Chapter 40
January 1833
House of Mercy
Dublin, Ireland
“Have you picked a name yet?” I asked Grace.
“You know I have, but I want it to be a surprise,” she teased.
“You know it is not usual to keep your name in religion from your Mother Superior.”
“What about the Sisters of Mercy is usual? Neither you nor Anna Maria even use your religious names,” she teased.
“You have a point,” I conceded.
My hands were busy with the buttons on Grace’s black dress—there were no funds to procure wedding dresses for the novices—but my mind was an hour ahead, anticipating what was to come and how I could make this inaugural profession at Baggot Street as perfect as possible for my “first-born” daughters.
I wanted this solemn occasion to be private between just the women I had known and loved for so many years, myself, and God. The mounting crowd outside said I was in the minority. Relatives and friends of the eight novices who would become Sisters in just over an hour—among them my dear own Kate, Frances, and Grace—were clamoring to bear witness to the momentous event.
A ruckus of riotous proportions rose outside, with shouts and screams for us to let them in. Casting my eyes heavenward, I left Grace and the nervous postulants who would receive the white veil of novices today to see what could be done to calm the crowd.
“The Archbishop is here,” Cressida said. She was serving porter and thus had the best vantage to the chaos outside.
“Let him in, but admit no one else,” I said. “Lock the door if you have to.”
“Or you could acquiesce and let them in,” Anna Maria said.
“And put their health at risk with a woman dying of consumption in the next room?”
She followed me around like a puppy as I darted from one task to another. “You at least owe them an explanation.” She stopped and waited until I nearly ran into her. “Go upstairs, open your office window and address them. It will do wonders, you’ll see.”
I glanced around, searching for a clock. “But is there time?”
Anna Maria placed her hands on my shoulders. “You are the Mother Superior. They will not start without you.”
Upstairs, I did as Anna Maria suggested. As soon as I pulled back the lace curtains and opened the window, the crowd went wild, yelling and in any other way possible making noise. I feared sticking my head out, lest they throw a cabbage or eggs at me, but there was nothing for it.
“Everyone please,” I shouted. “Please calm down.” This did nothing to lessen the volume.
A shrill whistle sounded from behind me, startling me so badly my heart nearly stopped. I whipped around to see Grace grinning at me. “That’s how we do it in the ancient parts of city,” she said.
Feeling slightly more confident that no one was going to throw anything at me this time, I tried again. “Family, friends, and well-wishers, I understand why you wish you join us today.”
“Then open the doors and let us in,” a male voice yelled.
“I wish I could, but one of our women is very near to dying of consumption, and I do not wish to endanger her health or yours.”
Grumbling rose up from the street below.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “Truly I am. All ceremonies after today will be held in public.”
I closed the window before anyone else could object, but that didn’t stop one mother from yelling, “I will not allow my daughter to remain a postulant in a convent with such low-born manners that they won’t even admit her own mother!”
Still cringing from the mother’s rebuke, I rejoined the others in chapel. Once the organ music started either the crowd outside quieted or they were drowned out by the heavenly sound. Seated in a special chair in front of the altar, I watched the very same ceremony I had taken part in only two years before with new eyes. This time I was the one welcoming the future of the order; I was the one whose hands they held as they pronounced their vows, who clothed them in black or white, and who placed the silver ring on their fingers.
No matter how many times I repeated this ritual in the future, nothing would ever measure up to seeing my dear friends take their vows. And the sweetest of all was Grace, who took the name Sister Mary Magdalene as a nod to her past.
*****
I feared the negative public sentiment surrounding our first profession could deter women from entering the Sisters of Mercy, but if anything, it made us more attractive. Other than the particularly loud mother who made good on her threat to remove her daughter, no else had left and we had been interviewing a steady influx of candidates ever since.
By the time summer’s heat set in, the House of Mercy held nineteen women in various stages of religious profession and four additional volunteers, including Cressida and Margaret. That was in addition to the fifty female students who lived with us full time and the hundreds of students who ate at least one meal a day while being educated. Every time we admitted a new postulant, Anna Maria asked me where she would sleep and I would quip, “in my lap.”
It was such a joy to behold my little community flourishing that I scarcely gave a thought to the costs associated with it, until we ran out of utensils and our meals declined in quality. Grace told me our breakfasts of thin bread with the lightest scaping of butter and dark sugar and a thimble full of milk made the workhouse look like a high quality inn. I couldn’t deny that the steaks contained more gristle than meat or that the leg of beef with onion sauce wasn’t fully satisfying, but we did what we could with what we had.
If anyone dared to complain, I reminded her that our Lord and Savior was poor as well, and by depriving ourselves, we were imitating him as well as the poor we served in his name. I must have said it a lot because some of the girls started to finish my sentences. I stopped saying it altogether the day Cressida replied, “At least Jesus could multiply the loaves and the fishes,” and Margaret added, “and turn water into wine.”
*****
Lord Montague’s trial date was set for the first week of August. That much we learned from the newspapers. What we didn’t expect was for a court official to deliver subpoenas for Grace, Margaret, and Cressida to testify as witnesses. For several minutes after they were served, we sat in the parlor, staring at the summonses. Margaret kept running her fingers over the large wax seals on her document and Cressida played with the ribbons on hers.
“It looks like we will be visiting Four Courts in a few weeks,” I said, forcing cheer into my voice.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Margaret whispered, sounding like she was going to cry.
“I don’t think you have a choice,” Cressida retorted, her fear translating as anger.
“Why would judges want to talk to us?”
“Because we know things that can help them.”
“Just tell them what you know,” I advised. “That’s all anyone is asking of you. If you’d like, we can practice so that you’re more comfortable.”
Margaret nodded uncertainly.
I looked over at Grace, who wore a pensive frown. “You are very quiet.” I tapped her foot with my boot.
“I’m thinking,” she said, continuing to stare off into the middle-distance.
“About what?”
“What is best for the Sisters.”
“What do you mean?” Margaret asked.
“Everything I say, everything I have done will reflect on all of us. If I testify, you could lose everything. How will it look when it comes out publicly that one of your Sisters has a past like mine? You may be able to look beyond it and see who I am now, but many people will not.”
“You have to appear,” Cressida said.
“Yes, but not necessarily as a Sister of Mercy. I could leave the order tomorrow. That way I would be giving witness as an ordinary citizen who just happened to work at the House for a while. It’s not what I want,” her voice wavered, “but it may be what is best for everyone.”
I grabbed Grace’s shaking hands. “I will hear of no such thing and that is final. We will handle whatever may come.”
“Yes,” Cressida said, brightening a little. “Jesus was the object of ridicule and public shame and a few of his disciples stayed loyal to him. We will do the same for you.”
“You’ve been paying attention,” I said, impressed at her use of Biblical metaphor to defuse the tension.
“There are even three of us,” Margaret noted. “Catherine would definitely be the Blessed Mother.”
“I would say Grace is the disciple Jesus loved,” Cressida added playing along.
“Oh, no,” Grace countered. “I’m supposed to be Mary Magdalene!”