Library of Angelic Images, St. Rose Convent, Milton, New York
Whenever visitors arrived, the sisters relied upon Evangeline to act as the liaison between the realms of sacred and profane. She had a talent for putting the uninitiated at ease, an air of youth and modernity the other sisters lacked, and she often found herself translating the internal workings of the community to outsiders. Guests expected to be greeted by a nun wrapped in full habit, black-veiled, with dour leather lace-up shoes, a Bible in one hand and a rosary in the other—an old woman who carried all the sadness of the world upon her face. Instead they were met by Evangeline. Young, pretty, and sharp-minded, she quickly disabused them of their stereotype. She would make a joke or comment upon some item in the newspaper, breaking the image of severity the convent presented. On the occasions when Evangeline led guests through the winding corridors, she would explain that theirs was a modern community, open to new ideas. She would explain that despite their traditional habits, the middle-aged sisters wore Nikes for their morning walks by the river in autumn or Birkenstocks as they weeded the flower gardens in the summer. Exterior appearances, Evangeline would explain, meant little. The routines established two hundred years ago, rituals revered and maintained with ironclad persistence, were what mattered most. When seculars became startled by the quiet of their halls, the regularity of their prayers, and the uniformity of the nuns, Evangeline had the ability to make it all appear quite normal.
That afternoon, however, her manner took on another aspect altogether—never before had she been more surprised to find someone standing in the doorway of the library. A rustle of movement at the far end of the room had brought the person’s intrusion to her attention. Turning, she discovered a young man leaning against the door, gazing at her with unusual interest. A feeling of alarm sharp as electricity shot through her. Tension grew in her temples, a sensation that manifested itself as a blurring in her vision and a slight ringing in her ears. She straightened her posture, unconsciously assuming the role of guardian of the library, and faced the intruder.
Although she could not say how, Evangeline understood that the man standing at the library door was the very same man whose letter she had read that morning. It was odd that she should recognize Verlaine. She had pictured the author of the letter as a wizened professor, gray-haired and paunchy, whereas the man before her was much younger than she would have guessed him to be. His wire-rimmed glasses, his unruly black hair, and the hesitant way he waited at the door struck her as boyish. How he had gained entrance into the convent and, even more curious, how he’d found his way to the library without being intercepted by one of the sisters struck Evangeline as wholly mysterious. She did not know if she should greet him or call for assistance in escorting him from the building.
She straightened her skirt with care and determined that she would perform her duties to the letter. Walking to the door, she fixed him with a cool stare. “May I assist you in some way, Mr. Verlaine?” Her voice sounded odd, as if she were hearing it through a wind tunnel.
“You know who I am?” Verlaine said.
“It is not so difficult to deduce,” Evangeline replied, her manner more severe than she intended it to be.
“Then you know,” Verlaine said, his cheeks flushing, a sign of self-consciousness that made Evangeline soften toward him despite herself, “that I spoke with someone on the telephone—Perpetua, I think her name was—about visiting your library for research purposes. I also wrote a letter about arranging a visit.”
“My name is Evangeline. It was I who received your letter, and I am therefore quite aware of your request. I am also aware that you spoke with Mother Perpetua of your intentions to conduct research on the premises, but as far as I know, you have not been given permission to access the library. In fact, I am not entirely certain of how you got in here at all, especially at this time of day. I can understand how one might wander into restricted areas after Sunday Mass—the public is invited to worship with us, and it has happened before, some curious person sightseeing in our private quarters—but in the middle of the afternoon? I am surprised you did not encounter any of the sisters on your way to the library. In any case, you must register in the Mission Office—that is the protocol for all visitors. I think we had better go there immediately, or at least speak with Mother Perpetua, just in case there is some—”
“I’m sorry,” Verlaine interrupted. “I know that this is out of line and that I shouldn’t have come at all without permission, but I’m hoping that you’ll help me. Your expertise might get me out of a rather difficult situation. I certainly didn’t come here to cause you trouble.”
Evangeline looked at Verlaine a moment, as if trying to gauge his sincerity. Then, gesturing to the wooden table near the fireplace, she said, “There is no trouble that I cannot handle, Mr. Verlaine. Sit, please, and tell me what I can do to help you.”
