Before they were allowed to board the ferry to the island of Manhattan, Sara and Lydia endured a degrading examination. They may have traveled in steerage for economy’s sake, Sara thought, but this did not mean they should be inspected like a farmer would his cattle. The men, women and children who disembarked from the ship were separated in a vast waiting area filled with long wooden benches carved with initials and words in what looked like scores of languages. When it was Sara’s turn, a brusque woman stuck a tongue depressor in her mouth and peered inside her ears. She motioned for Sara to lean forward, then pulled the pins from Sara’s hair and roughly examined her scalp. Lastly, the gruff woman flipped up Sara’s eyelids with what Sara believed was, of all things, a buttonhook. She had not expected a warm welcome, but to be poked and prodded like this was humiliating.
Sara felt even worse when Lydia told her what she’d endured. Lydia’s right shoulder had been marked with the letters “Pg” in chalk. Lydia guessed that was the reason she had been required to see the doctor. He laid her on a waist-high board inside a small room, lifted her skirts, and gracelessly examined her belly and between her thighs. When Sara found Lydia afterwards, she was squatting outside the booth, red-faced and agitated. Sara put her arm around her sister and guided her into the ferry line. They had been lucky. They had heard shrieks of sorrow from families whose loved ones had been pulled away from them and herded back onto the ship, sent back to Europe because they did not pass the medical exam.
Sara and Lydia squeezed their way through the crowd to find a spot at the ferry railing. The blast of the ship’s horn shook the deck beneath them. Soon they were on their way to Manhattan, which they could see clearly, for it was a fogless, sunny day. Fishing boats and barges cluttered the harbor. The jagged Manhattan skyline fascinated Sara, with its sleek skyscrapers and multi-story buildings, all packed tightly together like wine bottles in a case. The sharp, cool wind on her face instantly refreshed her and lifted her spirits. Perhaps the fear that had settled in the pit of her stomach would soon begin to subside.
Lydia jabbed Sara with her elbow. Her face registered a look of amazement. Sara followed her gaze out into the harbor until her eyes found the Statue of Liberty. The statue’s head was adorned with a spired crown and her fingers were wrapped around a torch, which she held high above everything else in sight. Her left hand supported a tablet, and Sara wondered what was inscribed upon it. She knew the statue had been made in France, and filled with pride at the thought of her countrymen having fashioned this beautiful creature as a gift to the Americans. Perhaps she and Lydia might actually belong here. The statue’s smooth face and clear eyes seemed to beckon to her: “Come.” Sara felt an instant kinship with this towering protectress. Like Sara, she possessed a woman’s heart: strong and steadfast.
Lost in her memories of their arrival, Sara lingered on the wide flagstone steps that led up to the entrance of the convent. The door slammed shut at the top of the stairs, jarring her back to the present. “Ma’am,” a delivery boy greeted her as he bounded past her down the steps, disappearing into the Mott Street morning rush. Sara nodded and blushed with embarrassment. She must have looked silly, standing here idle.
Sara pounded the immense iron door knocker. The porter, a snowy-haired scruffy old soul who seemed to manage a kind word for every stranger he encountered, soon answered. He gave Sara a nod of recognition, and she passed through the vaulted passageway and the two side parlors into the heart of the convent. Sara walked down the long cool hallway. Its grey stone walls lacked decoration, save for three Bible verses that had been chiseled by hand into their surfaces. Whenever Sara passed Psalm 5:8, etched in French, she made the sign of the cross and touched the wooden cross she wore around her neck to her lips. Lead me, O LORD, in your righteousness because of my enemies—make straight your way before me. Today, Sara walked down the corridor without seeing another soul and climbed the rickety stairs to her room on the second floor. Sara found Lydia there, still sleeping. She was relieved. She did not have the strength to speak to anyone just yet.
Sara had expected the priest to instruct her to recite a few prayers, perform some charitable works or perhaps say the rosary every day for a month to secure her forgiveness from the Lord. The weeks of travel and seclusion in the convent had given her time to reflect, and some of the rawness from her frightening ordeal had begun to dissipate. She had made an honest confession this morning, and had not expected her confessor’s rebuke. How would she ever obtain forgiveness now?
