by Selina Kray
“How do you want to play this?” Miss Kala asked sotto voce. “Touched invalid or hysterical imp?”
“Concentrate yourself on not giving us away. I’ll worry about my performance.”
“That attitude’ll do you no favors if we’re to find your mum.”
“We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t lost her,” Callie sniffed, “so follow my lead and try not to get us found out.”
Miss Kala scoffed. “Yes, sir.”
Stifling a twitch, she allowed Miss Kala to escort her through the gates and along the path into the main house.
A fleet of women in varying stages of pregnancy scrubbed, dusted, and polished the entrance hall. Daughters of Eden, distinguishable by their winged plaits, supervised the group, reciting a passage from Rebecca Northcote’s teachings in eerie unison. Callie had memorized a few of her pamphlets in anticipation of their meeting, but didn’t recognize this one. She felt the tension in Miss Kala’s arm grow tighter and tighter the farther they delved into the house but did nothing to soothe her. If anything, Callie appreciated the pain.
“Welcome, Daughter! Welcome to Castleside!” Sister Juliet crowed from the landing of a wooden staircase in the small, square main hall. Sister Juliet bypassed Hiero and Tim to clasp hands with Callie and stare fiercely into her eyes. Callie had no trouble staring back, believing herself to be the equal, if not the better, of this formidable woman.
“Daughter.” Callie infused her smile with maximum beatitude. “I have brought Her home.”
“Oh, blessed day!” Sister Juliet’s eyelids fluttered, though Callie saw no tears. “If only Mother Rebecca had lived to greet you herself.”
“My dearest wish.” Callie met and matched her fervent grip. She kept her face firmly in character, even when she felt Sister Juliet slip her thumb into her sleeve to trace the outline of her birthmark. “Though I feel I know her already and long to know more.”
“Come, then.” Sister Nora beckoned from behind. “Let us retire to a more private chamber.” Callie didn’t think she imagined the possessiveness of the hand she laid on Sister Juliet’s shoulder as she steered her away. A glance at Hiero confirmed he had seen it too. “This is Father Coscarelli, Mrs. Sandringham’s guardian and spiritual advisor, and this is...”
She did a little hop, as if noticing Miss Kala for the first time.
“Shahida Kala.”
“She keeps me.” Callie patted Miss Kala’s hand and beamed her a fond look. “I can’t do without her.”
Sister Juliet saved the awkward moment that followed. “Welcome to you both.”
“And this is Mr. Kipling,” Sister Nora continued, “who—”
“—wishes to donate to your most worthy cause.” Tim pushed into Sister Juliet’s personal space, forcing her to let go of Callie. “My wife and I have prayed for many years, but the Good Lord has denied us a share in his bounty. We turn now to the Mother’s grace. We want to open our home to an orphan child.”
Callie smelled both Daughters’ ears burning at the mention of a donation and an adoption.
“The favor of a godly man is like manna from heaven,” Sister Juliet complimented as Sister Nora herded them down a side corridor. “May I ask how you came to hear of us?”
“Lady Westlake sings your praises nightly. And Lady Cirencester has thrice pressed us to attend your Sunday sermon. My wife, as you may know, is her youngest sister.”
By the radiance that overtook her face, Sister Juliet did know. Callie marveled at the deftness with which Tim dropped society names, and well-chosen ones at that. The Duke of Cirencester held so much power and influence no one would dare question him on whether “Mr. Kipling” was a relation, and everyone who knew anyone knew his youngest sister was barren. The lady in question was infamous for her quest to conceive, in her desperation poisoning herself with the latest elixirs and tonics and wearying her health with quack procedures. More significantly, her father had invested a sum in the five percents for her that yielded a thousand pounds a year.
Callie found her nauseating and avoided her company at all costs. Which was the general consensus, and why none of the Daughters would question her absence. If anything, they would coddle Mr. Kipling all the more.
As evidenced by Sister Juliet linking arms with Tim and turning him back in the direction they had come. The smile she beamed at him could have melted the Thames in February. Tim blushed—an honest response, Callie thought—and gazed at her quizzically. Callie saw Hiero tense, but he stopped himself from intervening.
