by Rhys Bowen
Once I was seated in the buggy I remembered to remove my wedding ring and tuck it into a pocket at the back of my coin purse. Then I took off my hat and unpinned my hair. It cascaded over my shoulders, blowing out in the wind as the horse got up speed. This had seemed like a brilliant idea in the safety of the train compartment, but when the forbidding wall of the convent came into view, I began to have second thoughts about what I was doing. Was I running a risk going inside those walls? Maureen had vanished. Katy had revealed secrets to me and Katy had died. But then I reassured myself that Maureen’s disappearance would now have a simple explanation. And Katy’s death would probably turn out to be a sad accident, but an accident nonetheless. It was a convent, after all, I told myself. Full of holy women doing a charitable service.
But I couldn’t shake off the thought that Maureen had come to me in a dream with Katy. It was fine for Gus to deny that dreams could come from the beyond. She had never lived in Ireland and had neighbors whose dear departed relatives often came and spoke to them in dreams. That thought made me sit up rigid. Had Maureen been a voice from the beyond? If she was happily at the convent now, why had she come to me in the dream, clearly asking for my help?
The buggy came to a halt. The driver jumped down and offered me his hand to help me from the seat. I almost said, “I’ve changed my mind. Drive me back to the town,” but my pride wouldn’t let me. The driver refused to take any money either. He gave me a sympathetic smile and a pat on the back. “It will all work out for the best, you’ll see,” he said. “Good luck to you, miss.”
After that I could hardly ask for him to come and get me again later in the day. I’d have to find my own way down to the town when I came out. I took a deep breath, smoothed down my hair, and walked up to that front door. It was opened by a thin and pale girl, with no bulging belly like mine. In fact she looked distinctly unwell, with dark circles under her eyes.
“Hello,” I said in my best Irish accent that had faded after four years of living with New Yorkers. “I’ve come to see the sisters. I’m newly arrived in this country from Ireland and I heard about this place. I’ve nowhere else to go.”
“Come in,” she said, with a smile of understanding. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Molly,” I said, deciding that it’s easier to tell the truth than to lie whenever possible.
“I’m Blanche.” She held out her hand and shook mine. She felt as fragile as bone china. And cold too, almost as if she was barely alive.
“Are you a novice?” I asked.
“No. I’m here for the same reason as you,” she said. “Betrayed by the boy I loved and trusted. I had a baby three weeks ago.”
“Did you? Was it a boy or a girl?”
“A girl,” she said. “She was stillborn. I had a rough time of it and I’m still trying to get my strength back.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She nodded. “It happens. Not all babies live, do they? Not all mothers live either. It’s the curse of Eve they say.”
On that encouraging note she ushered me into the parlor.
“I’ll tell Sister Perpetua you’re here,” she said.
“What about the mother superior? I’d rather see her first,” I said.
“Mother’s not very well these days, so they say,” she said. “She’s been confined to her room, except for when they take her to chapel. Sister Perpetua is in charge, although Sister Jerome likes to think she is.” She lowered her voice and glanced around as she said this.
“Who is Sister Jerome then?” I asked, remembering that tall gaunt shape with the sharp voice. She’d certainly acted as if she was a person of authority.
“She’s the bursar. But recently she’s taken over the running of the maternity section. It used to be Sister Francine, but she died recently. Sister Jerome only used to handle the business side of the adoptions but now she’s training Sister Angelique to take over as midwife, and frankly neither of them are very good at it. Sister Jerome is far too fastidious and Sister Angelique—well, she just doesn’t have a feel for it like Sister Francine did.”
“What happened to Sister Francine?” I asked cautiously.
“What happened? What do you mean?”
“I mean how did she die?”
She frowned. “She was really old. She just died in her sleep a few weeks ago. Everyone was really sad, both the nuns and the girls. Especially me. I had to have Sister Jerome help deliver my baby, and it got stuck and she had to use forceps. Poor little mite.” She shuddered, then said, “I shouldn’t be scaring you like this. I’m sure you’ll be just fine. You stay there and I’ll go and find Sister.”
