Martha and Mrs. Goodwin arrived at the gates of the Convent of Our Lady Queen of Heaven. It was a bright February day, but the gray walls looked austere and formidable and Martha immediately felt uneasy. She imagined her mother arriving here as a young woman in trouble, as Mrs. Goodwin had said was the most likely scenario, and imagined her fear, for these walls looked more like a prison than a refuge.
They had telephoned ahead and booked an appointment to meet Mother Evangelist, who had sounded very kind and helpful, and Martha had felt greatly encouraged by her readiness to see her. Surely, if she had no information at all she would have told her on the telephone and saved her the trouble and cab fare. Now, however, faced with these high walls, Martha felt her hope draining away and she began to lose courage. Mrs. Goodwin sensed her anxiety and smiled reassuringly. “God’s houses always look so forbidding, don’t they? Be they churches, cathedrals or convents, they don’t give one a warm welcome, do they?”
“This is the first time I’ve ever been to a convent,” said Martha, hoping it would be the last.
At length the door opened and a nun in a dark blue habit with a sweet face and soft gray eyes introduced herself as Sister Constance and invited them in. Martha noticed the smell at once. It wasn’t unpleasant; a mixture of wood polish, detergent and candle wax. They were taken to a waiting room where a fire burned in the grate and a candle flickered on the occasional table beside a large, leather-bound Bible, a jug of water and two glasses. “Please make yourselves comfortable. Mother Evangelist is expecting you. She’ll only be a few minutes. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes please,” said Mrs. Goodwin. “We’d both love one, thank you.”
Sister Constance left the room. Martha sat on the edge of the sofa and looked around. The walls were painted white and a high window gave little light. The room looked forlorn in spite of the fire. She knitted her fingers in her lap. Mrs. Goodwin sat beside her and put her hand on Martha’s. “It’s going to be all right. They’ll have records. They must have lots of children coming to look for their mothers. I’m sure you’re not the first and you won’t be the last.”
Sister Constance returned with two mugs of tea on a tray with a bowl of sugar, a jug of milk and a plate of Kimberley biscuits. She placed it on the occasional table beside the candle. “There,” she said with a warm smile. “Have you come far?”
“From America,” said Martha.
Sister Constance’s eyes widened with surprise. “Goodness, that is a long way. Well, I hope you enjoy Dublin. It’s a lovely city. If you have time you must have tea at the Shelbourne. It’s a very grand old hotel and quite lovely.”
“Oh, we’ve heard of the Shelbourne,” said Mrs. Goodwin.
“Of course you have, everyone’s heard of the Shelbourne,” said Sister Constance. Her eyes were drawn to the door where Mother Evangelist was now standing. The young nun scurried out of the room and Mother Evangelist walked in with an air of authority and sat down in the armchair.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m glad Sister Constance made you cups of tea. It’s a bright day but a cold one. Now, you’ve come to find your mother,” she said gently, looking at Martha.
“I have,” said Martha, pressing a hand to her heart to quieten it.
“I would like to help you, Miss Wallace. Many young mothers come here when they get into trouble and adoption is the only option. We do our best to help them and find their children loving homes. However, it’s natural that you should want to find the woman who gave birth to you and, if it is God’s will, you will be successful. You told me you have the birth certificate.”
“I don’t have it,” Martha explained. “I found it but my adoptive mother doesn’t know so I was unable to bring it with me.”
“Very well. What was the name of your mother and what was the date of your birth?”
“My birthday is January 5, 1922, and my mother’s name is Grace, Lady Rowan-Hampton. My adoptive parents are Larry and Pamela Wallace of Connecticut in America.”
Mother Evangelist nodded and wrote the details in a little book. She stood up. “I won’t be long. I just need to retrieve the records. Perhaps I can supply you with an address or at least something to set you on the right path. People do move around, you know, and your mother might have married and changed her name. However, let’s get the records and take it from there, shall we?”
When she was gone Mrs. Goodwin patted Martha’s hand. “You see, it’s not so frightening after all, is it? Mother Evangelist wants to help. I’m sure they have reconciled many mothers with their children. It’s the right thing to do and Mother Evangelist seems to want to do the right thing.”
Martha nodded and picked up her mug. The tea was tepid and weak but she didn’t mind. She wondered what Lady Rowan-Hampton would think when she discovered that her daughter had come to find her. It seemed a very long while before Mother Evangelist returned. Martha began to feel nervous again, but this time she sensed something wasn’t right. “Why is she taking so long?” she whispered to Mrs. Goodwin.
“There must be drawers and drawers of files,” she said. “Perhaps they’re kept in a cellar somewhere. I’m sure she’ll be back shortly.”
