“The ruckus was good for somethin’ else, too. The light finally dawned with Father Storm that it was me he’d given the bishop’s box to and told the bishop so.” She pulled on socks and hunted in the back of her closet for a pair of shoes. “Bishop Hughes found me afterwards when I was closin’ up the cathedral, before I... before your man and I...”
Jessica stopped her from saying more. She didn’t want to hear it. “Oh. The bishop. Does he know I’m here? With you?”
“He saw us together during the service. He knows who you are and who you’re connected with. You have fewer secrets than you think. Walk with me. There’s much to talk about.”
Aoife wound their way through the corridors and up to the nave. She stood at the center of the transept and pointed up. “I’m to have a dickens of a time explaining those.” Barely visible in the dim light, two fresh holes, each less than an inch in diameter, pocked the plaster ceiling. Gray dust, ground to powder by many footsteps, tracked around the altar and into the vestry. She brought a carpet sweeper from the vestry and pushed it along the floor until the footprints disappeared. “The bishop gave me a message. He’s arranging a meeting with you. I know the place and will get you there.”
Aoife put the sweeper away and folded her arms across her chest, tilting her head to the side. “He also said I’m to give you the box. I’ve done my thinking on you. I’m not certain if I’m the person who should be tellin’ you your mother’s tale, but it seems that fate’s appointed me.”
They walked toward the passage and retrieved the box from its hiding place. Jessica held the box in her hands, no longer feeling like it was pilfered loot. It belonged to her. Legitimacy unquestioned.
“You must begin to understand. Your mother lives on for us. She’s a part of our history and from what we knew, she died in prison all those many years ago.” Aoife unfolded Bridget’s life, year by year. The details of her adult years knit together with the pieces of her childhood Jessica already knew. She listened, suspended between worlds. She heard about Bridget Harvey, the secret meetings held somewhere outside of Belfast, the supplies and money she arranged for, and the bombing of Nelson’s Pillar.
While Aoife spoke, she picked through the box connecting images with stories. Many pictures were preserved of Kavan and Bridget together, but few betrayed a deeper relationship. She was shocked to see pictures of herself, most were clippings from papers, but a few were faded Polaroids of her childhood. The most intriguing were the letters from parishes across the U.S., responses to his casual request if the monsignor had the pleasure of meeting a young woman, good with horses, a wayward daughter of a dear friend. Those from Father Schroth in Saddle String, Wyoming, Father Steeves in Perc, Kentucky and Father Archdall in Raphoe were clipped together, acknowledging their special significance. Saved were even letters from Bridget, postmarked from her years in Hamilton, addressed to names Jessica didn’t recognize but knew she would always be connected to.
He was aware of every facet of her life. The hollow space inside her began to fill.
Aoife continued talking. “She had formed a network around her that was very strong and very loyal. The organization was comprised of community and civic influencers... not the leaders directly, because they would have been too easily targeted, but those who wielded the power behind the scenes.”
“Influencers? The leaders then were mostly men. Are you saying she worked with their women?”
“Yes. Your mother became the very heart and soul of the fight for civil rights and reunification here. Because of that, she was the most hated person in Britain.” She cleared her throat as she told the story of Patrick’s death that sparked more riots and Daniel’s dying wish. “When she heard her brother was dying, nothing could stop her from being at his side. Back then, informants linin’ their pockets with bribes infested the hospitals. My bet is they locked her up in hopes the elusive Mr. Harvey would visit or at a minimum figure out who was in her network. She was jailed as a criminal in Mourn House, the woman’s unit at Maghaberry Prison. No one ever dreamed she had a child.”
A gasp escaped Jessica’s lips. “The secrecy,” she sputtered. “She never wanted anyone to know. You... you can’t... I don’t want...” She yearned to learn her mother’s story, but the very act of doing so felt like a betrayal of the one thing Bridget craved.
Aoife sat quietly while Jessica sifted through pictures. “Part of her myth is that she simply disappeared, like mists in morning light. I see how it could have been with Sagart Hughes helpin’ her. This is not my story to tell. When she’s spoken of, it’s with respect and awe. There’s no need for anyone to know anything more about her. If people are to hear, it will be from your lips, not mine.”
“She never wanted me to know all this.” Over the next hour, Jessica told her story and shared memories of growing up. Tears of grief for the loss of her family that had streamed down her cheeks at the beginning of her telling eventually dried, leaving her eyes red and swollen. She was emotionally spent after telling Aoife everything. Rather than feeling empty, she felt that a hard outer layer had been scraped off, leaving room for something new to grow in its place.
“You listen to me,” Aoife said, nearly growling the words. “Your mother had more heartache than you could ever imagine makin’ the choice she did. She did everything in her power to give you a better life and you have to live it as best you can.”
“But it’s more than just my mother who would be impacted.”
“’Tis at that. You’ve not been in the Irelands long enough to hear the whispers. You’re not the first child born to a man of the cloth, and I daresay you’d not be the last. Sagart Hughes had the heart of many a woman, and it’d surprise none to learn the man beneath the robes experienced all of life’s offerings.” She shrugged her shoulders to indicate such indiscretions were not her concern.
