And Then There Were Nuns by Jane Christmas Page B

would take us to the Isle of Wight.
    My mind was swirling with enough what-ifs, whys, and what-was-I-thinking admonishments to trigger a breakdown. Perhaps that was where I was headed: toward a breakdown. I invoked some calming strategies—deep slow breaths, imagining a blackboard eraser wiping clean the clutter in my brain, even commanding myself to relax— Relax! —but nothing worked for long. I tried to distract myself by turning my attention to the English countryside that was whizzing past the car window— Look how green everything is! Like spring! The leaves on the holly and azalea bushes are so glossy you can practically see your reflection in them. You’d never get a January like this in Canada. But as soon as I locked onto the lichen-covered tree limbs, vines, and tree trunks, my thoughts disassembled into word association: They look like they’ve been wrapped in a mossy veil of chiffon. Veil. Gown. Wedding. Gulp. The distraction-therapy tactics came to a screeching halt, and the mantra resumed: My fiancé is driving me to a nunnery.
    I alternated between weepiness and excitement. I couldn’t decide whether I was doing the right thing or the wrong thing. A babble of voices in my head jeered in unison: Why are you doing this? Are you mad? Each time that happened, the Voice Within would calmly intervene: Have faith. There’s a reason for this. Keep going. I was beginning to wish I had never paid attention to those voices.
    We missed the entrance to Quarr Abbey, not once but twice. On the third attempt we spotted a small sign partially obscured by dry, desiccated vines at the edge of a narrow roughly paved driveway and turned in. The car bounced over and around ruts and potholes as Colin steered it with care. It lent a jaunty air to the excursion, and combined with the unusually sunny and warm January weather, it felt like we were going on a picnic.
    The road eventually brought us to an uneven parking area set amid barns and garages.
    I got out of the car, stretched my legs, and took a measure of the place.
    Quarr Abbey’s rose and yellow brick bell tower loomed over us. It was a curious style of architecture: a fusion of Moorish, medieval, and masonic sensibilities that made you wonder whether the architect had been channeling Fritz Lang. The dome of the bell tower resembled a minaret topped by a squat cross. On the main building, sharp triangular shapes like eyebrows raised in surprise topped the stylized gothic windows; broad gothic arches marked doorways; and the partially crenellated façades and blind arches gave the monastery a severe, almost militaristic look.
    By contrast, the landscaping was soft and undulating, from the serpentine contours of the flower beds and hedges to the rise and dips of the terrain. Tall, dark green iron fencing delineated the gardens from the main buildings, and benches and pieces of religious statuary encouraged contemplation. Everything pointed to a property tended with great care and affection, a place where peace and stillness were sacraments.
    ( 3:ii )
    â€œI’M AFRAID , because you’re, um, female, you can’t eat in the refectory with us. We’ll serve you your meals in this dining room instead. I’ll make sure the door is left open between the two rooms, though, so you feel part of us. Oh, and you can’t enter the church through this door: it leads to our cloister and, well, men only, you know. Your room is on this floor: you can’t stay upstairs, because that area is for men only, too.”
    In the space of thirty seconds, Father Nicholas had uttered three can’t s. The word caused a jerking reflex in my shoulders.
    As Quarr’s guestmaster, Father Nicholas had the duty of providing an orientation to guests. His slightly rushed delivery left the impression he would rather be doing something else.
    The three of us were standing in a long, narrow dining room where I would take my meals. The dining-room