The sisters were proud of their library. As a mother would take pride in her children. They rejoiced in inviting visitors to inspect their collection. The sisters showed their books to everyone. They as close to shameless as nuns could be. There would be nothing lewd naturally. The sisters would die for their vows. A fate alas shared by too many of their cousins in Europe It was rather the brass neck of a wife who had married new money, and was trying to introduce her husband to society, did the wits of the town compare the sisters in their pride over their library
Like all good jokes. The target saw the truth in them. If the sisters had an excess of pride in their library they were humble in the eyes of their God. So they amused themselves with the thought that the armies of his most Catholic majesty did not dragoon with the skill of the Sisters, in bringing their collection to the attention of the learned and the good.
The Governor had pretended poorly to look interested at their priceless books He was but young in office and the last Mother superior had never forgiven him for such a slight. She was muttering afterwards. Of the more choice terms to fall from the Abbess lips were `` A mere clerk!’’. ``A sailors son!’’ ``Manners that would make even the Wilde Irish blush’’
The Order had begun the library, when they had expanded the convent a generation before. In those days the Irlandessa lived clustered in rough homes amongst their great house. As the first trickle of newcomers made it inland from the harbour. Their passage booked on the ships of the Portuguese who were but a few families who made their living from a few ships. There were the Indio’s, and the grasses. Yet before that, had the land changed since the flood? The strange Pagan chiefdoms of Mexica and Peru, were a long way away from Buenos Aires. Buenos Aires could have been part of Europe. Or perhaps a mirror to the colonies of the English further North. They were something of the Old world, in the New. Yet something New too
The Library had once been the main dormitory where the sisters would have slept. Now there was a score of shelves. Good strong southern pines. They were still women, and knew how to shame a merchant into the respectable price.
There was the old Bible from Seville. A legacy from a ship’s captain who had made a goodly profit selling cattle hides to Europe and then southern pines to the port. The man had spent his life following the North Star and compiling ledgers. Yet the devout Captain had not forgotten the prayers and works of the sisters. The sisters remembered his soul, on the anniversary of his passing
There were primers that had come from Nice. They had been worked on by men who had seen the dust of crusaders riding on their great steeds The Portuguesa had deposited with the sisters some works of Aristotle from Lisbon of great providence. The whispers were that it had been owned by a family of Jews, whom the inquisition had exposed and punished. The Portuguese had discovered that the Sisters loved books, as other women liked fine dresses. Like an adulterer learning a trick of womanly character, they had exploited it again and again
The Mother superior had been most attentive to their wives spiritual consolations afterward. The Sisters read to them lessons of Thomas A Kempis. ``The wisdom of Mother Julian of Norwich’’ a work from a land lost to the lord. In return Eloise had listened to the stories of little ones left to sleep in the earth forever. She had wept with their mothers she wept for their children, and tried to remember them always in her prayers
The Irlandessa, had returned the favour not to be undone, by their rivals. The Irish section of the library had been established. Works that St Patrick may have scribbled on his mountainside. Such tomes where now safe in the charge of the Sisters of Charity.
The lore and legends of a nation had been reduced to a few books. All which had been saved from the Regents armies. A copy of the Gospels which had once been the boast of a fine monastery, it had been hidden from the Vikings. The Normans had left it in peace. Though offered a stern correction to its scribes. Then the heretic’s had made it homeless. A brave soul had rescued it, and brought it aboard a leaky ship. From there it had been mouldering in the ports of Spain, it had been wrapped under a cloak, or stowed in a chest. It was a mercy it had not been sold for bread. Or not rather rudely tossed into a fire for warmth. The rats in several ports had been robbed of an easy meal. As had the fishes
After such trials and tribulations The manuscripts were now guarded by adobe wall and stout southern pines. Would they be safe here? Was she safe here? The war in the old world had finally come calling on Bunos Aires. They had have rumours of war, and now finally the horseman had crossed there threshold mercifully he had slipped away into the night
There were some secular works. The works of Caesar. Eloise smiled to herself when she saw those leather bound books. Not only did Caesar state that ancestors of the Irlandessa had been cannibals. There was an irony in that the heirs of long haired Gaul. Where now in the service of a Roman father. There was the Iliad of Homer. The tales of Charlesmage alas how Europe mourned him now. Where once a strong song of the Church had brought unity and fidelity there was now division.
There was a work on the recent wars in Europe. An account some hand had sketched of the battles and blood. The Irlandessa did serve in his most Catholic majesty’s armies across the sea.The Portugese had buried sons and lost fathers to pirates and the navies of the enemies of God and the Crown. Many of the new comers had been soldiers or were refugees. From this sieges, or that campaign
Even if the Pope and King should be victorious tomorrow It was the duty of the sisters to give instruction to sons, as well as daughters. The mind was as a garden to be cultivated and kept pure. A garden needed to be protected, against crows, and weeds. The harvest of heresy was war.
The tree that Luther had planted had brought the bitterest fruit.