“Dear Nora, perhaps you should give our new guests a tour of the grounds while Mr. Kipling and I conduct our business.” She extended her free hand toward Callie, who didn’t move to meet her. “Then I can devote myself to you completely, Miss Sandringham.”
“Mrs.,” Callie corrected. “For I, like the Mother before me, gave myself faithfully to the Lord’s sacrament when called upon.”
“Mrs. Sandringham,” Sister Juliet amended with a silken tongue. “Observe for yourself our good works. I am certain you will find a place here.” Callie fought to keep her skepticism from her face. “Sister Nora will be your guide. I’ll join you shortly.”
With that, Sister Juliet steered Tim toward the front of the house, disappearing around a sharp bend. A long stunned silence ensued, during which Callie prepared for act two of their infiltration. She listened for one of Hiero’s nonverbal cues instructing her on how to proceed, but none came.
“Well,” Sister Nora sighed, not quite hiding her resignation. “Shall we begin where all things began?”
“In the garden?” Callie asked.
“Precisely.”
Hiero had never been surrounded by so many women, let alone so many women with child. The effect was somewhat unnerving, as if he’d stepped into some sort of breeding factory. Which, he supposed, was not far from the truth. The few factory workers he’d known had the same pinched, determined expressions as the Daughters of Eden’s charges, aware of the precariousness of their place in the world and desperate not to fall into further disgrace. A feeling he knew all too well.
From the moment he’d crossed through the gate, Hiero caged away the impulse to roust the loony Daughters and take their charges under his wing. To hold them not under the banner of heaven but under his proper management and care. Or, rather, the proper management and care of someone qualified. But Hiero had long ago reckoned with reality that he could not save every miserable soul in London, only the few fate and circumstance dropped into his lap. Such as one Timothy Kipling Stoker, whose state of being he was doing everything in his power not to think about. Better to channel his empathy into his performance, that of the virtuous shepherd.
As Sister Nora guided them deeper into the house, they passed an inordinate amount of closed rooms. The decor consisted of so many wooden crosses that Hiero would have been forgiven for thinking himself in a pauper’s graveyard. A haunting silence reigned until they passed a short offshoot of the main corridor, at the end of which loomed a black door.
Bestial keens and wails roared from a woman within. The dull chant of communal prayer fought to drown her out. Hiero swallowed dryly, kept his gaze forward. The squeal of hinges; the clang of shackles; the crash of a projectile shattering on the wall. His scared rabbit heart thumped double time. A cry ripped through the door, up his spine, spiking the base of his skull—
“Exorcism?” Miss Kala asked, and suddenly he could breathe again.
“Birthing room,” Sister Nora explained. “Not long now. Perhaps Mr. Kipling will be able to meet his new son or daughter this very day.”
Hiero wondered what dear Mr. Kipling would think of him rescuing mother and child from this damnable place. He might not be able to save them all, but he could play his part.
“But that is the end of a novitiate’s journey, and I promised you the beginning.” Sister Nora glanced over her shoulder, offering them a shy smile.
Not a natural deceiver, Hiero thought.
“What happens t
o ’em once the pea’s out of the pod?” Miss Kala queried.
“Most have places to return to or prefer to continue on in service. When they first come to us, we encourage them to secure a letter of recommendation from their employers. Of course, that’s not always possible. But those parishioners who cannot adopt often help our girls find a place.”
“Anything to ’scape the workhouse.”
“We’d keep them on, if that was their only option. But as you’ll see, our girls leave here well-trained in most essential skills.”
They segued from the tomblike corridor into a conservatory awash in springtime sun. A circle of women in the last stages of pregnancy knitted scarves, hats, jumpers, or hand-warmers in drab colors, their busy hands propped atop their bellies. Completed pieces were folded and dropped into baskets at their sides. The dizzying swing and sway of their rocking chairs forced Hiero to look away, out across the lawn, where another crew of women hung bed linens the size of ship sails to dry.