I perched on one of those uncomfortable chairs, this time expecting a face to appear at the grille. I jumped, therefore, when the door opened behind me and Blanche reappeared. “Sister wants you to come through,” she said. “Follow me.”
She led me under an arch, down a narrow hallway, and then through another heavy oak door that was now open. She paused to shut the door behind her, pushing the iron bolt into place. It appeared I was inside the convent, whether I liked it or not. We’d only gone a few yards when she tapped on a door and heard a gentle voice say, “Come in.”
I was ushered into a room even more Spartan than the parlor. A small barred window let in a shaft of light. The floor was stone, the chairs plain wood, and on one of them sat a small, delicate figure in severe black habit.
“Here’s the new girl, Sister,” Blanche said.
The elderly nun looked as I would have expected from her voice. The face was ageless, innocent, and the eyes still bright, but I could tell from the hand she held out to me that she was old. “Thank you, Blanche, dear. You may leave us,” she said. “I am Sister Perpetua. Mother is indisposed, I’m afraid.” She was still clutching my hand in her bony, withered one. “Now what is your name, child?”
“It’s Molly, Sister,” I said in a voice scarcely more than a whisper. I looked down, avoiding her eye.
“Sit down, Molly. There is no need to be afraid,” she said. “You are among friends here.”
I pulled up a crude straight-backed chair and sat.
“Now then,” she said. “I don’t have to ask why you are here. I can see that for myself.”
I nodded. I had come up with a story on the train ride from Irvington and it sounded convincing to me. “I didn’t know where else to go,” I said. “I came over from Ireland to marry Joe. He went on ahead to make some money so that we could marry. But after he left I found out that I…” I looked down again. “You know.”
“He left you with child,” she said severely.
“Oh, he would have married me right away if he’d known,” I said. “Joe would have done the right thing. He wasn’t that sort of man.”
“So you came to America to find him,” she continued.
“I did. I scraped together enough for the fare and when I went to the address Joe had written from, he wasn’t there.”
“He’d gone off somewhere?” She was looking at me with great sympathy.
“Yes, but not what you think,” she said. “It turns out they came around recruiting laborers to go down to Panama and dig the new canal. Good money, they said. And Joe signed up right away.” I put my hand up to my mouth. “So I don’t know if he’s alive or dead or where he is,” I said. “I’ve no way of getting in touch with him, and no money to go back home. Not that my father would allow me to come back. Terrible strict he is on matters like this.”
“I’m sorry, my dear,” she said gently. “I hear stories like yours all the time. And I wish we could help you, but we have our full complement of young women at the moment. And a waiting list too. Girls write to us from all over several months before they need to come and we have to turn so many away.”
“You mean I can’t stay?” I asked, hoping there was enough desperation in my voice. “Where else would I go?”
“I can write to other convents on your behalf,” she said. “There is no other order around
here that devotes itself to our mission of charity, but sometimes there is a spare bed to be had and the good sisters will welcome a stranger in time of need. I can’t guarantee anything, of course. There is so much need these days. So much suffering.”
I wondered what I should do next. In a way I felt profoundly relieved that I wasn’t going to be admitted and I could go back to join Sid and Gus and Bridie at the riverside, where we’d laugh and eat ice creams and enjoy ourselves. They were right. I really had done all that could be expected for a girl I had never met.
I got to my feet. “Thank you, anyway,” I said. “I’d better go, then.”
“I hate to do this,” she said, “but if I took you in, it wouldn’t be fair to a girl who has waited months to come here and her confinement is imminent, would it?”
“I suppose not.”
“When is your baby due, my dear?” she asked.
“Another month,” I said, stretching the truth a little.
“Then we’ve still a little time. I expect Sister Jerome can come up with some money to keep you going and as I said, I’ll write letters for you. We’ll need a forwarding address.”
