After the scene the night before, Mrs. Cheedle was all too happy to pack Francesca off to Ellis Island for a good portion of the day while she sorted out what to tell the mistress. With a quick breakfast, Francesca and Alma headed to the train station. Out of doors, a cool fall breeze rushed under Francesca’s skirt, and she was glad she’d chosen to wear her hooded cape. She peered at the sky, thick with clouds.
Her legs were filled with lead, and with each step closer to the train that would take her south to Battery Park, on a ferry across the bay to Ellis Island, and through the corridors to the place that had been the scene of her torment and sorrow, a tremor began to ripple through her like rings on the water. It overtook her, her knees, her hands, until a violent wave of nausea crashed over her.
How could she have agreed to go back there? How could she face the place where she’d lost the most precious of things—her beloved sister, her dream that America was filled with people better than those she’d grown up with all her life, and the belief that hope and an iron will could see her through anything, even grief? It could not and did not. Grief felled even the strongest, she’d learned. Hope had nothing to do with it.
“Fran?” Alma said, noticing her expression. “You’re pale. Are you all right? Is this too difficult?”
“I’m…” She swallowed against the fear seizing her throat.
“You’re scared,” Alma said.
Wordlessly, she nodded and Alma wrapped her in her arms.
“It will be all right,” Alma said. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.”
But even as her dearest friend in the world said the words she needed to hear, Francesca knew they were a lie. No one could protect her from the onslaught of memories, and no one could protect her from the inspector. He’d want to deport her, and he would try.
And yet, here she was.
She squeezed Alma’s hand and reassured her friend she would follow through—do what she needed to do to help Alma.
On the ferry ride, Francesca sank deeply into her cape and gazed out at the bay, the water bearing angry whitecaps. Her mind raced with all that could go wrong.
As they approached the Island of Tears, the voice in her head grew louder, from a whisper to an incessant, terrified warning. There was still time. She could change her mind, stay on the ferry, and ride it back to the city. Leave all of this behind. Alma would be disappointed, but she would understand.
But as the ferry docked, Francesca stood, clutching her handbag at her side. Though she wanted to flee with every fiber of her being, she knew she had to do this, to take a stand. Not just for the other women who’d gone before her and who would come after her, not for Alma, but for herself. She knew she would never truly be free of the pernicious darkness that tried to consume her—painting the child in her womb as some evil thing—that told her she was worthless and eroded her faith in all that was good, if she didn’t.
*
Alma stepped off the ferry and peered at the morning sky. Clouds knitted together in a dark quilt, crowding out the sun. The wind turned from a flirty breeze to bursts that bowed the trees and tattered the edges of the flags waving high above the shore. With such high winds, the day promised to be dreary at the least of it, dangerous at its worst. She laid a hand on her churning stomach as she considered the daunting tasks ahead. She’d send an unwanted fiancé on his way—prove he was a horrible human being and a deceitful employee—all the while trying to protect her friend from the possibility of being deported for lewd behavior. A thought that made her nerves close to snapping. And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to warn her friend. But she knew Fran understood the risks. Alma had seen it in her eyes.
She wrestled with the guilt about asking Fran to come at all, but when Alma had tried to take back the request and talk her friend out of it the night before, Francesca had stood her ground. She wanted to see Lambert pay. Alma glanced at Fran, who walked beside her silently up the walk, jaw clenched and hands balled into fists. She looked as if she were about to go into battle.
“How are you feeling?” Alma asked quietly.
“Sono un disastro.”
Alma took her hand. “Let’s try to stay calm. It will be all right.” Her reassurances sounded hollow, even to her own ears. She wasn’t certain they would come out of this unscathed.
In the matrons’ room, Mrs. Keller was already perched behind her desk as the others put away their things. She scribbled furiously on a sheet of paper, her frown as deep as ever. The gold cross around her neck gleamed in the light. Mrs. Keller was so pious that she’d turned a blind eye to inappropriate, and sometimes terrible things, happening among her staff if it didn’t suit her. She was a shining example of a Christian, Alma thought bitterly, and an awful supervisor.
Alma cast a final questioning glance at Fran, who nodded her consent. They were as ready as they could be.
“Mrs. Keller,” Alma said, exhaling the breath she’d been holding, “I’ve brought the young woman I was telling you about. You may remember her. This is Francesca Ricci.” The head matron glanced at Fran, recognition lighting her eyes. “We’ve come to meet with the commissioner.”
Mrs. Keller sat back in her chair. “Is that so?”
“We’re going to file a complaint against Mr. Lambert, as I mentioned before.”
And you, she thought.
Something like glee crossed Mrs. Keller’s usually sour face, and her gaze fell to Fran’s stomach. “Well, Alma, as much as I’m in favor of this, you’ve picked a rotten day to talk to Williams. We’re expecting three ships to arrive today, so he may not be open to the complaint. Miss Ricci should come back another time. We have a very busy day ahead.”
Once again, Mrs. Keller attempted to thwart Alma’s plans to do the right thing, but she didn’t need permission anymore—not from her or anyone.
“It can’t wait, Mrs. Keller.” And she’d only approached her at all so she could keep Fran hidden away in the matron’s office.
Her supervisor pressed her lips together. “Don’t expect me to come along. It’s your head, not mine.”
She hadn’t expected Mrs. Keller to support her, and that was for the best. Alma would have to give her supervisor’s name to the commissioner as well, for letting wrongdoings slide when she shouldn’t. Alma had dreaded the repercussions—feared them even—but enough was enough, and this incompetent woman who played favorites and constantly ducked out of sight in difficult situations needed to be held accountable. Not least of all because of her position.
“After we meet with the commissioner, Miss Ricci will need to wait here until the next ferry arrives,” Alma said. “We’re trying to keep her out of Lambert’s sight.”
“It would be very kind of you to let me stay,” Fran spoke up at last.
“Fine,” Mrs. Keller said. “She can remain here until then, but not a minute longer. Is that understood? We have too much work to do, and she’ll only be in the way.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Fran replied.
Before they’d reached the door, Mrs. Keller called out. “Alma?”
“Yes?”
“Go get him!” The matron gave Alma the brightest smile she’d ever seen on her supervisor’s face, and for a moment, Alma considered not turning her in as well.
But only for an instant.
Putting on a brave face for them all, Alma led Fran to the commissioner’s office.