About Kaylie Jones Books
For Alice, my sister, my friend
Echoes of mercy,
Whispers of love.
—Fanny J. Crosby
Part I
All are agreed . . . it is important that the boy be given some sex instruction . . . No such agreement exists concerning sex knowledge for the girl . . . Some say that such instruction . . . is unnecessary, because the sex instinct awakens in girls comparatively late, and it is time enough for them to learn about such matters after they are married.
—Woman: Her Sex and Love Life,
William J. Robinson, MD, 1929
When Izzy passed on, it seemed fitting to christen ourselves the Isabelle Lumley Bible Class. After all, she was the one who came up with the idea for our Wednesday women’s scripture meetings. At least that’s how she told it. Those of us who were there from the beginning remember different, but no sense beating that drum again. Let the dead rest is what we say. Besides, Izzy left enough money to Providence Christian Church to erase any hard feelings and repair the crumbling steeple.
A Bible verse or two and a potluck lunch make for an edifying afternoon. And a much needed one, given the moral decline we see today. Gambling. Joyriding. Bootlegging. Not to mention the goings-on in “the Alleys” downtown. A regular red-light district. Our very own Sodom and Gomorrah right here in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Surely we’re glimpsing the end times.
That’s why it’s so comforting to have a man like Reverend Sheets in the pulpit. An optimist through and through. Somehow he always manages to come back around to Noah’s ark and that rainbow promise. An uplifting sentiment, though it wouldn’t hurt to hear a different Bible lesson from time to time. Maybe something from the New Testament.
Why, just the other day we were studying that verse in Matthew about pointing out a speck in your brother’s eye while ignoring the beam in your own. There’s folks in our congregation who could benefit from such wisdom. Hattie Goodfellow, for one, or should we say Hattie Goodfellow Hatton. Always looking down her nose at us, but who’s the real sinner? Marrying that fellow from her boarding house and traipsing off to Buffalo at her age. Here we thought she ran a respectable place. And now we’re told that her nieces, Violet and Lily, are headed north to help her. Can’t say why, but something doesn’t ring true about that story. If Hattie needs help setting up house, maybe she’s too old to be a newlywed.
Not that it’s any of our affair. Who are we to judge? Just wish she’d asked our opinion before leaping. Now that the deed is done, God bless and good luck. And if the marriage comes to ruin, as we fear it might, we’ll welcome Hattie back with open arms.
That’s the Christian way.
Chapter one
VIOLET AND LILY TRUDGED TO THE REAR of the Good Shepherd Infant Asylum and entered through the kitchen. According to the widow Lankowski, who’d made the arrangements, only benefactors, adoptive couples, physicians, and members of the clergy were allowed to use the front door. The Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary instituted this practice years earlier in order to protect the identities of the expectant mothers they served.
“Don’t let the door slam!” a fireplug of a girl yelled from across the room.
Lily pressed her hand against the oak panel and eased it shut. A stripe of fresh snow spanned the length of the threshold.
“The latch catches.” The girl stood at the sink with her back to the newcomers. A tangle of red curls settled just beyond her shoulders. “Don’t want to lock out all of our gentlemen callers,” she laughed, throaty and low. “Names?”
“Violet Morgan. And my sister Lily.” Violet stepped onto a rag rug and stomped her boots. Lily remained on the bare linoleum; water puddled at her feet.
“The Protestants are here!” the girl called out as she washed the last plate in the dishpan and dried her hands. “No rest for the wicked.” She turned and smiled at the pair, exposing her swollen belly. “So which one of you is in the puddin’ club?” she asked. Her eyes darted across their stomachs.
“That will be all, Muriel.” A tall woman robed in dark blue serge glided into the room. “If you hurry, you’ll just make confession.” Her brittle voice cracked on the word confession, as if failing to hit a note out of range.
Embarrassment ignited the girl’s cheeks as she started for the doorway. “You can’t tell, is all.”
“Our mother carried small,” Violet explained.
“Confession,” the nun repeated, patting a gold crucifix that hung from a chain around her neck.
Muriel winked at Lily from behind the nun, crossed one swollen ankle behind the other, grabbed the sides of her dress, and bowed.
Without looking back, the nun added, “You might want to save that curtsy for His Holiness should he visit us here in Philadelphia.”
Muriel slinked out of the room.
“I’m Mother Mary Joseph.” The woman took a step forward, and the rosary beads at her waist rattled in time. “Reverend Mother. You must be the young ladies from Scranton.”
“Yes ma’am.” Violet let go of the two suitcases she’d carried from the train station and pulled her younger sister Lily onto the rug. Even with nine years between them, the Morgan girls shared a strong likeness. Fair Welsh complexions, small even teeth, dimpled left cheeks. Yet in spite of their similarities, people often referred to Lily as “the pretty one.” Her large round eyes were blue instead of brown; her features soft, not angular like Violet’s; and Lily’s hair, a warm chocolate, not that unforgiving pitch. It was as if an artist had sketched the same face twice, opting for a lighter hand the second time.
“It’s most unusual for us to house both a charge and her sister.” The nun poked her hand out from a fan of sleeve and motioned the visitors forward, past a pallet stacked with brushes, paint cans, and thinner. “But Father Zarnowski from St. Stanislaus in Scranton requested the arrangement.” Mother Mary Joseph sat down at the head of a table in the center of the room and nodded for Violet and Lily to each take a chair on either side of her. “And then, when your friend Mrs. Lankowski made her generous donation to the Good Shepherd,” the nun waved toward a freshly painted wall, “well, how could we say no?” She pressed her lips into a thin smile and reached for a small brass bell on the table. “Have you had your supper?”
“On the train.” Twenty-five-year-old Violet noted the absence of wrinkles on the woman’s pale skin and wondered about her age. Under the dark veil, a starched band of white fabric stretched around her forehead and another one framed her cheeks and neck. A large bib-like collar circled her chest and shoulders in that same stiff white material. This woman possessed