“I’ve nowhere,” I said. “I stayed at a cheap lady’s boardinghouse when I arrived. Just next to the docks.”
“And how did you hear about us?”
Ah. I hadn’t thought that one through. “When I heard that Joe had gone I was distraught,” I said. “A pair of nuns saw me crying in the street and asked what was wrong. They told me about this place.”
“Did they? God bless them. Yes, they’d be from the Foundling Hospital. Sometimes one of our babies has to go to them, when we can’t find a family right away to adopt the little dear. They do wonderful work. So many abandoned babies in the city. So much sin.”
I lingered, my hand on the doorknob. “I shouldn’t detain you any longer then.”
At that moment the doorknob was wrenched from my hand. I almost lost my balance and stepped hastily out of the way as another nun came barging into the room. She was very tall and thin, with high cheekbones and a beak-like nose and her head jerked in a bird-like fashion as she looked around. The impression was of a large black crow and it came to me that I’d seen her before.
“Blanche tells me an Irish girl has shown up on the doorstep,” she said. I recognized the strident tones of Sister Jerome. The bird-like gaze scanned until it focused on me, standing to one side of the door. “And here she is,” she added. “With hair as red as the morning sunrise.”
“I’ve just been telling her that I’m afraid we have unfortunately no room for her, and a long waiting list too,” Sister Perpetua said.
Sister Jerome was looking me over. “Well, we certainly can’t send her away in this condition,” she said. “It wouldn’t be right or charitable.”
“But you yourself said that we’ve no more beds,” Sister Perpetua reminded her.
“We’ll just have to make room,” she said. “A couple of the girls are malingering, claiming they are not well enough to leave when I know perfectly well that they’re simply afraid of going back into the world again.” She looked back at the door. “That girl Blanche is one of them. It’s high time she was gone.”
Sister Perpetua looked worried. “Really Sister, I don’t think we should force anyone to leave before she is ready. Blanche has been through a most difficult time. Giving birth to a stillborn child must be a devastating experience for a girl who has carried that baby for nine months. Healing has to be in the heart as well as the body.”
“Nonsense,” Sister Jerome said. “They’ll be going back into a tough world. We’re not helping them by shielding them and spoon-feeding them for too long. I know you mean well, Sister, but you’re too softhearted. The girls and the babies are my province, so you just leave it to me. And I say we’ll find a place for this new arrival somehow. What’s your name, young woman?”
“It’s Molly, Sister.” I looked down and didn’t meet her eye. There was something formidable about this nun. I felt distinctly uneasy in her presence. Why was she so keen to turf out other girls to make room for me? She hadn’t come across as the compassionate kind.
“Well, come along, Molly. No sense in dilly-dallying.”
I was now feeling distinctly uneasy. It was one thing to have gained a way to snoop around, but another to be responsible for turfing girls out of their beds.
“Oh, listen, Sister.” I held up my hand. “I don’t want anyone to be moved because of me. I’d feel terrible. Maybe I should just go.”
“Don’t be silly. We’ll make room somehow. I daresay it will have to be a cot squeezed in between the beds for tonight, but we’ll sort things out tomorrow.”
Sister Perpetua had half risen to her feet. “With all due respect I think you should talk to Mother first before you expel any of our girls until she feels strong enough to leave.”
“May I remind you that Mother has placed the running of our maternity ward in my hands, Sister,” Sister Jerome said firmly. “And in her delicate state of health it would be most selfish of us to cause her any worry or distress. I assure you I will pray fervently before I make any decision about any of the girls in my care. Come, Molly. I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping, and find you some clothing that is more suitable for hard work than what you’re wearing.” She held the door open for me to pass through. “Sister.” Sister Jerome gave a hint of a bow and closed the door behind us.