At last Mother Evangelist appeared, but her expression had changed. She was no longer smiling. Martha watched her sit down and the anxiety seemed to creep up her leg and down her arms as if it were a creature with prickles. Mother Evangelist sighed. “I’m so sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “It appears that your records have been mislaid. I took so long because I went to ask Sister Agatha, who was the mother superior at that time. She’s old now and her memory is going. She didn’t know why the records had been lost and has no recollection of a Lady Rowan-Hampton, but then many of the girls only stayed for a short while and this was seventeen years ago. I’m sorry to disappoint you. However, you have the name, which is a very good start. Many of the children who come back don’t even have that. It’s an unusual name and with an aristocratic title she shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
Martha wanted to cry. She felt her face flush and pursed her lips to stop them trembling. Mrs. Goodwin took over the talking. She thanked Mother Evangelist, who seemed genuinely sorry not to be able to help. She showed them back down the corridor to the door. As Mother Evangelist unbolted the door Martha noticed an old nun standing in the doorway of a room farther down the corridor. She was staring at her with small, intense eyes, her hard face impassive and her thin lips drawn into a mean line. Martha knew instinctively that she was Sister Agatha. She shuddered and the nun closed the door with a slam. It seemed a deliberate act of rebuke.
Once out in the sunshine Martha let her tears flow freely. Mrs. Goodwin put her arms around her. “There there, dear, don’t cry. We’ve only just started our search. We will find her, I have no doubt. It was never going to be easy. I know, let’s go and give ourselves a treat. Let’s go to the Shelbourne and have a nice cup of tea. The tea at the convent was weak and cold. I’m sure the tea at the Shelbourne will be exceptionally good.”
The Shelbourne Hotel did not disappoint. It was grand and classical, with high ceilings, marble floors and tall windows looking out onto St. Stephen’s Green. They made their way across the foyer to the Lord Mayor’s Lounge, where a waiter showed them to a round table beside one of the windows and Mrs. Goodwin asked for afternoon tea. “You’ll feel restored once you’ve had some scones and jam,” said Mrs. Goodwin. “We’re not going to give up because we fell at the first hurdle, Martha.”
“I know. I suppose I thought that, because we knew the name, the address would be easily come by. After all, if she was a grand lady she’d presumably come from a grand house that might have been in the family for a long time.”
“Well, you’re not wrong,” said Mrs. Goodwin. “I know a little about British titles. I don’t think it will be that difficult to find her.”
“But where do we start?”
“We must go to London. Your mother might have traveled to Dublin from her home in England to have her child in secrecy. I’m wondering now whether she ever lived here. I have family in England who will help us. I suggest we start there.”
“All right, then. Let’s go to London,” Martha agreed. The waiter brought the tea, which was far superior to the tea they had had at the convent, and scones, which tasted better than anything Martha had tasted in America. “Goodness, these are good,” she said and the color began to return to her cheeks and the optimism to her heart. “While we’re here we might as well enjoy the park and have a look around the city. I’ve been trying not to think of Mother and Father,” she said quietly.
“The letter you left explained everything very clearly,” said Mrs. Goodwin. “I imagine Edith might be in a bit of hot water, though,” she added.
“I specifically told them not to blame her. She’s only little.”
“Your aunt Joan will be in trouble and with good reason.”
“She shouldn’t have told Edith,” said Martha firmly. “But I’m glad that she did. I have a right to know where I come from.”
“You do, dear,” Mrs. Goodwin agreed.
At that moment their attention was diverted by a couple of gentlemen who stepped into the room. The older gentleman wore a three-piece suit with a gray felt hat while the younger man, who stood a good few inches taller than the other, was equally well dressed but of a slimmer, more athletic build. Both had an air of old-fashioned grandeur and importance, for it seemed that the entire hotel staff had gathered around them to ensure their comfort. They were escorted slowly through the room in a stately fashion and the older gentleman greeted people he knew with a dashing smile and a raffish twinkle in his pale gray eyes. Those with whom he spoke seemed very happy to see him and Mrs. Goodwin noticed how the ladies put down their teacups and gave him their hands, giggling flirtatiously as he brought them to his lips with a courteous bow. Martha and Mrs. Goodwin watched them in fascination. Mrs. Goodwin was taken by the charm of the older man, with his flaxen hair and arresting eyes, and wondered who he was, for surely he was a man of some standing in this city. Martha stared at the red-headed boy, who must have been of a similar age to her, for she found his insouciance compelling. There was a jauntiness to his walk and a confidence to his smile, as if he had only ever encountered good in his life. The two men settled at their table, which was a short distance from Mrs. Goodwin and Martha’s, and the waiters fussed about them with napkins and menus and pleasantries—although they placed their orders without consulting the menus.
“Well, that’s an elegant pair of men if ever I saw one,” gushed Mrs. Goodwin. “Must be father and son, don’t you think? Besides the color of their hair they look quite similar.”