Jessica let herself be led back through the maze of hallways and stairs, hugging the rosewood box to her chest.
SISTERS OF THE HOLY CROSS CONVENT
THE SUMMER SKY was a flawless blue, and the winds that usually blew off the Irish Sea finally took their day of rest. The unaccustomed warmth coaxed even the most conservative nun to slip off her footwear to dab a pale toe into the chilly waters. Seagulls swooped and cawed. The gentle swells trickled against rocky shores sounding earth’s applause for God’s creation. The sister’s silence was a perfect tribute. To speak would have marred the perfection.
Reverend Mother Flanagan allowed herself a brief stroll on the sloping lawn before she continued her duties for the day. At eighty-five, the task of clamoring over rocks to dangle her feet in the North Channel was relegated to memory. Her mind may have retained its quick and nimble nature, but her knees had not. A blackthorn walking stick, ebony in color with knobby protrusions, helped balance her as she made her way around the manicured grounds. She paused in silent reflection to give thanks for the peace that came with simple pleasures.
A whiff of sweet tea rose mingled with the salty air brought a smile to her lips. Although her life had its heartaches, her chosen path protected her from the greater pains that plagued human existence. She shielded her eyes as she looked up at the towering rectangular walls of the convent. The circular window on the central portico reflected the sun with its multicolored leaded panes. Today, the white crosses on the peaked roofs almost glowed, giving credence to the stories of local fishermen who used them as a way to steer safely home to the harbor around the bend.
She chose the pause between afternoon vespers and the evening meal, when the activity in the convent slowed, as the safest time for the meeting. Habit dictated the sisters’ spare moments be spent away from the main rooms and public gathering spaces. Today, Reverend Mother provided an additional command for privacy. The simply stated, “I’m meeting a young woman,” was code enough for the other sisters to stay hidden, knowing they would be introduced soon enough if the young woman and her family agreed to spending her pregnancy in the convent. Such was the pattern of th
eir lives.
The thick interior stone walls were determined to hold the opposite of what transpired outside. On frigid wintry days, the stones held the warmth of the fires that perpetually burned in the monstrous hearth. On this day, the summer heat did not penetrate inside, so the air stayed fresh and cool despite the brilliant sun streaming in through open windows. Reverend Mother liked to receive her guests there, feeling that the very walls of the convent helped to hold secrets.
The blackthorn cane tapped out her arrival. Very few changes had occurred in the convent. The rituals were the same, but the nuns were physically more comfortable than in years past. Central heating was installed, and windows in the public spaces were changed from narrow slivers to wide sashes that could be thrown open on glorious days as this.
Her guest waited on the wooden bench, the only furniture in the bare foyer, placed in front of the huge twin windows overlooking the lawn and sea. Her aging eyes took a moment to adjust from the glare of the sunlight to the dim interior, so the only point she could focus on was the silhouette of a young woman framed by the open windows.
The sight took her back to a day years ago when the spitting image of her sat there. Past and present merged for only long enough to see that the weight of fate and unanswerable questions pulled as heavily on her as they did her mother. Sunlight framed her. Sadness shadowed her.
Bridget’s daughter sat with the rosewood box on her lap, enveloped in its fragrance that the warmth of the sun and her constant stroking released. Her back was to the window, facing away from the view. She barely looked up when Reverend Mother approached.
“It’s good of you to come, Jessica.” She extended her hand and watched as Bridget’s expressions of uncertainty gave way to resilient confidence. The invisible ties between mother and child always amazed her.
The young woman scrambled to her feet and took her hand in a gentle grasp. The skin on her cheek was scuffed and pink from a bruise. “I was told you knew my mother.”
“I did. I remember her well.” Reverend Mother looked out over the water and gave a silent prayer for strength and wisdom. The daughter had the same height as her mother. “Shall we sit?”
Flustered, Jessica helped to settle her on the bench. The unadorned foyer had the same effect on all visitors. Devoid of art or tapestry, the focus was on the human. No artifices to hide behind, nothing to focus on if the conversation became awkward, no easy way to change the subject if her self-control slipped. Tears had often flowed unchecked and without judgment here. The convent was where truths were exposed. Today was no different.
Seated, Reverend Mother leaned the walking stick against her leg. She gathered up Jessica’s hands. They were tanned and strong, with calloused pads under each finger. Her skin was freshly scrubbed, free from the oily dirt of horses that Reverend Mother imagined typically creased Jessica’s knuckles. The nails were short from use, not manicured nor bitten to the quick as so many young women’s were who had sat on that bench before her, forced to face their mistakes. They were the hands of a strong woman. They were also the hands of her mother.
Reverend Mother looked into Jessica’s face and saw her wide, apprehensive eyes. The time for secrets had passed. “It’s not often we have the honor of seeing one of our children again. Your mother is well remembered. Most of the expectant mothers are not more than children themselves when they arrive.” She paused for a moment, reflecting on how most girls came to her before their bellies could no longer be hidden. They began their confinements with strict commands to use their time to become fluent in French or Italian to help explain away their absence. They may have arrived as frightened girls, but they left as women carrying their heavy secret forever locked inside.