Lydia began to snore softly next to Sara on the straw mattress they shared. Sara watched her face as she slept, her knees tucked under her growing belly. Perhaps the priest was correct, and Sara would have to make amends to Bastien’s family. But the priest wasn’t here to see Lydia’s contentment, or witness the deep slumber Lydia had experienced ever since they’d left France. He did not understand that by taking Bastien’s life, Sara had saved Lydia’s. She had no regrets about that.
Sara awoke the next morning to the smell of rain and a light rapping on the door. Oh, she’d nearly missed matins again! How could she have slept through the clang of the bell? She jumped out of bed, donned her dress from the day before, and ran a handkerchief across her teeth. At least she no longer had to pin up her hair, Sara thought wryly, running a hand over her newly shorn head.
She peered out into the hallway and saw the flash of a white robe before it disappeared down the stairwell. Thank goodness for the postulants. She guessed it was her friend Anne, a new applicant to the religious life, who’d administered the reminder knock on her door. At least Sara had a few allies in this austere corner of the world. Like her, they were still trying to adjust to this rigidly scheduled way of life, with its morning and evening prayers, daily rosary, communal meals and never-ending chores. Sara closed the door gently and walked quickly toward the chapel, leaving Lydia behind to sleep.
The room was dark, lit only by candles set in the alcoves along the wall. Sara took her place next to the postulants in the last pew. The advantage to sitting with the lowly in the back was that Reverend Mother, now perched upon her kneeler at the front of the altar, might overlook Sara’s tardiness.
Reverend Mother was as formidable as her title suggested, a barrel-chested, high-bosomed woman who was easy to disappoint and hard to please. She ran the convent with the precision of Napoleon during his first Italian campaign. She managed the spiritual life and daily activities of sixty nuns, five postulants and ten boarders, typically widows who had donated their wealth to the convent in exchange for an escape from the secular world. At any given time of day, Reverend Mother knew the whereabouts of all who resided within her convent’s walls. Almost every nun in the convent was French, or at least spoke it fluently.
Sara had been a bit surprised by Reverend Mother’s abrupt manner. When she and Lydia had arrived, Sara had stood in the convent doorway, her travel bag on one arm, the other wrapped around Lydia’s waist, pleading with Reverend Mother to admit them. The imposing nun, who spoke with a Parisian accent, asked several questions: Were they Catholic? Were they healthy? When was Lydia due? After what seemed like an endless deliberation, she waved them inside, on the condition that they pay rent and complete daily chores. She also added an additional caveat: they could stay only for the duration of Lydia’s confinement. After Lydia gave birth and the child was sturdy enough to travel, Sara and her sister would no longer be allowed to trespass on the goodwill of the convent.
They were in no position to argue with Reverend Mother’s terms, and Sara knew that the ten dollars she would charge them for each month’s stay was more economical than the rent in one of the surrounding tenements. They gratefully agreed. Soon Sara not only thanked the Lord for their good fortune, but also, a bit begrudgingly, came to admire Reverend Mother for her practicality, thrift and skill at matching individuals to suitable tasks.
The rituals of the convent could be timed down to the second. Sara was expected to be at matins at sunrise and Mass at noon every d
ay, plus vespers on Sunday and holy day afternoons. Lydia was excused from matins because of her condition, but was expected to attend all the other prayer services. Breakfast was served at six o’clock sharp following matins. After a meal of porridge and strong coffee, Lydia headed to the laundry to fold countless bed linens and towels; Sara took up her chores in the garden. The courtyard garden, enclosed by the three-story stone walls of the convent, was divided into quadrants: two for the vegetable garden, filled with leeks, potatoes, carrots and cabbage; one for the fruit garden, complete with grape vines, an apple tree and raspberries; and one for the poultry yard, which emitted the foulest of odors. Even the fragrant jessamine that bloomed in the courtyard could not mask the stench of those dreadful birds. If Lydia so much as passed the window that overlooked the yard, Sara would inevitably find her retching, arms wrapped tightly around the chamber pot, within two minutes’ time.
