They entered a large room with a tiled floor and expansive windows. It was by far the most inviting space Teagan had seen at the convent, but strangely reverential in its feel. She suspected that it must have been a library at one point because of the rows of mostly empty bookcases inset into the walls. Heavy crimson curtains, tied open with braided cord, formed fabric scallops around the windows. A tall girl Teagan hadn’t seen at breakfast sat in the middle of the room. She leaned over a drawing table that held piles of papers sitting to her left and right.
Sister Mary-Elizabeth approached the girl. “Lea? We have a new penitent. I’d like you to meet Teresa.”
The girl barely turned, but swiveled in her chair. She delicately placed her artist’s brush in the inkwell to her side. She moved like a crane stretching its graceful limbs. She looked odd, Teagan thought, a bit off. Maybe that was why everyone knew her. Lea’s pale blue eyes had the wide, pulled-open look of someone on the brink of madness. She might have been pretty if she were in a decent dress and had makeup on. Her light brown hair was cropped like all the other girls, except for the one who was pregnant. Her spindly arms and legs were attached to an equally thin body. By far the most unusual aspect of her appearance was her pale complexion. There was something alien, almost translucent, about her flesh. Lea’s alabaster skin reminded Teagan of the marble figures she had seen in the National Gallery in Dublin. Only the delicate blue veins that crossed her arms provided some color against the whiteness. Lea moved like a water bird, in long, languid actions that left Teagan feeling unsettled.
With her wide eyes, Lea studied Teagan and then turned back to her work. She said nothing loud enough to hear, although her lips moved continuously. From the side, Lea’s mouth looked like that of an old woman whose lips trembled with age. Suddenly, she spoke up: “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .” The first words of the Lord’s Prayer sounded from her lips and faded into silence.
Sister Mary-Elizabeth smiled. “We shouldn’t trouble her. I told you she wouldn’t talk to you, which is what you have to remember, as well. She prays constantly—it does the heart good to see.”
Lea picked up her brush and dipped it into a water jar. The girl was copying a photograph—a watercolor of the resplendent Christ in a blue gown and red robe, sitting on a golden throne. Christ was surrounded by blue peacocks outlined in gold, frocked saints and angels, and, around the borders of the picture, ancient Celtic symbols in the form of the letter e, fashioned into swirling designs.
The nun’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Lea is copying the Book of Kells onto parchment as a gift to the convent. This will hold a high place in our hearts when it’s done. No other Order will have anything like it.” The Sister pointed to a table shoved into a shadowy corner and motioned for Teagan to follow. She pulled back a curtain to let in more light. “This is where you’ll spend some of your time, mending, perhaps making, lace. Do you know how to make lace?”
Teagan shook her head.
The nun looked down at the table with its assortment of doilies, tablecloths, and embroidered handkerchiefs and then held up Teagan’s hands. “Fine, thin fingers. I imagine that’s why Sister Anne thought you could work on lace,” She lifted the edge of a delicate piece to display its craftsmanship. It looked like a spider’s web in the soft light. “You’ll soon get the hang of it. If you can write, you can mend lace. You’re lucky you won’t be spending all of your time in the laundry.”
She wasn’t sure that lace mending would suit her, but working in this room with Lea seemed a much better alternative than the laundry.
Sister Mary-Elizabeth put the lace back on the table, and grasped Teagan’s arm. “Time to have your hair cut.”
Feeling trapped, she pulled away from her grip.
The nun frowned and reached for her again. “It won’t do any good to struggle. It’s for your own safety. You don’t want to get your hair caught in the machines. When those accidents happen they aren’t pretty. Your hair will grow back when you . . .” The nun looked away.
“When?” Teagan asked, raising her voice. “When, what? When I leave, when someone comes for me, when I become a nun?”
Lea turned her thin neck and stared at them, her lips still moving.
“Don’t resist,” the nun whispered. “You can’t escape, and, if you try, they’ll bring you back and it’ll be worse than ever.”
