I feared you knew, Sebille. How long?”

The nun lifted her prayer beads, met the abbess’s gaze. “I did not know for certain, but I suspected when I was nine and you gave me these.”

Honore looked between the two women, tried to understand how those words could be the first to exit their mouths when the abbess entered.

“When the woman my father fooled into believing she was my mother came for me after his disappearance and took me from here, I was so afraid to go with her, I looked back and saw a girl near my age wearing beads the same as these, also a short strand. I would have thought naught of it, but her lower face was covered and made me think of the infant my father told I had replaced—she who was said to have died at the abbey from a defect that made it impossible for her to nurse.”

Sister Sebille looked to Honore. “A month ere your birth, I was born of our father’s sin with a noblewoman not his wife. When your mother rejected you for your defect, our father brought you here to die where my mother had birthed me and left me to be raised. Though I would not know it for years, he gave me your name and took his misbegotten month-old daughter to his wife with tale he had prayed for the healing of the defect and God worked a miracle—”

“Enough!” Honore cried. “This is absurd.”

“You are Sebille Soames,” the nun continued, “and the name that has long hung around your neck was first mine—Honore of no surname.”

Honore snapped her gaze to the abbess. “It cannot be.”

“She speaks true.” The old woman sighed. “Your sister has guessed all I was to hold close. She was given your name and became much loved by your mother for the miracle of her healing. But when the Lady of Lexeter discovered that for nine years her husband had fooled her, she threatened your sister’s life. Thus your father returned her to us.”

The room was turning around Honore. Or was she turning?

“Come, sit.” The woman who thought herself Honore took Honore’s arm and guided her to a chair. “I know the deceit is unimaginable, but it is so. And I added to it by taking revenge on your mother for what she—”

“What of your father?” Honore asked.

“Our father died shortly after returning me here. Then his wife came to reclaim the daughter she knew I was not. I did not tell her he had revealed to me the truth of my birth and yours. Instead, I set my mind and heart to making her love me again.” She drew a shaky breath. “But no matter how hard I tried, she hated me, making of me little more than a servant and denying me every chance at happiness. It was years ere I accepted what could not be changed, and then I was so embittered I became vengeful, pretending to scrape and bow while behind her back I worked ill to turn her son from her.”

“Son?” Honore snatched at another sibling she was to believe she had.

“Your brother, my half brother whom I love very much. His name is Lothaire, and he will be pleased to know you, as will his wife.”

Honore pressed fingers into her temples. “Does my mother know I survived?”

Sebille shook her head. “She passed recently, unaware the one she rejected lived.”

Honore wished she could feel more than a twinge of regret. Had her father not refused, likely her mother would have had her afflicted daughter set out. She looked to the abbess who had come to stand over Sebille’s shoulder. “Did my sire know I lived?”

“He did.”

“Did he love me?”

“I believe so. When I sent word the infant expected to die was receptive to taking milk through a reed, it was he who engaged the physician to close up your lip. The procedure nearly killed you, but when you healed, you thrived. Once a year your father visited to observe you from a distance. He was proud of you and provided substantial funds so one day you could take vows if you wished.”

Feeling the beads beneath her fingers, Honore looked to the strand that was now four beads shorter than that of the woman kneeling before her. “Why did you give us these, Abbess?”

“The hope of providing you the comfort of prayer. And sentiment. You were sisters, and though you were not to know it, I wished to bind you to each other even if only by a string of beads made into two. Now they are reunited, I pray it a good thing.”

“It is,” Sebille said. “I have someone else to love.” She looked nearer upon Honore. “Do you think you might come to care for one who shares half your blood?”

It was said with such longing Honore ached for the woman whose lovely childhood had been worse than lost. “I am all astir,” she said. “This is much to take in, but I like you, and I am in your debt for defending me to Lady Yolande, for which you will suffer.”

“She will not,” the abbess said and lowered into the chair near Honore’s. “I have informed her of my decision, which I pray the bishop will support. Henceforth, the bulk of Bairnwood’s funds are to be dedicated to the care of foundlings.”

Sebille’s gasp nearly matched the volume of Honore’s.

The abbess inclined her head. “The lady will be leaving us. By week’s end, the foundling door will be completed and word sent out across the barony and those surrounding it that parents unable to care for their children may leave them with us, assured they will be well cared for and placed in good homes when possible. As for the boys who are not placed by the time they attain their tenth year, I believe funds can be raised to construct outside our walls a dormitory, small chapel, and workshop where they can learn a trade.” She moved her gaze to Honore. “The blessings begun with you shall multiply.”

Of a sudden feeling very fragile, as if a mere breath would birth hundreds of cracks, Honore could only stare. But when the need for air became so painful she had to fill her lungs, she clapped hands to her face and sobbed into them.

Arms came around her. She told herself this was enough, that into the space of her heart where Elias dwelt she could settle more foundlings, consigning the man she loved to a corner so distant she might forget him there.

“Methinks these are not entirely happy tears,” the abbess said.

Honore lifted her moist face. “I am very happy.”

“I am aware, and yet the sorrow with which you returned to Bairnwood continues to burden you.”

Sebille drew back. “What troubles you?”

Though tempted to hold close her ache, Honore said, “It is hard to believe that in so short a time I could love the man who retrieved Hart, but much I feel for him.” She looked to the abbess who had been told of Elias’s belief Lettice’s son was his and what had transpired in the quest to rescue the boy, though not of the aid given Thomas Becket.

There was alarm in the old woman’s eyes, and Honore shook her head. “Fear not. Just as I greatly value my chastity, he is honorable despite a mistake made in his youth.”

“I do not question that.”

“Then?”

“Now it is known you are noble both sides and legitimate, if he feels for you as you feel for him, he might come for you were he told. And more than ever you are needed here.”

“Worry not, Abbess. I have no intention of claiming the Soames name. And even if I did, it would be of no use. I have endangered Sir Elias’s family, am responsible for his injuries, and…” She trailed off, sent up another prayer for his recovery. “…I gave his father my word I will have no further contact with him. Bairnwood shall remain my home.”

“But what if he does come for you?” Sebille asked.

“I do not believe he will, but should he, I will not see him.” Honore looked to the abbess. “I will keep my word to his father, and Sir Elias will wed one of better childbearing years to ensure the De Morville name continues.”

“I am glad you choose this life,” the abbess said. “You yet have so much to give the Lord.” She turned her gaze upon Sebille. “What think you of serving the Lord other than by way of prayers for the dead, Sister?”

“If you speak of working with foundlings, I would like that.”

“Then providing Honore agrees, it is settled.”

Honore considered this found sister whom Wilma and Jeannette liked well, nodded. “It is settled.”