On this fine summer day, the skies promised an abundance of sun and only a sliver of cloud. Sara greeted Sister Paulette, one of the nuns with whom she worked in the garden. Sister Paulette’s figure was hidden by her black veil and robe, but her white wimple framed a regal neck and lively pink face. Sister Paulette was the gentlest of souls, and Sara believed her to be twenty years of age, at the most.
“I have something for you,” Sister Paulette said, reaching into her gardening bag and pulling out a broad-brimmed hat. She handed it to Sara. “I know it’s a little too fancy for gardening, but it’s the only one I kept. Now that you haven’t any hair to speak of, it’s the best protection from blistering in the summer heat. Reverend Mother would surely disapprove to see you under the veil.”
Sara fingered the yellow straw, which was adorned with a thick cerulean blue ribbon tied in a bow. Even Maman had never worn such a fine hat. “It’s beautiful, Sister. Where on earth did you get it?”
“Oh, well.” Sister Paulette shifted and blushed, as if she were embarrassed to be caught with such finery. “My life before the convent was a charmed one, Sara. My father was a gentleman, and my mother a lady of society. I had the most gorgeous dresses and pinafores and ribbons and hats that a girl could ask for. We lived in a grand house with a cook, a housekeeper and a copper tabby named Lily.”
Sara could see Sister Paulette’s thoughts turn, and the brightness of her eyes faded to a mere shadow. “Then one day Mother opened the front door and there were some men who had come to take the furniture. You see, Father had lost everything at the gambling tables. Mother said we were ruined. I was sixteen, almost of marriageable age, though I had no beaux to speak of. Mother said I would have to take the veil, for they could no longer supply me with the dowry to make a suitable match.”
“And so you came here?” Sara tried without success to hide her dismay.
Sister Paulette laughed. “It wasn’t all that bad, Sara. Besides, it was my duty to obey my parents—to lighten their burden—and I did. In time, I found peace here, a real purpose, which I doubt I would have found on the outside. I took my vows last year and have been quite content ever since.”
Sara thought perhaps Sister Paulette was trying to convince herself of just that. She could not imagine forsaking her desire to have her own vineyard, but she did not question the young nun further. She had to respect the sacrifice she had made.
“I thank you for the hat, Sister, and I’ll wear it gratefully.”
Sister Paulette nodded and knelt down to pull a few weeds that had sprung up overnight. Suddenly she stopped, looked up at Sara, and beamed. “Lord forgive me for my vanity, Sara, but I’ll tell you one thing I do miss.” She let out a sigh. “My gold taffeta gown. Do you know it actually rustled when I walked down our winding staircase into the parlor? Heavenly.”
As Sara and Lydia crawled into bed that evening, Sara regarded her sister’s protruding belly, which looked enormous. Surely, Lydia’s time must be near.
Lydia put her hand to her head and grimaced. “It’s dreadfully uncomfortable at times, you know.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. But at least you’ll have a beautiful baby in another month or two.” Sara tried to sound cheerful.
“I do wish …” Lydia’s voice trailed off.
“What?”
“I do wish sometimes that Maman were here, you know, to tell me more about the whole ordeal. I’m a bit frightened of it.”
Sara felt a sudden shame that she had been the one to commit the act that had separated Lydia from her mother. “I’m sorry I’m useless that way. The midwife will visit tomorrow, and she’ll instruct you, I’m sure.”
“Yes, of course.” Lydia was satisfied. “When can we send word? After the baby’s born?”
“Yes, I told Jacques we’d send word when it was safe. After the baby’s born, I’ll write to Jacques, with a letter for Maman. Then we’ll leave here, so that there’s no risk of Lemieux finding out where we are.”
“Do you think Jacques told Maman we’re alive? He wouldn’t let her believe we died in the fire, would he?” They had discussed this before, but Lydia needed reassurance, Sara could tell.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t want Maman to suffer so. He will tell her, if he has not already.”