“Thank you.” Verlaine slid into a chair while Evangeline took the one opposite. “You probably know from my letter that I’m trying to find proof that a correspondence took place between Abigail Rockefeller and the abbess of St. Rose Convent in the winter of 1943.”
Evangeline nodded, recalling the text of the letter.
“Yes, well, I didn’t mention it in my letter, but I’m in the process of writing a book—actually, it was my doctoral dissertation, but I’m hoping to turn it into a book—about Abigail Rockefeller and the Museum of Modern Art. I’ve read nearly everything published about the subject, and many unpublished documents, and a relationship between the Rockefellers and St. Rose Convent is not referenced anywhere. As you can imagine, such a correspondence could be a significant discovery, at least in my corner of academia. It’s the kind of thing that could change my career prospects entirely.”
“That is very interesting,” Evangeline said. “But I fail to see how I can help you.”
“Let me show you something.” Verlaine dug in the inside pocket of his overcoat and placed a sheaf of papers on the table. The papers were filled with drawings that upon first glance appeared to be little more than a series of rectangular and circular shapes but became, once she looked more closely, the representation of a building. Smoothing the papers with his fingers, Verlaine said, “These are the architectural plans for St. Rose.”
Evangeline leaned over the table to see the paper clearly. “These are the originals?”
“Yes indeed.” Verlaine turned the pages to show Evangeline the various sketches of the convent. “Dated 1809. Signed by the founding abbess.”
“Mother Francesca,” Evangeline said, drawn to the age and intricacy of the plans. “Francesca erected the convent and founded our order. She designed much of the church herself. The Adoration Chapel was entirely her creation.”
“Her signature is on every page,” Verlaine said.
“It is only natural,” Evangeline replied. “She was something of a Renaissance woman—she would have insisted upon approving the plans herself.”
“Look at this,” Verlaine said, spreading the papers over the surface of the table. “A fingerprint.”
Evangeline leaned closer. Sure enough, a small, smudged oval of ink, its center as tight and knotted as the core of an aged tree, stained the yellowed page. Evangeline entertained the thought that Francesca herself might have left the print.
“You have studied these drawings carefully,” Evangeline observed.
“There is one thing I don’t understand, though,” Verlaine said, leaning back in his chair. “The arrangements of the buildings are significantly different from their placement in the architectural plans. I walked around outside a little, comparing the two, and they diverge in fundamental ways. The convent used to be in a different location on the grounds, for example.”
“Yes,” Evangeline said. She had become so engrossed in the drawings that she forgot how wary Verlaine made her feel. “The buildings were repaired and rebuilt. Everything changed after a fire burned the convent to the ground.”
“The fire of I944,” Verlaine said.
Evangeline raised an eyebrow. “You know about the fire?”
“It’s the reason these drawings were taken out of the convent. I found them buried in a repository of old building plans. St. Rose Convent was approved for a building permit in February 1944.”
“You were allowed to take these plans from a public-records repository?”
“Borrow them,” Verlaine said, sheepish. Pressing the seal with the edge of his fingernail so that a slim crescent formed on the foil seal, he asked, “Do you know what this seal marks?”
Evangeline looked closely at the golden seal. It was positioned at the center of the Adoration Chapel. “It is roughly where the altar is,” she said. “But it doesn’t seem exactly precise.”
She assessed Verlaine, scrutinizing him with renewed interest. Whereas she had initially thought him little more than an opportunist come to pillage their library, she realized now that he had the innocence and candor of a teenage boy on a treasure hunt. She could not fathom why this should make her warm to him but it did.
She certainly did not intend to signal any such warmth to Verlaine. But he seemed less hesitant, as if he’d detected a shift in her feelings. He was staring at her from behind the smudged lenses of his glasses as if seeing her for the first time. “What is that?” he asked, without taking his eyes from her.
“What is what?”
“Your necklace,” he said, moving closer.
Evangeline pulled away, afraid that Verlaine might touch her, nearly knocking over a chair in the process.
“I’m sorry,” Verlaine said. “It’s just that—”
“There is nothing more I can tell you, Mr. Verlaine,” she said, her voice cracking as she spoke.
“Hold on a second.” Verlaine riffled through the architectural drawings. Pulling a leaf from the stack, he presented it to Evangeline. “I think your necklace has said it all.”