The task in hand remained. The work she had wished to consult, was kept in the next set of shelves. It was a journal kept by a lady. She was the widow of one of the early governors of the town. She had acted as Grandmother or perhaps Durena in the towns girlhood
She was the midwife that had delivered the great marriage. Working quietly with the blessing of the Viceroy in Peru. His most Catholic majesty and even the holy father in Rome... The widow, as she had been known, had made a match. She had joined the hands of Karoline de Sousa, daughter of a merchant prince, and the son of the great O’Neill.
The union had been quietly happy. As had Buenos Aires. Trade bloomed and the streets were quieter. The contention between the two tribes healed. The Irlandessa flung themselves across the plains. The Portugese attention returned to the wares and ships. The Governor went to his bed, a contented man.
The union bore fruit. Marie the child of the two houses, the great hope of the south.
Who would never know her mother. One of the endless martyrs to the child bed.
Eloise now found herself in full remeberence of the funeral. Like a counting rhyme for children There was the big crowd of mourners a multitude the like of which the port only saw for a riot.
The chapel doors had been open, for the service to be head. An angel dancing on a pin, would have been told to hush, and had its heavenly ears boxed for making a show of himself such was the grief and silence over the city
The tall son of the O’Neill stood weeping at the grave. The day was perversely bright and favoured. Grief belonged with the winter. Some people fainted in the mourning clothes.
As Caesar and Pompey had never been reconciled again after the death of the woman that linked them so had the great houses of Buenos Aires been unreconciled. Mercifully Rome’s fate would not be shared. Fear checked even rumour
That Karoline, whose kinsfolk were born in Lisbon, had issue of the heiress of the O’Neill house indeed the honour of the best attended grave in the hundreds of miles was no comfort for the living.
The sisters had prayed for her, soul. They had prayed for peace. Then they had a pious smith cast a new bolt for their door. The storm passed. The younger O Neill drifted away from society. Preferring the hunt or his discreet mistresses Buenos Aires lapsed into faction.
Sister Eloise closed the book. Replaced it carefully, on its allotted shelf, and went off to pray
She opened the door, quietly. Good Mama was asleep. Indeed she was snoring. Indeed she just ..
Smiling to herself. She closed the door gently, and walked to her room. The rooms were quite pleasantly furnished. The house had been built by a prominent merchant whose love of cards had ruined him. The doors and walls were stout. It was close to the chapel. To one and all, it would quietly announce respectable.
She left her sleeping mother, and returned to her room. Taking her bible she sat down upon her chair. Her copy of the imitation of christ had been at her side, as she crossed the ocean. Along with Mama
She remembered very well the first time she had met both
For a moment she indulged herself. She had not done that since, oh since she was living in a town on that big river. Since what did the barbarians call it? Oh yes The Rhine. She remembered her house. It was always snowing there. Other people remembered their childhoods in summer. But she remembered hers in winter. The land laundered with snow and Papa riding on his big horse. It used to scare her. Oh and her naughty little kitten, Timosha! Her rogue Timosha! Whom would waste his days chasing the hens. Or if Timosha was feeling bolder he would stalk the sparrows. If Timosha had to hunt for his supper rather than wait, he would have been a beggar, a dead beggar
Mother used to scold her, about wasting scraps of herring on that silly kitten. She remembered mother now. Mother’s hair had been the colour of corn. Her skin, milk that still not spoiled, while the other matrons made good with cheese! In her mind’s eye across the ocean and rolling back the winters Her Mother working at her spindle again, Olya would hold the thread, and they would sing. Oh how she loved her sister voice. Olya. All the men, looked at Olya as she walked out of the chapel. Father always went with Olya to the well. For a moment her reverie slipped. Even at her mother’s knee she had learned a hard lesson. Olya was a prisoner of her beauty. The plainer girls could gossip by the well, or take a walk to see their neighbours, and kin. Olya was a like Helen. A quarrel that would one day spill blood.
Like a husband who slipped into the whorehouse, once or twice. Yet kept his virtue, and manhood in thrall for the rest of the year. She ended the indulgence. Her mind raced as her eyed began to survey the works of A kempis.
She had exposed herself, saving the Irlandessa Prince. That had been a necessary evil. The city would have been torn in two, such as it was. Her plans ruined. Scores dead, and thousands beggared. All so someone could claim their account on their vengeance
For a moment she cursed. If she was a man, her plans would have been accelerated and amplified by the act. Respectable ladies did not kill. They were supposed to retain the position of their sex, even in the face of assassins If they had been in a carriage, confronted by bandits
The aftermath of the fire would keep the mob occupied. Society would be attending to its civil a nd sacred duties. Though the horse had long since bolted, the Milita had mobilised. There would be calm throughout the Port The Idle hands were now patching shingles. The more foolish blackguards were swinging from the gallows. The Wives were consoling widows. There were funerals being arranged. Friends and Family were sheltering the homeless and the displaced.
Now was perhaps the time, for some piety and charity. ``Mama’’ would be pleased. There was a convent nearby. The sisters would be busy, but not too busy for the Gold and comfort of a Godly widow
Oh and they would need to buy wine. She would have to talk to one of the maids. The prices would be gorged after the fire. It was two mistakes she had made. She was getting old and careless.
Mama slept soundly if not quietly