The Family Way (Molly Murphy, #12)

“I don’t know,” I whispered back, “but it’s true. You do usually see them in twos.”


We stopped them and asked about the Foundling Hospital.

They smiled with sweet unlined faces. “It’s up in the East Sixties, my dear.”

I stared at them, confused. “The East Sixties? Not around here at all then?”

“That’s right. Sixty-eighth and Lexington, I believe. And a fine job those sisters do too, taking in poor abandoned babes and even finding good homes for some of them.”

“Then I must have misunderstood,” I said. “I thought there was an order of sisters living in this part of the city who took in abandoned babies.”

One nun looked at the other, turning the coifs carefully so that they didn’t bump into each other. “She must be thinking of that little convent on Broome Street. Aren’t they the same order as the Foundling Hospital? They probably do find babies left on their doorstep, in this part of the city.” I could tell she was examining us—my friends in their bohemian garb and me in my present condition, and trying to work out why we’d be looking for the Foundling Hospital. But she was too polite to ask.

“Thank you,” I said. “I have been asked to deliver a message to a particular sister. I was told she works in this area and I somehow associated her with foundlings. Do these nuns on Broome Street wear a habit with a black bonnet?”

“I believe they do,” one said. “Aren’t they Sisters of Charity? Yes, I’m sure they are. Mother Seton’s girls.”

“And where on Broome Street is their convent?” I asked.

Again they turned to each other in a cautious, stately fashion. “Close to Chrystie Street, do you think Sister?”

“I believe you’re right, Sister.”

“Thank you again,” I said. “We just came from Broome Street. We’d better go back and see if it’s the right place.”

“God bless you, my dear. And the little one you’re carrying,” she said and they resumed their walk, hands tucked in their habits and heads down. We made our way back to Broome Street. At first glance it wasn’t obvious which building was a convent. It was a street of a mixture of old brownstones and ugly new brick tenements. Laundry was draped out of upstair windows. At street level there was the usual mixture of shops, all doing a lively afternoon trade. There was no church to which a convent would be attached. No clear display of a cross or religious statue. But then I noticed a door at the top of a flight of steps with a cross on it and beside the door was a plaque that read: SISTERS OF CHARITY. VINCENT HOUSE.

I turned to my friends. “Look, I appreciate the way you are keeping an eye on me, but I don’t think you should come in with me. I want to find out if this nun has connections to the Irish Republican Brotherhood and she certainly wouldn’t tell me in front of you. Would you mind waiting for me somewhere nearby?”

“If you’re really sure…” Gus began.

“I’m sure I’ll be just fine,” I said. “It will only take a few minutes.”

“We’ll wait out here for you then,” Sid said. “On the other side of the street where we can keep an eye on the building. Just in case we’re needed to rush in and rescue you.”

Gus laughed. “It’s a convent, Sid. She’s not going into Eastman’s den.”

I pretended to laugh too, but I hadn’t told them about a nun who had tried to kill me and successfully killed two other young women. Convents were not always safe places. But this nun would not see me as a threat. I’d be the bringer of bad news to her of course, but I’d be seen as a fellow champion of the Irish cause—an ally, not an adversary.

“I don’t think I should be more than a few minutes,” I said, “but I don’t like you having to stand on the busy sidewalk in the heat. Why don’t you wait for me at one of the cafés on the Bowery?”

“We’ll wait here,” Sid said. “We are not delicate violets who will faint in the heat. We can stand under the awning of that tailor’s shop. I’m sure the tailor won’t mind.”

“If you’re sure…” I repeated.

“Oh, go on with you. Get it over with and we can all go for a nice, cool drink,” Sid said.

I nodded, then went up the steps, and rang the bell. The door was answered by a fresh-faced young nun in the severe black habit I had remembered. I told her I was looking for a nun who had a sister in a convent in Tarrytown and her face broke into a smile immediately. “That would be Sister Mary Vincent,” she said. “Very fond of her sister she is too. She’ll be happy to receive a message from her. Won’t you come in?”