The Woman at Saint Oralia’s Gate

By the time Eliza Vane reached the convent of Saint Oralia, the rain had soaked through her wool dress, her stockings had torn at both knees, and the last strength in her body had become a thin and trembling thing that seemed to exist only to carry her one more step beyond the reach of the men searching for her. She remembered seeing the convent gate, black iron beneath an arch of pale stone, and the small lantern burning beside it, though she did not remember pulling the bell. When the porter’s window opened, a woman’s voice asked, “Who is there?” Eliza tried to answer, but what emerged was hardly more than breath. “Please.” The gate opened. She awoke in a narrow bed beneath a wool blanket, with candlelight trembling against whitewashed walls and a woman in a black habit sitting beside her, holding a cup of broth. “You frightened Sister Bernadette nearly to death,” the nun said. “She thought you had died against the gate.” Eliza pushed herself upright too quickly and clutched the blanket around her chest. “My bag.” “It is under the bed.” “My money?” “Still inside it.” Eliza stared at her. The nun had a calm, open face, perhaps thirty years old, with warm brown eyes and a loose strand of dark hair that had escaped beneath her veil. “You did not take it?” “We are nuns, not highwaymen.” “I have known priests who were both.” The nun’s expression changed, not to anger, but to sadness. “What is your name?” “Eliza.” “I am Sister Beatrice.” “Are you going to send me away?” “Not tonight.” “And tomorrow?” “That depends upon Mother Agnes.” Mother Agnes was a tall woman with silver hair concealed beneath her veil and a face that might have appeared severe had her eyes not been so patient. She received Eliza the following morning in a small study lined with ledgers, devotional books and bundles of dried lavender, and she listened without interruption while Eliza sat before her in borrowed clothes, her hands clenched together so tightly that her fingernails marked her skin. “My father drank,” Eliza began, “and when he drank, he struck my mother, and when she died, he struck me instead, though by then I was old enough to know that the blows were not the worst thing he might do.” Mother Agnes said quietly, “You may stop whenever you need to.” “If I stop, I shall never begin again.” So Eliza continued. She spoke of running away at seventeen, of sleeping in alleys, of working in a laundry until the owner discovered she had nowhere else to go and began withholding her wages, and of the woman called Madame Rosette who had offered her a room, a meal and a profession that required no references. “I became what respectable people call a fallen woman,” Eliza said, lifting her chin, “though I have noticed that respectable men are often the ones waiting at the bottom of the fall.” Mother Agnes did not flinch. “I survived,” Eliza continued. “For several years, I did more than survive. I had warm rooms, good dresses and enough money that no man could strike me unless I permitted him through the door. I told myself that was freedom.” “What happened?” “A magistrate’s son killed a girl named Clara.” Mother Agnes folded her hands. “Did you witness it?” “I heard her screaming in the room beside mine, and when I entered, she was on the floor and he was standing over her, telling me that she had fallen. She had not fallen. He paid Madame Rosette, the physician and two policemen before sunrise.” “And you spoke?” “I stole the physician’s written report before he could destroy it.” For the first time, Mother Agnes’s composure cracked. “Do you still possess it?” “No. I sent it to a newspaper editor under another name, but the editor was frightened, and someone betrayed me. The magistrate’s son came looking for me with two men. Madame Rosette told me to run through the cellar while she delayed them.” “Is that why you came here?” “I did not come here. I arrived here. There is a difference.” Mother Agnes regarded her for a long moment. “Yes,” she said. “There often is.” Eliza expected to be told she could remain for two nights, perhaps three, but Mother Agnes gave her a small room near the convent kitchen and told the sisters that she was a guest recovering from illness. Days became weeks. Eliza helped peel vegetables, mend linens and carry baskets to the poor families living below the eastern wall, and although several sisters regarded her with curiosity, none asked questions Mother Agnes had forbidden them to ask. Sister Beatrice