The Family Way (Molly Murphy, #12)

I stepped in a dark, narrow hallway and she closed the door behind me. Inside it was so cool it was almost cold. “I believe Sister is still in her office upstairs. If you’d like to go up, it’s the door on the right at the end of the hall.”


I made my way gingerly up an extremely narrow flight of stairs. The irreverent thought crossed my mind that it was a good thing these sisters didn’t wear coifs or they’d get stuck in the stairwells. At the top of the stairs a hallway disappeared into darkness in both directions. I peered around the corner cautiously and started as I saw a figure coming toward me, only a few feet away. The nun’s black habit melted into the darkness of the narrow corridor so that it looked as if a disembodied face was coming toward me. After my initial shock I recognized her. It was Sister Mary Vincent. There was a distinct resemblance to Sister Jerome, but this face was softer and kinder. She started too at the sight of my face appearing around the corner in front of her. And she shot me a look of horror and surprise.

“What are you doing up here in the daylight?” She hissed the words at me in a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” I said, coming up the last of the steps to meet her, “but they told me to come up to you. Was that not the right thing to do?”

She stood there like a statue, staring at me, then shook her head. “I must apologize. You gave me quite a turn. I mistook you for someone else. Now, what can I do to help you?”

“My name is Mrs. Molly Sullivan,” I said, “and I’ve come from the convent in Tarrytown with news of your sister.”

“How very kind of you. How is the dear woman?”

“I’m sorry to be the bringer of such distressing news, but I’m afraid your sister died yesterday.”

“Joan is dead?” she asked and crossed herself. “I mean Sister Jerome, of course. Joan was her name at home and I still think of her that way.” She paused to compose herself. “How did she die?”

I looked at her kind, concerned face. “An accident,” I said gently. “A tragic accident. She fell down a flight of steps.”

“She always was in too much of a hurry,” Sister Mary Vincent said. “Always taking too much upon herself. She wore herself to a frazzle, I’m sure. Ah, well. She’s gone to her heavenly reward and it’s not right to grieve, is it?”

“I think it’s perfectly all right to grieve,” I said.

“You’re very kind,” she said and I saw her fighting not to cry. “But where are my manners. It’s so good of you to take the time to bring me the news in person, rather than the shock and coldness of a letter. Won’t you come down to the parlor and have something cold to drink?”

“Thank you,” I said. “That would be very nice.”

“Watch your step,” she said. “These stairs are horribly steep.” She led the way back down the stairs and into a room that overlooked the street. I couldn’t actually see Sid and Gus, but I presumed they were standing in the shade of that awning. I reminded myself that I shouldn’t leave them there too long as I took a seat at the battered table that was at the center of the room.

“So did you actually know my sister?” she asked. “Are you connected to that convent?”

“I can’t say that I really knew her. They are an enclosed order, after all. But I spoke with her several times,” I said. “She mentioned you. And I can see that you were obviously fond of her.”

“We hadn’t seen much of each other since we were girls,” Sister Mary Vincent said. “But we were close in age. She was the bossy one, of course.” And she smiled. “But I relied on her and it was a blow when we were sent to different convents.”

“Why was that?” I asked.

“It was what our father decided was best for us. And in those days we didn’t argue with our father. There were ten of us, you see and we were sitting around the table one night and father told us that we two were the homely ones. He said we’d never be likely to find ourselves a husband with faces like ours and it would be best if we went into the convent right away and gave them two less mouths to feed. Then he said that I had a pleasant way about me and should do well working with children while Joan was more suited to the intellectual and contemplative life. And so our destinies were chosen for us. Nobody ever asked us if it was all right with us, but off we went, without a word of complaint. That’s just the way it was in those days. I have to say I’ve been happy enough. I expect Joan has too. I know she had been running their ministry of mothers and babies, and running it very well too. Joan always did like to be in charge of things.”

I decided to take the plunge. “I understand that Sister Jerome was a keen supporter of the Irish cause for home rule,” I said.

“She was indeed. She was able to send me small donations from time to time from the contributions they received at her convent, and asked me to pass them along to the cause, which, of course, I was happy to do.”