Today's Reading
Caitrin, along with nineteen other young women, stood waiting at the corner of Marloes Road and Lexham Gardens in London's West Kensington. A sharp-eyed woman with eye-watering mint breath and a black coat that smelled of mothballs sidled up to Caitrin and asked, "Are you here for the Duchess?"
"Yes, I am."
"Me too." The woman, impatient, glanced at her watch. "Then where the bloody hell is she?"
"That would be her over there, don't you think?" Caitrin said as she pointed to a Bedford pantechnicon that had pulled up on Marloes Road. It was battered and dirty, with the faded words DUCHESS REMOVALS stenciled across the side. She saw the address was from the East End, didn't recognize it, and guessed it was probably fictitious. She also noticed there was no telephone number.
The driver—a middle-aged man with a tooth-challenged smile, a flat cap, and a shabby suit—leaped from the cab, scurried to the rear of the pantechnicon, threw the doors open wide, bowed, and grandly announced, "Trevor's the name, ladies, and your carriage awaits."
"What! You expect us to go in there?" the mothballed and mint-breathed woman said as they clustered around the doors. "It's a lorry."
"Technically speaking, it's a pantechnicon, Miss. There are boxes inside to sit on, and the drive won't take long."
"There are no windows."
"That's the point," Caitrin said. "They don't want us to see where we're going." She did not know Trevor's face but recognized the voice. He was the man who had given her Bethany Goodman's card on Ryers Road.
"Hello, we've got ourselves a real bright one here. And I'll take your watches, if you please. Promise I won't flog them, but I might keep the prettiest one for the trouble and strife."
"Watches?" Mint-breath asked.
"He wants the watches to stop us from timing the journey," Caitrin said before anyone could question why he needed them.
"We'll definitely have to keep the old mince pies on you, I can tell," Trevor said to her as he collected the watches, ushered the women inside, and drove away.
Caitrin had mentally counted thirty-five minutes before the pantechnicon stopped and reversed. The doors opened to reveal it was parked hard against a doorway. They were briskly herded through the building and into a classroom. Outside the windows was an anonymous landscape of fields; they could have been anywhere in the southeast of England. They had barely settled into the desks when the room door opened, and Bethany Goodman entered. Her appearance came as no surprise, but what she wore did. Bethany was dressed as a nun, a Mother Superior. She stood at the blackboard, spread her arms wide, and grinned as she said, "Bless you, my children, but fret not; this is only a disguise. I am not a professional nun."
There was relieved laughter as she continued, "This was once a girls' school, until the headmaster disappeared one day with the gardener, took all the funds, and left the hollyhocks. Now it belongs to us."
"Why the nun's costume?" a woman asked.
"Because, as a cover, this place will now be known as Langland Priory, a church-run home for unwed mothers. For the first months of training, those still with us will be confined to the building and grounds. Later, you may go to the village, but only as either a nun or an unwed mother with a cushion tucked under your skirt."
"What about an unwed nun?" someone said to laughter.
Bethany did not falter. "As a nun is assumed to be a virgo intacta, her, um, condition would obviously attract a great deal of unwanted attention. So no, certainly no pregnant nuns."
...