Evangeline took the paper and straightened it on the table before her. She found a brilliant likeness of the Adoration Chapel, its altar, its statues, its octagonal shape rendered precisely as the original she had seen each day for so many years. Affixed to the drawing, at the very center of the altar, there was a golden seal.
“The lyre,” Verlaine said. “Do you see? It’s the same.”
Her fingers trembling, Evangeline unfastened the pendant from about her neck and placed it carefully on the paper, the golden chain trailing behind it like the glimmering tail of a meteor. Her mother’s necklace was the twin of the golden seal.
From her pocket Evangeline removed the letter she had found in the archives, the 1943 missive from Abigail Rockefeller to Mother Innocenta, and placed it on the table. She did not understand the connection between the seal and the necklace, and the chance that Verlaine might know suddenly made her anxious to share her discovery with him.
“What’s this?” Verlaine asked, picking it up.
“Perhaps you can tell me.”
But as Verlaine opened the crinkled paper and scanned the lines of the letter, Evangeline suddenly doubted herself. Recalling Sister Philomena’s warning, she wondered if perhaps she truly was betraying her order by sharing such a document with an outsider. She had the sinking feeling that she was making a grave mistake. Yet, she merely watched him with growing anticipation as he read the paper.
“This letter confirms the relationship between Innocenta and Abigail Rockefeller,” Verlaine said at last. “Where did you find it?”
“I spent some time in the archive this morning after I read your request. There was no doubt in my mind that you were wrong about Mother Innocenta. I was certain that no such connection existed. I doubted that there would be anything at all relating to a secular woman like Mrs. Rockefeller in our archives, let alone a document that confirmed the correspondence—it is simply extraordinary that physical evidence would remain. In fact, I went into the archive to prove that you were wrong.”
Verlaine’s gaze remained fixed upon the letter, and Evangeline wondered if he’d heard a word she’d said. Finally he took a scrap of paper from his pocket and wrote his telephone number on it. “You said you found only one letter from Abigail Rockefeller?”
“Yes,” Evangeline said. “The letter you just read.”
“And yet all of the letters from Innocenta to Abigail Rockefeller were responses. That means there are three, perhaps four, Rockefeller letters somewhere in your archive.”
“You honestly believe we could have overlooked such letters?”
Verlaine gave her his telephone number. “If you find anything, would you call me?”
Evangeline took the paper and looked at it. She did not know what to tell him. It would be impossible for her to call him, even if she were to find what he was looking for. “I’ll try,” she said at last.
“Thanks,” Verlaine said, gazing at her with gratitude. “In the meantime, do you mind if I make a photocopy of this one?”
Evangeline picked up her necklace, refastened it about her neck, and led Verlaine to the library door. “Come with me.”
Escorting Verlaine into Philomena’s office, Evangeline removed a leaf of St. Rose stationery from a stack and gave it to Verlaine. “You may transcribe it onto this,” she said.
Verlaine took a pen and got to work. After he’d copied the original and returned it to Evangeline, she could detect that he wished to ask her something. She had known him all of ten minutes, and yet she could understand the turn his mind had taken. At last he asked, “Where did this stationery come from?”
Evangeline lifted another sheet of the thick pink paper from the stack next to Philomena’s desk and held it between her fingers. The top section of the stationery was filled with Baroque roses and angels, images she’d seen a thousand times before. “It’s just our standard stationery,” she said. “Why?”
“It is the same stationery that Innocenta used for her letters to Abigail Rockefeller,” Verlaine said, taking a clean sheet and examining it more closely. “How old is the design?”
“I’ve never thought about it,” Evangeline said. “But it must be nearly two hundred years old. The St. Rose crest was created by our founding abbess.”
“May I?” Verlaine said, taking a few pages of the stationery and folding them into his pocket.
“Certainly,” Evangeline said, perplexed by Verlaine’s interest in something she found to be quite banal. “Take as many as you’d like.”
“Thanks,” Verlaine said, smiling at Evangeline for the first time in their exchange. “You’re probably not supposed to help me out like this.”
“Actually, I should have called the police the moment I saw you,” she said.
“I hope there’s some way I can thank you.”
“There is,” Evangeline said as she ushered Verlaine to the door. “You can leave before you are discovered. And if you are by chance found by one of the sisters, you did not meet me or set foot in this library.”