She led Teagan toward the hall, as Lea watched them with her intense gaze. Despite the strange girl, she hated leaving the room, a sanctuary against the authoritarianism that dominated the rest of the convent.
* * *
The cuttery was set up in a cubbyhole across from the laundry. Sister Mary-Elizabeth had instructed Sister Rose, who cut hair, to take Teagan to her work after the deed was done. Sister Rose had a large, beaked nose and thin hands covered with bulging purple veins.
“Must you do this?” Teagan asked.
“Every sinner who comes to us has it done,” the nun replied.
Teagan trembled as the old nun picked up a long pair of silver scissors and cut off handfuls of blond hair. She dropped these fine bundles on the floor like wastepaper. Teagan swiped at her eyes and winced at her reflection in the small mirror tacked to the wall. The scissors flashed around her. The nun’s cutting was so uneven that hair sprouted out in chunks from her head.
When Sister Rose finished chopping, she picked up a pair of electric clippers. “Don’t squirm. I don’t want to cut you.” She was all business as she went about her work.
Teagan sat as the old nun buzzed her hair so close she was nearly bald. The tears continued, but she knew they would do no good. It had taken many visits with her mother to the beauty shop to get her hair in the shape she wanted. Cullen would think she looked like a freak. He wouldn’t be able to stand her.
When she was done, Sister Rose said, “You’ll thank me at evening prayers for saving you from the heat.” She removed the cloth from Teagan and shook the hair to the floor. “The Lord’s always giving me a mess to clean up.” She raised her bony hands. “Now, out with you—to work.” She led Teagan down the passage to the laundry, the one she had seen earlier with Sister Mary-Elizabeth.
The smell of suds enveloped her as she stepped into the warm room. Sister Rose went ahead of her and leaned down to talk to another nun who sat on a tufted leather chair near the door. Teagan couldn’t tell what this nun was thinking. She was young and stout, but not large like Sister Mary-Elizabeth; she seemed like a woman who would have been good in sports. She studied Teagan like a clinician, raising her dark eyebrows in cadence with her observations, and then whispered something to Sister Rose.
No smile, no laugh, no emotion crossed her lips except for the whisper. Finally, she got up from her chair and spoke over the roar of the machines: “I’m Sister Ruth, and, you are Teresa.” She folded her hands in front of her. The rosary at her side swung against her hips. Teagan smelled the mealy odor of partially digested wine on her breath. “There is no talking during work, even when you break for food. Do your job and you’ll get along fine with me. You’ll start by sorting and go on from there as you are broken in. Don’t expect to be at this post forever because it’s the easiest. I have no use for slackers.”
The nuns bowed to each other and Sister Rose walked away. Sister Ruth led Teagan to the sorting bins. A girl she had seen at breakfast was already working there. This Magdalen was her age or younger, but her face looked careworn in the bright fluorescent light. Beads of sweat clustered over her brow as she stuck her hands into the unwashed piles. The cantilevered windowpanes had been opened, but hardly a breath of breeze filtered through the dank laundry.
“Sort by whites, lights, and darks,” Sister Ruth ordered. “Pull out the special items like lace, embroideries, silks, and tablecloths. They go in a separate bin. Watch what Sarah is doing. She’s the best we have at it, but she does other tasks, too, like pressing—just as you will. I’ll be watching.” Sister Ruth turned away, as if she no longer cared to talk, and returned
to her seat. She picked up a book and thumbed through it before placing it in an inverted V over her leg.
Teagan watched as Sarah sorted. The girl said nothing; she didn’t even look at her. Five large piles remained on the floor to be placed in the tattered bins. Teagan suspected there would be much more laundry to come during the day.
More laundry arrived by the hour—truckloads of it. The nuns were doing a good business. Sister Mary-Elizabeth was right about the warmth of the uniform. As she sorted, Teagan prayed for the heat to be gone and for a miraculous escape from the convent.
She looked around at the girls and women slaving away, some working at old-fashioned wringer machines a grandmother would have used. Others stood like sentinels by the modern electric washers and dryers, pouring in bleach when needed, or pulling the clothes from the heat when they were perfectly dried. Two, near the end of the room, slaved over hot irons.