“We care for the mothers and find homes for their babies. For my sisters, it is a pure joy when a husband and wife come to claim a child they feared was forever denied them. Their thankful families support us, and our actions never questioned or judged because often those who would have judged the harshest are the most humbled when in need. The circle never varies, and God’s divine plan has given tremendous meaning to our simple lives.”
Jessica turned her head away, sunlight filling the tear that welled. “But for my mother it was different.”
“Yes,” she said heavily. “She was not much older than you, so different from our other mothers. She was neither afraid nor angry at her fate. Too often, a young child became churlish at being hidden away and lashed out at us in fear and frustration. Instead, she embraced her fate, living each day in a state of contented bliss. We remember your mother because her joy of motherhood so filled her that it overflowed into us. She loved you more than life itself even before you were born.”
Jessica drew in a breath and blinked her eyes. “She didn’t have to give me away.”
“Oh, no,” Reverend Mother automatically reached for her rosary beads, deep in a pocket of her habit. Without conscious thought, she worried them between her fingers, praying to ease the confusion and hurt of a child trying to make sense of a mother’s decision. “There are reasons you must understand, but the explanations cannot come from me. I can only tell you about her from what we saw within our walls. I can see your anguish at thinking you were a child discarded and disrespected, but that is far from the truth.” She reached over and hugged Jessica. “Any child born inside these walls is our child, forever remembered each day in our prayers. You have never been alone.”
“But I’ve seen the records. My mother was locked up in prison the day I was born.”
“Your mother was a woman of strong convictions. At great risk and against our counsel, she left here to visit her dying brother knowing labor could begin at any moment. In those days, tremendous unrest consumed the streets of Belfast. When she came back to us, she had been severely injured and was close to death. Our infirmary could handle the needs of her birth, but they could not address the demands of her injuries. We brought her to a local hospital, but the staff there remanded her into custody.”
“She was hurt? Who brought her here?”
“On that day? A man named Gilchrist Adams.” Reverend Mother shifted uncomfortably on the bench, mouth working to form the right words. Her raised hand stopped the inevitable questions before they started. “Jessica, the sisters of our order take vows of poverty, obedience, and silence. As the head of the convent, I am able to speak to people outside of our order. Your mother made me take an additional vow of silence that day. She was mad with pain and feared death was certain. I vowed never to speak to anyone about her time here or your birth. I have kept my promise, but you came to me with knowledge of who your mother was, and she never made me promise to be silent to you, the object of that vow.
“With what she thought was her final wish, she made Mr. Adams promise to care for you forever and for you to never learn who your mother was. What she did was the most courageous and selfless act I’ve ever seen a woman do. The reasons for her custody I cannot say, but Mr. Adams said she begged him to bring her here, not to hospital, so she could give you life as a free child, and not risk you becoming lost in the foster care service.”
“Did you know of a plan to get me to her sister?”
The Reverend Mother clasped her hands in front of her mouth and closed her eyes for a moment of silent prayer. “We did not question Mr. Adams’ right to take you.”
“But you knew he wasn’t my father.”
“Your mother quite clearly stated he was kin. We were, of course, shocked to learn you were taken to the States. He must have had all the documents and transportation waiting.”
Jessica sputtered. “How easy would it have been for Gus to bundle up a baby and take her to another country? He couldn’t have worked alone. He must have had help for the process run smoothly, right?”
Reverend Mother looked off at a point somewhere in the distance and did not answer.
Jessica lifted the top of the rosewood box and produced the scroll of paper. The parchment, though aged, was easily recognized. R
everend Mother placed her hands over it, preventing it from being unfurled. Instead, she indicated her interest in other items. Happy minutes were spent sifting through the pictures. Bridget’s smile, alive with youth and free of cares, coaxed a smile to her own lips, and she nodded at the memories. She lingered the longest over one of Bridget with Gus and Kavan. Her mood changed from contented nostalgia to one mixed with pain. She reached up the wide sleeves of her habit and produced a packet of letters tightly bound with a coarse string.
“These are your mother’s letters to me. I have read them and wept and prayed over them. They tell of a mother’s love and conviction in a difficult decision made. They belong to you now.” She stopped Jessica from opening them immediately, placing them with the others in the box. “Don’t judge her. She lived the best life she knew how. Hers was a life of service, like ours, but her calling was different.” The walking stick was again pressed into service as she brought herself to her feet. “You are your mother’s child and therefore a part of us. You never need to feel alone or afraid again. Our door and hearts are always open to you.”
Reverend Mother waited until Jessica stood, then she hugged her gently and kissed both of her cheeks. Her words were simply spoken, the sentiment completely unadorned, but their meaning had an impact on Jessica in a way she was unprepared for. Jessica embraced her with a sudden ferocity. She could feel the young woman’s body shake with a wave of sorrow. No wails filled the hall, only one long, uneven breath. When the girl was steady, she pulled back.
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 49