The Family Way (Molly Murphy, #12)

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.”