with only infant witnesses, Violet dropped to her knees and prayed.
* * *
Mother Mary Joseph returned to the nursery at half past eleven.
“Any word on Muriel?” Violet asked.
“No change, but that’s not unusual.” The Reverend Mother walked across the room, pushed back the curtains over three identical windows, and peered out at the cheerless March day. “I had hoped for a little sun this afternoon . . .” She turned to the closest crib and scooped a baby girl into her arms. “Let’s get the little ones bundled up.”
The Reverend Mother believed in fresh air, no matter the weather. Each afternoon, the babies were swaddled in thick blankets, paired off in carriages, and placed on the front porch for two-hour naps. Mother Mary Joseph claimed that time outdoors kept children healthy—good advice, considering how robust her charges seemed to be.
“I need to run an errand,” Violet said. “I’ll wait till the children are napping.” She placed a bundled Michael into a wicker buggy, stepped over to the next crib, and started dressing a two-month-old named Bernadette. When Mother Mary Joseph didn’t respond, Violet added, “It’s Lily’s birthday, I’d like her to have something to open.”
“We don’t allow the girls—”
“With all due respect,” Violet interrupted, “I’m not one of the girls.”
The nun paused, as if to consider the point. “Well, we still have to dress the toddlers.” She nodded toward the room next door. “Sister Teresa is still in bed with a cold.”
“Yes,” Violet said, “but after that.”
“If you think it’s wise to reward her.” The Reverend Mother pushed a carriage to the doorway, and a waiting nun pulled it out of the room and onto the front porch. “Personally . . .”
“I wouldn’t have mentioned it otherwise,” Violet said, her curt tone putting an end to the discussion.
* * *
Once all of the children were dressed and in their carriages, Violet left through the kitchen door and headed around front. When she reached the sidewalk, she turned back, examining the grounds in the daylight. A tall iron fence lined the tar-and-chip driveway leading up to the Good Shepherd Infant Asylum. Short but wide, the road stayed to the right, where a redbrick chapel stood, low and broad. According to Sadie, who loved a good story, the church had been erected in 1880 and was the first structure on the property. The adjoining three-story convent had been added a decade later, at the urging of Bishop McGoff, who thought a contingent of nuns would bolster the flagging morality of the women in Philadelphia. The convent appeared so grand with its tiled arches and rounded windows that the workmen added a twenty-foot steeple to the unadorned chapel free of charge. Almost immediately, and much to the bishop’s dismay, the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary started sheltering unmarried women who found themselves in the family way. By the turn of the century, the nuns had raised enough money to add a small maternity hospital onto the left side of the convent, where the women could be delivered within the walls of the Good Shepherd.
Violet gave the asylum one last look before heading toward the millinery on the corner of Market and Broad, across the street from the train station. She’d noticed the shop the night she and Lily arrived. Considering Lily’s burgeoning form, a hat would make a sensible gift. Nothing too fussy, Violet thought. Nothing that would draw unwanted attention. She looked up at a street sign to get her bearings, and after a moment she turned left onto Market Street and followed it for six more blocks.
Gold letters on the store’s red sign announced, Widenor’s Hats. James Widenor, Proprietor. Violet eyed the merchandise in the window, wondering if Mr. Widenor would be willing to barter. She reached into her coat pocket and fingered the gold medallion awarded to her at graduation. The raised letters on front read:
Scranton Central High School
Valedictorian
Class of 1923
Violet’s parents had been so proud of her when she’d received the medal and delivered the valedictory address. She’d been honored with a scholarship to Bloomsburg Teacher’s College, and she might have gone too, if Lily had been a little older. Lily was only nine, and given their mother’s nervous episodes, Violet felt obligated to stay.
“I’m sorry,” was all her father had said. But the morning after graduation, she watched unseen as he placed the scholarship letter between the gilded pages of the family Bible.
Now Violet entered the milliner’s shop. Inside, she zigzagged around hat-covered trees in search of the shopkeeper or one of his assistants. At the rear of the store, she discovered a high counter with a cash register and silver desk bell. A note alongside the bell read, Ring once for service. Violet tapped the bell on top, releasing a tinny note.
“Be there in a minute!” a man called out.
“I’m in no hurry.” Violet meandered through a forest of tams, berets, and Panamas, in search of something quiet and sensible. Instead, she found herself staring at one of those modern, felt, creased-crown hats, trimmed with a periwinkle ribbon and matching silk forget-me-nots.
“A lovely choice.”
Violet jumped.
A pudgy gentleman was standing behind her. “What can I do you for?” He reached past Violet to the hat. “I own the place.” He took the hat and evened out the crease before placing it on her head.
“It’s not for me.” She snatched the hat and hung it on the bare limb before her. “I’m here to buy a present for my sister.”
“Just the same.” Mr. Widenor pulled a handheld mirror from a nearby shelf. “Indulge me.” He took the hat once again and pushed it down over her curls. “Lovely.” He handed her the mirror.
She looked at her reflection and fingered the periwinkle ribbon. “My favorite color.” She smiled, surprised that such a daring headpiece would flatter her face.
“Wear that and you’ll not want for suitors.”
“I haven’t any money.”
“I’m sorry, miss.” Mr. Widenor took the hat back and placed it on the tree. “I wish I could help you, but I have five mouths to feed at home, and a sixth on the way.” He fluffed a beret at the top of the stand. “We’re hoping for a girl this time.” He turned back, smiling sheepishly.
Violet pulled the medallion out of her pocket and felt the weight of it in her palm. Lay up not for yourselves treasures upon earth, she reminded herself, and handed it to the proprietor. “I thought we might barter.”
He flipped it over and read its message. “You?”
She nodded.
“I can’t take this.” He tried to return the award. “You earned it.”
And it wasn’t easy, she thought. If only their mother hadn’t taken to her bed so often in the years following Daisy’s death.
Violet slipped her
