The Family Way (Molly Murphy, #12)

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.”