Evelyn takes hold of the heavy knocker, slams it down onto the polished wood three times before letting it fall with a dull thud and a squeak of its hinge. She waits. The wind rustles the brown leaves in the trees beside the front porch. The air is dense and electrified from the coming autumn storm, and the dark rolling clouds are just visible above the peaks and chimneys of the old row houses.
She can hear muffled sounds from inside the house, then a door shutting and a woman calling. Another responds, her voice deeper than the first. Footsteps draw nearer to the other side of the door and Evelyn’s stomach clenches. She sets her shoulders and tilts her chin up as she hears the lock slide back.
The first thing she sees is the woman’s eyes underneath the habit that covers most of her forehead. They’re as grey and cold as the stormy sky to the west, and look even less welcoming. The nun opens the door fully and stands with her arms akimbo. A tea towel is looped through a belt at her waist beside her rosary beads and what Evelyn nervously suspects may be a whip. A crucifix gleams on her chest.
“You’ll be Evelyn Taylor.” Not a question. “Well, then, come on in and let’s get a look at you.”
She moves back from the door and Evelyn steps over the threshold. The nun’s cold eyes make her instinctively place a hand on her belly, a gesture she instantly regrets.
“Don’t go holding yourself like some poor lost lamb. You got yourself and that baby into this fix.” She nods at Evelyn’s still-flat belly. “And no one here has the time or inclination to feel sorry for you.”
Evelyn drops her hand.
“Come into the sitting room, then. My name is Sister Mary Teresa. I’m the warden of St. Agnes’s.”
The nun marches through a doorway off the front hall and Evelyn follows like an obedient puppy. As she passes through the rounded archway, she notes the beautiful stained glass in the transom above and the crucifix nailed to the wall beside it. The sitting room is simple, papered over in a yellow floral print. It’s only late afternoon, but the lamps are all lit. A set of heavy brown drapes is pulled shut over the big front window and Evelyn has to fight her instinct to flee back to the front door and escape into the fresh air.
“Sit, please,” Sister Teresa says, indicating a faded and worn Queen Anne wing chair across from the rigid-backed Chesterfield sofa.
Something in her tone causes Evelyn to interpret it as an instruction more than an invitation. She perches on the edge of the chair and starts to lean back.
“Posture, Miss Taylor. Posture is paramount to a young lady’s physical presentation, particularly if she is pregnant.”
Evelyn sits up again, sighing out her discomfort. What would this professional virgin know about being pregnant?
“So,” Sister Teresa says, a crisp cut into the proceedings. “How did you get yourself pregnant?”
Apparently even less than I thought… “I didn’t get myself pregnant,” Evelyn begins. “You can’t get yourself preg—”
“Excuse me, Miss Taylor. You should know straightaway that we do not tolerate insolence in this household.”
Evelyn nods. “My apologies, Sister Teresa.”
“Thank you. Now, how did you become pregnant?”
Sister Teresa settles a clipboard on her lap and eyes Evelyn over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses, pencil poised eagerly midair. In the pause that follows Sister Teresa’s question, Evelyn notices that the house is silent. She would have expected noise, laughter or chitchat, the banging of pots and pans in the kitchen.
“Miss Taylor?”
Evelyn thinks back on her nights with Leo, and her throat constricts. She can feel his weight on top of her, pressing himself into her as he whispered that he loved her, that this was all okay because they were going to be married soon. She never thought she could get pregnant so easily.
“There was no rubber,” she manages to mutter, her face flaming.
Sister Teresa scribbles this down. “And did you know the father?”
“Yes.”
She makes a tick on her sheet. “How long had you known him? How many dates had you been on? Were you going steady?”
“He was my fiancé. We were engaged to be married.”
“Was this your first time having intercourse?” Sister Teresa asks.
Evelyn swallows the memory. “Yes.”
“You say you ‘were’ engaged to be married? Does the putative father have any interest in this child?”
“I’m sorry, the what?”
“The putative father,” Sister Teresa replies, looking up from her clipboard. “The alleged father.”
The nun may as well have reached over the coffee table and slapped Evelyn across the face.
“He’s not alleged. There’s no question whatsoever.”
“It’s what we call all the fathers.”
“He is the father. We were in love, we were going to be married, like I said.”
“What happened to him?”
Evelyn hesitates. “He died. He… he had a heart attack, and he died.” The words taste like vinegar.
Sister Teresa’s mouth pinches into a frown. “I am sorry to hear that. Although I’m sure you have been told that intercourse while engaged is still intercourse outside of marriage, Miss Taylor.”
Evelyn blinks back hot tears. The nun returns to her clipboard.
“Now, then. A few more questions before I show you to your dormitory. Are your parents both living? I believe it was your mother who called to make the arrangement for you to stay with us.”
“Yes, they’re living.”
Another tick. “Siblings?”
“One brother.”
“Is he married? Younger? Older?”
“Older and married.”
“Do you have any friends?”
“Well, yes, I suppose. A couple of girls from my school days.”
“And none of your friends know of your condition?”
“No.”
“Does your brother?”
“Yes, he does. His wife does, too. And I was thinking maybe—”
“All right, then.” Sister Teresa returns her gaze to Evelyn. “Given your situation, we would expect that you prepare to give the child up for adoption. We have a list of several couples who are hoping to adopt in the next few months. Lovely married couples. Devout to the faith, well-off, established. Honourable.” She lingers over the last word. “You will relinquish the baby at the end of your term.” She makes one last tick on her clipboard.
Stunned, Evelyn remains silent, her mind racing as the panic starts to rise in her chest, threatening to overwhelm her. She can’t breathe properly. Why aren’t any of the windows open?
“Is that, I mean, is it required that I give the baby up? I didn’t discuss it with my parents before I came here. There was no plan of any kind.”
Sister Teresa’s cold eyes peer at her over the top of her glasses. “Plan? The plan, Miss Taylor, is for you to wait out your pregnancy and give birth in a discreet, controlled environment so that you may return to your family with your reputation mostly intact. The benefit to you should be obvious. The benefit to us is that we in turn have the opportunity to place healthy babies with deserving couples wishing to adopt.”