“Mmm. I see.” Sister Teresa sets her pencil down and surveys Evelyn, who stands straighter, squaring her shoulders and trying to look more mature, like a woman who can make her own decisions. But the nun’s gaze nails her to the office wall like a pin in a butterfly specimen and she feels even smaller than before.
“Do you know, Evelyn, that while you are staying here with us, you are housed, fed, and clothed, completely free of charge?”
Evelyn wants to shift her weight but keeps her feet firmly in place. “Yes, Sister Teresa.”
“We do not charge a housing fee here because the work we do is philanthropic, driven solely by our faith and our love for God. Our mission is to reform our girls and show them a path, light the way with the love of our Lord and Saviour. In return, we expect obedience, humility, adherence to the rules of our faith and this establishment, and that you work for your keep. That is all we demand in return. If you want to give your baby to your brother, then he and his wife can house you, feed you, clothe you, reform you, and provide corrective nourishment for your wayward soul. If they are, as you suggest, so interested in the prospect of adopting your child, I would assume this option was offered to them prior to your mother making the arrangement for you to stay with us?”
Evelyn’s mouth has gone dry. “I don’t know. I wasn’t—No one asked me.”
“You will relinquish your baby at the end of your term. That is all.”
“But I’ve written to my brother already.” Evelyn finds her voice again, gestures at the envelope on the warden’s desk. “I truly believe he might say yes!” Her hopeful eyes search the Watchdog’s face for some trace of compassion or understanding, some long-forgotten depth of feeling.
But the nun’s mouth twists into a sneer of a smile, revealing a straight line of pure white teeth. “Well, then. Let’s just wait and see if he responds, shall we?”
* * *
That evening, Evelyn and Maggie spend their pre-bedtime hour down in the parlour near the fireplace, huddled up against the late winter’s chill with three other girls and a pot of weak tea.
Despite the circumstances, the atmosphere of the room is quite pleasant. The fire crackles away in the grate, releasing the wintry scent of cedar and smoke into the air as the shadows from the golden flames dance across the worn rug. The other girls chat away on the couch, their teacups balanced on their bellies, their knitting forgotten, while Evelyn and Maggie engage in a heavy conversation in the wing chairs in the corner of the room. It’s the first opportunity they’ve had to discuss yesterday’s revelation in relative privacy.
“How is this allowed?” Evelyn hisses at Maggie. “It must be illegal! Don’t the adoptive parents know that?”
Maggie shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
“Surely Sister Agatha could do something if she tried—”
“I truly don’t think she can,” Maggie says, momentarily taking her eyes off the pair of yellow booties she’s been knitting. “What would become of her? This is her life. She doesn’t know anything else. She was appalled, she knows it’s wrong, but…”
Evelyn shifts; she can’t get comfortable in any position lately. “I spent my spare time before dinner writing another letter to my parents and my brother. I told them they’re selling the babies, and that they need to come get me. I think you should do the same, Maggie.”
Maggie stares at the booties in her hands, but her needles have stopped clicking. “Evelyn, they read all of our mail, remember? The Watchdog is going to see that. She must have already seen the one you sent your brother. You said it was on her desk when you went in there?”
Evelyn nods.
“Then how do we even know they’re posting our letters at all? I’ve written to my family, too, and they never write back. And besides, my parents won’t believe me. They never believe me. That’s how I ended up in here to begin with.” Maggie looks up at her now and swallows a knot that goes down like dry toast. “They didn’t believe their friend would… you know. Do such a thing.” Her face turns a blotchy red.
“Oh, Maggie,” Evelyn says. This is exactly what she suspected all along. But her friend waves a hand.
“I don’t really want to talk about it. I’m sorry. I just can’t. I’ll tell you one day, I promise.”
Evelyn nods, though she feels a rush of rage on Maggie’s behalf. “That’s okay.”
Maggie returns to her knitting. “Blast,” she curses under her breath. “Dropped a stitch.”
Evelyn looks across the room at the three other girls, chatting by the fireplace. She knows Bridget, the redheaded one in the middle of the couch, actually wants to be here. She became pregnant by her boyfriend and requested to come wait out her term at the home so as not to develop a reputation at school. Friends think she’s gone to an aunt’s to help cook and clean while her aunt copes with cancer. But Evelyn wonders what kind of secrets the other two might be hiding. People are good at keeping secrets. That’s why all these girls are at St. Agnes’s in the first place.
“Hello, girls.” Sister Agatha appears in the archway, a large brown teapot in hand. “I thought you could use a little warm-up.”
Maggie beams up at the nun, her eyes shining. “Thank you, Sister Agatha, you’re very kind.” She gives Evelyn a pointed look.
“Thank you, Sister Agatha,” Evelyn chimes in. She still doesn’t trust the nun entirely.
“Oh, it’s no bother. Lights out in a half hour, though, eh?”
“We will,” Maggie assures her.
Agatha picks up the old tepid teapot and drifts off back down the hallway to the kitchen. There’s a long pause as both Evelyn and Maggie mull over their own thoughts.
“I feel like we need to get out,” Evelyn says quietly.
Maggie looks up from her yarn. “You already said that. What do you mean, ‘get out’？”
“I mean get out. Escape.”
“The doors are dead-bolted, haven’t you noticed? They’ve designed this place so there’s nowhere to hide.”
Evelyn eyes her friend. “You were looking?”
Maggie flushes. “Back around Christmas, after Father Leclerc’s sermon that made me so angry. I had a look at the doors in the kitchen and the front hall. They have the usual locks, but also dead bolts. So who has the keys? I bet you only the Watchdog, on that ring on her belt. God help us if there’s ever a fire.”
“Be that as it may, I’ve been trying to think of a plan.” Evelyn drops her voice so low that Maggie has to move her chair closer until the arm is touching Evelyn’s. She notices Bridget glance over at them.
“Evelyn, I don’t have anywhere to go, even if we did escape,” Maggie says, her shoulders slumping.
Evelyn hesitates. “What if you came with me? To my parents’ house, I mean, or my brother’s?”
Maggie shakes her head, looks up at the clock on the mantel. It’s nearly time for bed. She pushes herself up, belly-first, from the chair. “Would you just drop it, Evelyn?” she hisses. “What you’re suggesting is a fantasy. This—here—” She gestures around the room, though her eyes are locked on Evelyn’s in the firelight. “This is my reality. I have nowhere to go. Period. We’re weeks away from delivering. There is no solution here. We just have to deal with it and hope to God we might be able to find our babies after we leave.”