mission, she didn't have to leave the church. "One or the other," Moira said, half pleading, half demanding. "You have to choose one or the other. Dear God, Mary, you can't have it both ways. You can't do it."
Mary's aching expression was framed by the headdress of her habit. "What can't I do?"
"You can't abandon us and abandon God."
Chapter 4
December 1884, Arizona Territory
There were still moments when Mary did not recognize her reflection. It happened the first time as she was packing her trunks in preparation to leave New York. Passing the tall, narrow swivel mirror in her room, she had been taken aback by the presence of a stranger. She stopped in mid stride and stared blankly at the person returning her gaze. It was an odd, disconcerting feeling to realize she was looking at herself.
Mary's red-gold hair was still unfashionably short, but the new maid had proven herself adept at making something out of nothing. The cut had been reshaped and smoothed to flatter Mary's face, and where her headdress had once framed her features in severe black and white, they were now offset by vibrant color.
Her manner of dress had given her pause as well. Her traveling costume featured a tight-fitting bodice with a narrow-banded collar and a pleated overskirt, which fully draped her hips. The soft apricot color tinted her complexion until the embarrassment of staring at herself flushed her cheeks red. It was at that point that Mary had jammed her straw bonnet on her head hard enough to dislodge the apricot ribbon trimmings.
In Denver it happened again, only this time Mary was passing a dress shop with her sister beside her and her niece in tow. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Michael and young Madison reflected in the glass, but she didn't immediately recognize the woman who accompanied them. As Michael paused to point out a gown she had had her eye on, Mary came face to face with her faint image in the store window.
With complete childish candor Madison had remarked, "What's wrong, Aunt Mary? You look like a ghost."
Michael had corrected her daughter offhandedly—"She looks as if she's seen a ghost, Madison"—before she realized the little girl's observation was more accurate.
Mary dismissed her sister's concern and never explained satisfactorily that it had been the unfamiliarity of her image that had caused her momentary distress.
It wasn't only seeing herself that gave her pause; it was seeing herself through the eyes of another. In the course of their travel across the country Mary had yet to feel her mother's glance in her direction without it registering a small start of surprise. Michael, even though she was prepared to see Mary out of her habit, had remarked on the fact a half-dozen times in the first hour. At the Double H where Maggie and her husband Connor lived, Mary became aware that the attention she drew from the ranch hands was not inspired by her habit. They were still respectful, still polite, but they didn't hold themselves at the same distance they might have had she been Sister Mary and not simply Maggie's sister Mary.
Now, as the train slowed pulling into the station in Tucson, Mary wondered at the reception she could expect from Rennie. Michael and Maggie, while accepting Mary's decision with more grace and encouragement than their mother had shown, demonstrated their confusion in small ways. They would have sworn they had never treated Mary any differently because she was a nun; they would have told anyone who cared to listen that Mary had been their sister first. Yet there was no mistaking the subtle change in their manner toward her now that she was out of the habit.
Mary had good reason to wonder how much she had been shielded by her black gown and veil and how often she had been deferred to, not because of whom she was, but because of what she was.
* * *
At the first sign that the train was ready for boarding, Rennie Sullivan thrust the daughter she was
Mary's aching expression was framed by the headdress of her habit. "What can't I do?"
"You can't abandon us and abandon God."
Chapter 4
December 1884, Arizona Territory
There were still moments when Mary did not recognize her reflection. It happened the first time as she was packing her trunks in preparation to leave New York. Passing the tall, narrow swivel mirror in her room, she had been taken aback by the presence of a stranger. She stopped in mid stride and stared blankly at the person returning her gaze. It was an odd, disconcerting feeling to realize she was looking at herself.
Mary's red-gold hair was still unfashionably short, but the new maid had proven herself adept at making something out of nothing. The cut had been reshaped and smoothed to flatter Mary's face, and where her headdress had once framed her features in severe black and white, they were now offset by vibrant color.
Her manner of dress had given her pause as well. Her traveling costume featured a tight-fitting bodice with a narrow-banded collar and a pleated overskirt, which fully draped her hips. The soft apricot color tinted her complexion until the embarrassment of staring at herself flushed her cheeks red. It was at that point that Mary had jammed her straw bonnet on her head hard enough to dislodge the apricot ribbon trimmings.
In Denver it happened again, only this time Mary was passing a dress shop with her sister beside her and her niece in tow. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Michael and young Madison reflected in the glass, but she didn't immediately recognize the woman who accompanied them. As Michael paused to point out a gown she had had her eye on, Mary came face to face with her faint image in the store window.
With complete childish candor Madison had remarked, "What's wrong, Aunt Mary? You look like a ghost."
Michael had corrected her daughter offhandedly—"She looks as if she's seen a ghost, Madison"—before she realized the little girl's observation was more accurate.
Mary dismissed her sister's concern and never explained satisfactorily that it had been the unfamiliarity of her image that had caused her momentary distress.
It wasn't only seeing herself that gave her pause; it was seeing herself through the eyes of another. In the course of their travel across the country Mary had yet to feel her mother's glance in her direction without it registering a small start of surprise. Michael, even though she was prepared to see Mary out of her habit, had remarked on the fact a half-dozen times in the first hour. At the Double H where Maggie and her husband Connor lived, Mary became aware that the attention she drew from the ranch hands was not inspired by her habit. They were still respectful, still polite, but they didn't hold themselves at the same distance they might have had she been Sister Mary and not simply Maggie's sister Mary.
Now, as the train slowed pulling into the station in Tucson, Mary wondered at the reception she could expect from Rennie. Michael and Maggie, while accepting Mary's decision with more grace and encouragement than their mother had shown, demonstrated their confusion in small ways. They would have sworn they had never treated Mary any differently because she was a nun; they would have told anyone who cared to listen that Mary had been their sister first. Yet there was no mistaking the subtle change in their manner toward her now that she was out of the habit.
Mary had good reason to wonder how much she had been shielded by her black gown and veil and how often she had been deferred to, not because of whom she was, but because of what she was.
* * *
At the first sign that the train was ready for boarding, Rennie Sullivan thrust the daughter she was
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