WeWriWa: Bring It Spring – I have a Book to Finish!

I’ve never been so sad to see our chubby little groundhog friend – because I’d promised myself I’d have my new historical finished by the first day of spring and it’s coming early. I thought I’d have six more weeks! Truth be told, I’ve been hibernating instead of writing, telling myself that I needed to read through all five books of my Bass Family historical series before finishing the final (maybe!) book. It HAS been a wonderful journey but now I’m ready to get back to the keyboard. Here’s a sample from HER TEXAS HERO. (These aren’t the main characters of the story in this scene but they play an important role in complicating it!).

 The Excerpt 

“Ah, there she is, the picture of piety, your privileged pet, that Malloy girl, making her evening sabbatical to the fountain.”

Father Bartholomew looked up from his ledgers to the nun standing at his window, knowing from the soft, unmistakable censure edging Sister Mary Helene’s observation, to whom she referred. Shadowed there against the dark glass, her skeletal frame hung with black, Mary Helene reminded him once again of the gaunt birds of prey circling against a searing sky in hopes of fresh carrion, and nothing would make the sour-faced nun more rapturous than having the next-to-bleached bones of Martine Malloy beneath her cruel talons.  

Disliking the woman’s tone as much as her insinuation, he arched an admonishing brow and corrected, “She is God’s child, not mine, Sister, and all are equal in my eyes as they are in His.”

She might have made a harrumphing sound discreetly covered by the clearing of her throat before muttering, “She may be equal in God’s eyes, but her own opinion of herself has her a bit more equal than others.”

Like a parent listening to an older sibling’s list of a younger’s transgressions, he tried to be tolerant, but with the massive amount of work awaiting him before he could seek slumber, on this night, his patience wore woefully thin, making him chastise, “That is a harsh accusation, Sister, so you must have strong evidence to risk such possible slander.”

The sister faced him then, a shadow of uncertainty scurrying across her severe features as she realized that she’d gone too far in voicing her bitterness, but because she’d been at the convent school longer than most could remember, she felt a certain security in speaking her mind, even before her own superior. “I have given you evidence, and you have chosen not to act upon it.”

“Minor indiscretions that would be easily corrected and forgiven in another. Taking in spirited foundlings who balk beneath our rules is nothing new here, so what is it about this particular girl that upsets you so?” 

( . . . and a bit more . . .)

Father Bartholomew didn’t need her explanation. Martine Malloy was young, fresh, and beautiful, from a wealthy family and exclusive upbringing. She’d leave the grit of West Texas behind for a gilded society future. When her father sent for her, it would be to form an advantageous marriage into which she would bring her money and her virginity. Mary Helene would have none of those things. She would never leave this hot, dismal place, and at this bitter moment, she was all that she would ever be. Resentment for that fact, and the young woman who was an ever-present reminder, ate at her like a consumptive fever. 

“She does not belong here, Father. Surely you must see that. She has no intention of surrendering herself to a life of sacrifice and duty, and her attitude mocks those of us who have.”

He rose from behind his desk and crossed to the window. A tall, powerfully built man, he knew his stature intimidated as much as his standing within the clergy. Just as his good looks conflicted with the oft-held image of a man of the cloth. When he drew near her, the shrewish sister ducked her head as an agitated flush of color rose then faded in her sallow cheeks. He was used to the effect and was not above manipulating it to his advantage. But taunting Sister Mary Helene with her own repressed desires held no entertainment once he beheld Martine Malloy kneeling in the moonlight.

A face that could make angels weep. Or launch a thousand ships. No wonder Mary Helene and the other dried-up nuns at the convent hated her so. 

Shakespeare said it best (but apparently not first!): “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.” HTH is all about stepping into different roles for different, and often desperate, reasons. So, now that I have to write faster, I’d better get back at it . . . right after I read your posts.

Happy Spring!!

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