Saying nothing, she worked for hours sorting dirty laundry, some of it particularly disgusting, spotted with feces and blood. Bulky tablecloths, but some of fine lace, were stained with all manner of foodstuffs: gravy, crumbs, condiments smeared across the fabric. Bits of food. Lipstick. Snot. Sticky candy. At one point, in the stifling heat and humidity, the smell of bleach and detergent overpowered her, and she bent over the bin thinking she would either faint or vomit—perhaps both.
She couldn’t imagine working here forever. Some of the women who tended the machines and washbasins were old. How did they stand it? Did their brains no longer function, or had they just given up? Her impulse to flee grew stronger, but she kept thinking of Sister Mary-Elizabeth’s warnings. Where would she go? Who would take her in? The Guards would return her to the convent. Unless her mother, her only possible rescuer, came to her senses and left her father, which was unlikely considering her dependency upon him. Teagan would have to bide her time until some chance of escape presented itself. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she was trapped. As the hours dragged on, she fought panic. Only the horrible thought of losing control, making a scene in front of the others, kept her from total collapse.
Dinner, the noon meal, consisted of a strip of leathery beef, lumpy mashed potatoes, and a bite of mushy carrot. It didn’t help her mood. Teagan was so hungry, she forced the food down. At least, the room, the same as used for breakfast, was cooler than the laundry. The girls looked drained, washed out by their labors. Again, as at breakfast, there was no talking. She didn’t mind because she didn’t have the energy to carry on a conversation. The only Magdalen who looked the least bit happy was the pregnant girl. Teagan hadn’t seen her in the laundry. Perhaps she was working at another job, or being housed in another part of the convent until she had her child.
After the half-hour respite, work started again—more sorting at the laundry—until nearly seven in the evening. When Sister Ruth wasn’t watching, Teagan took short breaks, leaning against the baskets and steadying herself. Sarah paid little attention to her and continued on with the sweaty job. She marveled at the girl’s resilience, her ability to handle the dull, backbreaking work.
Tea, the evening meal, consisted of leftover dinner. The nuns ate in a separate room. She imagined their food was more sumptuous than that served to the Magdalens. After eating, the girls were led to a chapel at the far end of the hall from the convent’s entrance. The small room was lit only by candles. The nuns, led by the Mother Superior, sat on the left side, facing the altar; the Magdalens took their places to the right. Teagan bowed her head but didn’t pray. She was too tired to think of anything but rest. After a half hour of vespers, Sister Anne called for bed.
Sister Mary-Elizabeth led them to the third floor. She helped Teagan make up her bed, but cautioned her not to speak because the garret was to remain reverent as dusk approached, and under the nun’s supervision it remained so. Teagan took her turn in the shower, too tired to care that she was the new girl, naked for all to see. She put on her cotton nightgown and crawled into bed. All the girls and women were there, including Lea, who was in the bed to her left. Suddenly, it made sense: Lea was the reason there were twelve beds but only eleven girls at breakfast. She had already eaten and begun her work on the Book of Kells. The pregnant girl was nowhere to be seen.
The nun wished them a good night, turned off the light, and left them in the gloom. The pink rays of the setting sun fell across Teagan’s bed. She couldn’t have cared less if the mattress was too soft, too hard, too short, or too long. A murmur among the girls faded to nothing as she tumbled into sleep.
* * *
In her chamber overlooking the drive and terrace, Sister Anne kneeled on the carpet in front of her bed, folded her hands, and began to pray. The words, even the Lord’s Prayer, were hard to come by this evening.