An aroma rich as any Parisian perfume lured Hiero around a bend, where a row of meat pies cooled on the sill of an open window. The clink and bustle of an active kitchen drew him closer. He poked his head around to watch a baker’s dozen Daughters and novitiates prepare the evening meal. A peach-cheeked girl rolling out a ball of dough spotted him; he performed a quick sign of the cross over the pies, then scooted off to rejoin his party. He found them out on the lawn, heading toward a fieldstone fence so wide it blocked off the back half of the compound.
“You’ve certainly taken the dictum about idle hands to heart,” he commented upon his return.
“As Mother Rebecca wrote, ‘The sinner lit by new life shall be cleansed by godly deeds and industry.’ Rehabilitation is the only way forward for the fallen. Our aim is to scrub every soul that comes into our care.”
“Ol’ Liz Gaskell had the same idea.” At Callie’s sharp look, Miss Kala squawked, “What? I read!”
“Ruth was a great inspiration to Mother Rebecca and continues to inspire us all,” Sister Nora agreed. “There’s a signed copy in her library.”
“Ah!” Hiero felt a revelation coming on. “In her box.”
Sister Nora let out a nervy laugh. “Oh, no, Father. The library is far too extensive to fit in her box. That contains only the most sacred, secret texts.”
“Then you have seen these marvels with your own eyes?”
“Sister Juliet has.” A wistful look overtook her sweet face. “Mother Rebecca is her aunt, you know. She was there at the very beginning, the day she sealed the box. It hasn’t been opened since.”
Hiero would wager every drop of his favorite tipple, past and future, that this was not the case. But prophecies, even the messianic drivel Rebecca Northcote peddled, couldn’t be sold on air alone, and so somewhere there was a box full of nothing, or nonsense, waiting for his idle hands to crack the lid and expose it to the world. His fingers itched at the prospect.
Callie stopped, her wide-eyed gaze reaching into the beyond.
“A not-so-distant day, of greatest joy, will see all locks sprung and all secrets out.” She clutched her stomach, fingers tented to emphasize her womb. “When She is come, when She is come, when She is come...”
Sister Nora had gone the color of turned cream. Never one to miss a dramatic moment, Hiero sped to Callie’s side, taking her hand and gripping her by the back of the neck.
“Mother?”
Callie gasped, blinked. With a sheepish smile, she said, “Forgive me. I never know...”
“You are the vessel,” Sister Nora confirmed, a bronze shine of color returning to her face. “As foretold. It is time you walked the Garden.”
A simple but sturdy wooden gate joined the two sides of the high fieldstone fence. Four silver padlocks, removed by those who’d entered that morning, slotted into hooks on the stone.
“Better guarded than me mum’s garters,” Miss Kala quipped as she passed.
Hiero followed the three women through the threshold into a new Arcadia. At least five acres stretched out before them, as lush and verdant as a fairy land. A blossoming orchard gave way to rows of growing vegetables. Hiero recognized cabbages, cauliflower, beets, carrots, and asparagus, rails of beans and vines of tomatoes, and he’d never so much as picked a berry in his life. Bushes of those gemlike fruits clustered by the roadside wall near a craggy ledge decorated with long, flat boxes of sprouting herbs. A small barn and chicken coop, hinting at a concealed second exit, lined an enclosed yard where poultry, geese, and pigs frolicked. A shallow noxious-smelling pit Hiero identified as compost had him tongue-kissing his handkerchief.
As buzzy as the bees that swarmed the pair of hives, the Daughters and their charges pollinated every row and copse. They tended to the budding plants through their fragile first trimester. The stout Daughter from the embankment oversaw the whole production from a potting shed, giving out tools and advice to the muddy-aproned girls who sought her out.
But just as in most fairy tales, the bucolic setting hid signs of an encroaching darkness. A line of spiky rosebushes formed a natural barrier between the practical and ornamental gardens. A serpentine path slinked through overgrown thatches of wildflowers. Benches carved from lightning-struck trees scattered the landscape. A moatlike brook pooled at the base of a hillock, then disappeared into a small cave, its entrance choked with reeds.