Twenty-three
Sister Jerome led me down a long hallway with a polished stone floor and vaulted roof. On one side were closed doors, on the other the arches of a cloister opened onto a quadrangle. It was a pleasant spot—with the sun spilling in, benches under shade trees, a statue of Our Lady in one corner, and a fountain splashing in the middle—but I decided it would be horribly cold in winter with the wind whistling in. Before I could comment on it Sister Jerome turned back to me. “Come along,” she said sharply. “It is not fitting for you to be here. This corridor is actually the province of the sisters. It houses our offices, our refectory, and common room. Our cells are upstairs. Outsiders are not permitted here at any time, is that clear?”
I nodded. “Yes, Sister,” I muttered, hoping to sound suitably humble and penitent.
She paused as we had reached the end of the cloisters. She opened the door before us and we stepped from daylight into darkness. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I could see that we were in a square area such as one would find in a corner tower of an old castle. To my right a spiral stone stair ascended and to my left a similar stone stairway went down into blackness.
Really, I wondered, what possessed people in the New World to build something so hopelessly outdated and uncomfortable, and then what inspired the sisters to select it for their home in America? It must have had something to do with suffering and penance. I grinned to myself. We took neither the staircase up nor down, but went straight ahead to an arched doorway in the rough stone wall.
“Now I’m going to give you a look at the chapel,” Sister said and opened the door. I stepped inside and found myself in a high and narrow chapel. Its lofty, vaulted ceiling melted into darkness. Tall, narrow windows of colored glass threw strips of light onto the stone floor and the single wooden kneelers dotted around before me. Each kneeler had a hassock worked in crewelwork with religious symbols—a lamb, a lily, a cross. There were around twenty of them, indicating that the convent currently housed that number of nuns. The smell of incense hung heavy in the air, mingled with the smells of furniture polish and damp.
“This is the sisters’ chapel,” she said in a whisper, although we were the only people present. “No outsiders are permitted here, not even the priest who comes to say daily mass. I only show you to satisfy your curiosity. You girls sit on the other side of the screen and enter from your own part of the building. Our two worlds meet as little as possible. I am the only bridge between them.”
I saw now why the chapel had seemed so narrow. It was divided in half by a wall in which the
re was a carved wooden screen. Through that screen I could make out rows of pews. Both sides faced the high altar with its tall polished candlesticks and an alarmingly real-looking crucifix.
“You may come to the chapel to pray whenever you have a spare moment,” Sister said, ushering me out again. “We hope that will be frequently. We expect the girls to atone for their sins while they are here, and contemplation of the Blessed Sacrament is the best way to do that.”
Now she led me past the upward stair and opened a door in the far wall, inserting a key that hung from her belt. “We pass now from the sisters’ sanctuary to your quarters,” she said, turning to lock the door again behind her. She led me down a small dark hall, vaulted like the first one I had entered. “This is the entrance to your side of the chapel. Mass is at eight. Then we have laundry room and supplies,” she said, “and ahead of us the maternity wing. We like to keep the mothers and babies separate. It is important that you girls have as little as possible to do with babies. It makes the separation easier in the end. Now here is where you will be spending most of your time.” She opened a door and I stepped through to a very different hallway. This one was light and bright. Windows down the whole length opened onto a kitchen garden and orchard, enclosed by a high brick wall.
She set off down the hallway, her shoes making almost no sound on the stone floor so that she appeared to glide with no effort at all, like a ship sailing over a calm ocean. She looked back at me and I quickened my pace to catch up with her. “Here is your kitchen.” She nodded at a closed door but did not open it, “And this is where you will take your meals.” She opened a door to reveal long scrubbed tables, set with simple metal plates and forks beside them. A smell of boiled cabbage lingered in the air. She closed the door again. “Mealtimes are posted on the wall of your dormitory. Make sure you arrive promptly. Tardiness is not permitted. And now here,” and she opened the next door along the hall, “is your common room. The girls gather here in the evenings to do their sewing and mending while they are allowed a brief time to chat together. There is no place for idle hands or frivolity here.” The room housed one decrepit sofa and several wooden chairs. There was a fireplace at one end and a bookshelf containing a few volumes, all of which looked like religious titles.