Martha did not reply. She was unable to take her eyes off the boy. He was handsome, certainly, with a mischievous curl to his smile and a lively, amused gleam in his eyes, but there was something besides. Something Martha had never found in anyone else. Then, sensing he was being watched, he raised his eyes and they locked into hers as if destiny had always meant them to be together. They stared at one another without blinking, stunned and delighted at the strange new feelings they aroused in each other.
“What are you looking at, JP?” asked Bertie, following the line of his gaze. He smiled then as he saw the pretty girl by the window. “An eye for the ladies, eh?” he commented with a chuckle. But JP was too electrified by her to reply. He gazed at her as if he had never before seen anyone more lovely. Bertie smiled at his son’s enthusiasm and remembered the first time he had laid eyes on Maud. She had aroused the same excitement in him. He looked back at the young girl who realized she had drawn the attention of both men and hastily dropped her gaze to her plate, blushing profusely. But Bertie did not avert his eyes, for there was a familiarity about her that he wasn’t quite able to put his finger on. It was in the way she blushed perhaps, or in the sweetness of her shy smile, he couldn’t be sure, but he was certain he had seen her somewhere before. She began to nibble on a scone while her companion clucked away like a hen. He could tell that she was making a great effort not to look in their direction again and finding the task almost impossible. JP’s eager gaze drew her like a magnet.
“Would you like me to ask them to join us?” Bertie asked.
JP was surprised. “Would you, Papa?”
Bertie grinned. “Leave it to me.” He called over a waiter and said something in his ear. A moment later the waiter was passing the message on to Mrs. Goodwin, whose face revealed her pleasant surprise at Lord Deverill’s invitation. The older woman raised her eyes and looked at Bertie, who bowed his head and smiled encouragement.
“Will they come?” asked JP impatiently.
“I do believe they will,” said Bertie, and a moment later the two ladies were standing before them and Bertie and JP were on their feet, introducing themselves enthusiastically.
“How very kind of you to invite us to join you,” said Mrs. Goodwin once she had sat down. “Martha and I have just arrived from America.”
“Is it your first time in Ireland?” Bertie asked, noticing that the two young people were now too shy to look at each other and were equally flushed.
“It’s Martha’s first time,” said Mrs. Goodwin.
“And how are you finding it, my dear?” asked Bertie, turning to the nervous young woman sitting on his left.
“Oh, it’s charming,” she replied. “Just charming.”
“Will you be staying long?”
The girl glanced anxiously at Mrs. Goodwin. “I don’t know. We haven’t really made plans. We’re just enjoying the visit.”
“Quite right,” said Bertie. “Ah, the tea,” he added as fresh pots, jugs of milk, a little plate of sliced lemon and a five-tier cake-and-sandwich stand were placed in the center of the table.
“Goodness,” said Mrs. Goodwin with a sigh. “What a wonderful display of treats.” She helped herself to a cucumber sandwich.
“Which would you like?” Bertie asked Martha, who was gazing at the cakes with wide, delighted eyes.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, moving her fingers up and down the plates indecisively before settling on an egg and watercress sandwich on the lowest level.
“That’s my favorite,” said JP, reaching out to take one for himself. The two young people grinned at each other as JP popped his sandwich into his mouth and Martha took a small bite of hers.
“Good, isn’t it?” said JP, when he had finished it. Martha nodded.
“How would you like your tea, Mrs. Goodwin?” Bertie asked.
“With a slice of lemon, please,” she replied. “Martha likes milk. Lots of milk. In fact, there’s more milk in her tea than tea.”
JP laughed. “That’s just how I like it too,” he said, frowning at Martha, astonished that two strangers should have so much in common.
“How extraordinary,” said Mrs. Goodwin, enjoying herself immensely. “I don’t know anyone who likes their tea as milky as Martha does.”
Bertie poured the tea. JP and Martha filled their cups to the brim with milk, taking pleasure in this shared idiosyncrasy that immediately bonded them. The conversation continued as they drank their tea and ate their sandwiches. A while later Bertie was giving them a list of all the interesting things they should see in Dublin when JP and Martha’s hands reached for the same chocolate sponge cake on the top level of the cake stand. They laughed as their fingers collided over the plate and withdrew as if scalded. “We like the same cakes too,” said JP softly, gazing at Martha with tenderness.
“But there’s only one left,” said Mrs. Goodwin.
“Then we shall share it,” said JP. He put the cake on his plate and lifted the silver knife to cut it. Martha watched him slice it in two, now dizzy with infatuation. “Half for you,” he said, placing one piece on the plate in front of her. “The other half for me,” he added. And they lifted the small pieces to their lips and smiled at each other as if they were conspirators, sharing in a secret plot, and popped them into their mouths.