At the far end, shrouded in fog on a clear day, stood a tree of uncommon magnificence. Even Hiero caught his breath at first sight of it. Its lowest level of branches stretched out like arms yearning for an embrace. Or to snatch you up, he thought. Tiers of glossy leaves billowed up to a regal peak. The broad, solid bulk of its trunk brought to mind past lovers; the tufts of grass that skirted between its roots invited a midafternoon snooze.
From his first glimpse of this enchanted place, Hiero understood why the Daughters thought it holy, and just what they might do to protect it. It was indeed a tiny Eden.
Sister Juliet’s office proved surprisingly ornate compared to the rest of the house. Wallpaper sporting a tree-and-apple motif sent a too-obvious message, in Tim’s opinion, but its cheerful green and cream colors brightened the room. An elaborate sitting area tucked her small writing desk into the far corner, facing the wall. Divans upholstered in lush fabrics and pillows galore invited her guests to unburden themselves. A portrait of Sister Juliet with Rebecca Northcote hung in pride of place, perpendicular to the window to get the best light.
A larger portrait of the founding Daughters dominated the longest wall. Tim moved to examine it, recognizing only Mother Rebecca. By their style of dress, Tim dated the painting to the late 1840s—a fact he’d be sure to mention to Hiero later, ever the apt pupil.
“Are any of these fine ladies still with you?” Tim asked.
“Only two.” Sister Juliet pointed to two of the younger-looking ladies. “Sister Marie returned to her family in France when she became too frail to carry on. Sister Eunice still teaches knitting, although Sister Violet has taken over the ledgers and scheduling the deliveries.”
“Deliveries?”
“To the workhouses. Wool coats, hats, mitts, scarves. We don’t believe in confinement, Mr. Kipling. Even those furthest along can be productive. Toward the end, that’s knitting, sewing, crochet. Whatever we can’t use for ourselves is donated to the poor souls not fortunate enough to be so cozily sent out into the world.”
“Are all the children born here adopted?”
A look so morose as to be comical came over her elfin features. She clasped her hands to her chest, over her heart.
“That was the dream when I plighted my troth to our Mother. My part of her great work.” With a sigh, she gestured to a loveseat. “Do sit. Tea?”
“Thank you.”
She pulled a long gold rope hidden by the curtains, then stationed herself on the loveseat at hand-holding distance. The tactic might have worked on a different man. As it was, Tim could only think of the five tricks to convincing someone of your sincerity Hiero
had once taught him.
“We’ve each of us had our particular revelations. The Mother spoke to Aunt Rebecca to prepare for her return. I continue that work in her stead, but my call was to provide for the children of the fallen. I believe them innocents, Mr. Kipling, longing for a place and a purpose.”
Tim nodded to encourage her. “How can it be otherwise?”
“My belief exactly. What ends with a child begins with a father and a mother. But it is the women who are shunned, sacked, shoved into filthy laying-in houses, or forced to make the decision that is no decision at all. I came to understand that to lift the children up, their mothers must also be lifted up. And together we can all work to welcome the Mother back to a new Eden.”
Tim admired how deftly she had skipped him down an alternate path to the destination of her choosing. He wondered if she was even aware she hadn’t answered his question.
“And you find good homes for each and every child?”
Sister Juliet slid her hands toward him, stopping just short of touching his knees.
“Would that every day someone of your associations and character called on us, Mr. Kipling. Too few of your situation seek to open their homes to an orphan. “
“You keep the rest here?”
“As many as we are able. The need is so great.” She looked to the heavens, as if the answers were etched into the patterns on the embossed ceiling. “For every fallen girl who takes one of our beds, we turn away twenty. The garden provides for we Daughters, and so does selling our overstock at market, but we donate everything else to those in greater need. Spreading Mother Rebecca’s good word is a business unto itself. And a vital one since it draws in faithful men like you. Tonight we will all sleep easier knowing the next child born will be safe and loved.”
A shock of guilt punched Tim in the gut. Unlike Mr. Gregory Kipling, distant relation of Lord Cirencester, this child was not a fabrication. A living, breathing, squalling babe might push into the world that very evening with the expectation of being welcomed by a caring family. Who was he to promise everything, then turn his back on a little baby?