Ryan had changed to shorts and a T-s.h.i.+rt. His legs were the color of uncooked cod, and athletic socks bagged around his ankles.
”Been wintering in Newfoundland?”
”Tanning causes melanoma.”
”I'll need shades for the glare.”
Ryan and I had already reviewed the events in Ange Gardien. We'd discussed it at the hospital, then later by phone as more information came to light.