Out her second-story window, looking to the east, a graceful line of leafy oaks and Scotch pines sheltered the entrance and wound down the lane to the gate. Her room was plentifully heated in the winter by steam radiators. An ample stone fireplace recessed into the south wall had been the original source of heat. In the summer, her chamber was usually pleasant and cool because of the shade. She came to this bedroom not by accident, nor by the luck of the Irish. She’d inherited it, passed down to her five years ago when the previous Mother Superior died in the same bed in which she now slept. But the ghosts who lingered here, if any, were nonexistent at best, good-natured at worst. She sensed their presence occasionally on religious holidays or in troubling times, and then only the spectral touch of a gentle, guiding hand. Like sprites, they were with her and then gone. No malevolent being had ever reached its thorny hand into her sanctuary. As far as Sister Anne was concerned, the room was perfect for meditation, rest, and retreat from the world.
Tonight, however, she wished for some good spirit to guide her, for trouble welled up within her. She wanted to pray for the forgiveness of her sins: hardness; the lack of understanding of the Lord’s way; and, especially, a hated memory that had dogged her for so many years. To eradicate that horrible night from her mind would be bliss! Even now, she didn’t want to think of it as she knelt at the foot of her bed and prayed to the crucifix on the wall.
Dear Lord, why have You troubled me so? Why have You led me to this place? Have You sent this girl to punish me? I have never shirked my responsibilities, nor our conversations— I have been honest and true—but this is not fair, Lord. What You have given me is not just. I am not Job. You test me to my limit!
She dropped her rosary onto the bed. Darkness spread in lengthening fingers throughout the room. The trees outside were turning to black in the dusk. The Mother Superior folded her hands, pressed them against her forehead, and leaned against the bed. She shuddered as she prayed. I fear You have unleashed a curse against me. The one person I never wanted to face again has come to haunt me.
CHAPTER 5
“Off with yeh!” Her father pushed her into the hall at The Sisters of the Holy Redemption.
“You’re a right sick bastard, you are! Keep your manky hands off me.” Nora shoved her father and he reeled backward toward the door.
Sister Anne grabbed her by the shoulders and held on as Sister Mary-Elizabeth stepped in to help. She struggled against them, but the two nuns, particularly Sister Mary-Elizabeth, had more strength than she anticipated.
“Of all the bloody things to do,” she shouted at her father. “And you, who goes to church once in a blue moon. I’ll get out of here and when I do you won’t be safe.” She balled her fists and shook them at her father.
“You little—” The word caught in her father’s throat, and he swallowed it with a look of deference to the nuns. “I tried to make nice, but yeh wouldn’t have it. I introduced yeh to these two fine Sisters who are going to take care of yeh—show yeh the right way—and this is the thanks yer ma and I get.”
“You and Ma don’t give a fig about me!” She spat at her father’s feet.
“That’s it,” Gordon cried out to Sister Anne. “Beat the bejesus out of her if you have to.”
Nora spat again and pulled against the grip of the stout nun.
“Mr. Craven,” Sister Anne said with as much dignity as she could maintain while wrestling with Nora. “I think long good-byes, in many cases, are unnecessary. This is one of them.”
“With pleasure, Mother.” He turned and walked out the door, closing it behind him. Nora was thrust into the half light of the hall with the two nuns. She pulled free from Sister Anne and ran screaming toward the door, dragging Sister Mary-Elizabeth along with her.
“Hold on to her, Sister,” the Mother Superior said. “I’ve got the door.” She rushed forward, lifting her key ring from her habit pocket, locking it just as Nora arrived.
Nora pounded her fists against the wood and then collapsed in a heap.
Sister Anne let out a breath and flattened herself against the wall. “That was quite a performance. One that will never be repeated, I caution you. Now, get up.”
Nora flipped two fingers at Sister Anne. Sister Mary-Elizabeth gasped and shook her head in disgust.
“It’s all right, Sister,” the Mother Superior said. “We know how to deal with such crude behavior. Monica will learn.”
“Monica?” Nora’s voice curdled into a snarl. “Who the hell is Monica?”
Sister Anne smiled. “Why, you, child. You’re Monica, named after a beloved saint. Your hair will be cut, you’ll wear a uniform, and you’ll say your prayers like a good penitent. I dare say ‘Monica’ will be an improvement on ‘Nora.’ Take her to the room, so she can see the error of her ways.” Sister Anne pointed down the hall.
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