The sisters were silent for a few minutes. Sara absentmindedly rubbed the dark wooden cross that Jacques had carved for her, which hung around her neck as a remembrance of home. Her thoughts were lost in her own regret for having abandoned their mother.
Lydia lifted her hand to Sara’s head and smoothed her spiky hair. Her voice was gentle. “We have all suffered, Sara.”
Sara could only look at Lydia for a moment, then had to turn away.
“Sara, what did he do to you?” Lydia whispered.
Sara did not know how to answer. The recently healed scar on her chest began to itch, and she remembered the searing pain she’d felt that night and how she’d sworn, in that moment, to never allow herself to become powerless in the shadow of a man. Sara had always hidden this evidence of Bastien’s attack. When disrobing in their room, she carefully turned her back to her sister, for she knew that if Lydia caught a glimpse of it, she would feel nothing but enormous guilt. But now, should she tell Lydia that Bastien had tried to rape her? How much could she bear to hear? Sara realized she owed Lydia an answer that was as candid as her question.
“He tried to force himself on me. When I resisted, he pushed me to the ground and …”
“Did he … ?” Lydia was near tears.
“No. I stopped him before that happened.”
Lydia closed her eyes and sighed. “Thanks be to God.” She was quiet for a few moments. When she spoke again, her voice trembled with emotion. “I am so sorry, Sara. It’s my fault.”
“No, that’s not true, Lydie. Bastien and his father duped us all.”
“They didn’t fool you. You saw them for what they truly were. How could I not see?” Lydia’s hands covered her face.
“You loved him.” Sara’s tone mellowed.
“But he never loved me. I was foolish and selfish. I should have never married him. Or at the very least, I should have left him as soon as he started treating us with such contempt.”
“Yes, and Papa shouldn’t have tried to travel to Tours during a torrential rainstorm, Maman shouldn’t have sold the farm, and I shouldn’t have—” Sara shook her head. “It’s no matter, Lydie. What’s done is done, and we must look forward to caring for this new little Thibault who will soon arrive. Although …”
“What?” Lydia’s face was still etched with distress.
“I still think you may be surprised with a daughter.”
Lydia looked pleased and squeezed Sara’s hand. “If so, I shall name her Sarette, after my dear sister.”
CHAPTER 8
Cloistered
The following day, Sara and Sister Paulette had finished weeding and collecting raspberries and were washing up for the afternoon when Anne appeared.
“Mademoiselle de Coursey, your sister is with the midwife in her room and wishes you to come at once to meet her.
”
Sara hurriedly dried her hands and followed Anne up the stairs. As they reached the top stair, a little girl, whom Sara had seen before with some of the sisters, greeted them with a large smile.
“Hello, sister.” The girl spoke flawless French.
“Hello, Adeline. This is Mademoiselle de Coursey.”
Adeline responded, “I am happy to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” said Sara.
“This is the midwife’s daughter, Adeline,” Anne continued. “She is quite precocious for a five-year-old, but a pure delight, I assure you. She has been very patient waiting out here in the hallway, and I think such patience should be rewarded with a little treat, don’t you, mademoiselle?” Anne moved aside the heavy wooden rosary beads that hung from her waist and slid her hand into her pocket. She pulled out a paper-wrapped confection and handed it to the child.
Adeline deftly unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth. Sara crouched down to speak her. “Indeed, I can’t think of anything more delightful than a sugary sweet, can you, Adeline?”
Adeline strained to speak, for her tongue was employed in the arduous task of removing the glob of candy now stuck to her top teeth. Once she freed it, she heartily agreed. “Oh, no, mademoiselle!” The girl had an air of sprightly intelligence.
Sara excused herself and made her way to her room. She knocked before entering, for she did not know if an examination was underway and she certainly did not want to intrude upon her sister’s privacy more than was needed. Her sister’s voice bid her to enter.
“Sara. Thank you for coming.” Lydia smiled, but her eyes darted over to the midwife, whose back was turned as she pulled something from her medicine bag. The woman turned and greeted Sara with a warm smile. To Sara’s surprise, she was young and petite, with dark brown hair and deeply set brown eyes.
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