became her companion. She was not like the other sisters, Eliza soon discovered, for she laughed too loudly in the garden, sang popular tavern songs while kneading bread and possessed a dangerous inability to hide her thoughts. “You stare at me,” Eliza said one afternoon as they gathered rosemary. “I do not.” “You stared at me throughout supper.” “I was seated opposite you.” “You dropped your spoon.” “It was a slippery spoon.” Eliza smiled. Sister Beatrice blushed so fiercely that even her ears turned red. Before entering Saint Oralia’s, Beatrice had been Beatrice Vale, the widowed daughter of a bookbinder, and she had come to the convent after her husband’s death left her with debts, grief and no desire to marry again. “I have not yet taken my final vows,” she admitted one evening while they stood beneath the cloister arches, listening to rain strike the courtyard fountain. “Mother Agnes says a permanent promise should not be made simply because one has nowhere else to go.” “She is wiser than most mothers superior.” “She is wiser than most cardinals.” Eliza looked toward the dark corridor. “Be careful saying such things.” “Why?” “Because walls in holy places have excellent ears.” Beatrice stepped closer. “Then perhaps they should hear something worth repeating.” The first kiss was brief and frightened, and afterward Beatrice whispered, “I am sorry,” while still holding Eliza’s hand. “I am not.” “I am supposed to be considering a life of obedience.” “And has anyone ordered you not to kiss me?” “Not specifically.” “Then we remain within the rules.” Their affection grew in hidden fragments: a hand brushing beneath a table, a whispered conversation in the laundry, a kiss stolen behind sheets billowing on the drying line, and one long night in Eliza’s narrow room when Beatrice lay beside her fully clothed, holding her while she dreamed of Clara screaming. Then Bishop Alistair Wycliffe arrived at Saint Oralia’s. The sisters gathered in the courtyard to receive him, and Eliza, carrying a basket of herbs from the infirmary, saw his face beneath the wide brim of his clerical hat. The basket slipped from her hands. Wycliffe turned. For one terrible instant, neither moved. Then he smiled. “Eliza Vane,” he said softly. “What an unexpected miracle.” She knew him as Mr. Ash. That was the name he had used at Madame Rosette’s house, where he had demanded locked doors, frightened girls and cruelties that could not be disguised as appetite. That afternoon, he requested a private audience with Mother Agnes. “The woman is a criminal,” he told her. “A thief and a prostitute connected to a blackmail conspiracy. For the safety of your sisters, she must be placed in my custody.” “Your custody?” Mother Agnes asked. “I maintain a charitable residence where fallen women may be corrected.” “How fortunate.” Wycliffe narrowed his eyes. “I shall send a carriage tomorrow.” “You may send an entire procession. She will not be leaving.” When Mother Agnes told Eliza what had happened, Eliza began packing. “You cannot protect me from him,” she said. “Men like Wycliffe do not knock twice.” “Then we must ensure he knocks only once.” Beatrice stood beside the door, pale with fury. “Tell her,” she said. Eliza looked at Mother Agnes. “He came to Rosette’s house for years. He chose the youngest-looking women. He hurt them and paid extra to ensure silence. Once, he nearly strangled me, and afterward he made me kneel while he gave me a sermon on sin.” Mother Agnes closed her eyes. “And he knows you can identify him.” “He will not stop until I disappear.” Mother Agnes opened her eyes again, and whatever mercy lived there had hardened into purpose. “Then we shall help him confess.” Two days later, Cardinal Matteo Bellori arrived unexpectedly to inspect Saint Oralia’s finances, having received a letter from Mother Agnes suggesting irregularities involving a senior church official. Bishop Wycliffe was invited to return that same evening. Eliza waited alone in Mother Agnes’s study wearing the red dress she had carried from the city, while the cardinal and Mother Agnes stood silently behind a heavy tapestry concealing the records alcove. When Wycliffe entered, he locked the door. “I knew the old woman would eventually understand reason,” he said. “She has not given me to you.” “She does not need to. By midnight, you will be in my carriage.” “And if I refuse?” His smile vanished. “You were always troublesome.” “You were always a coward.” He crossed the room and seized her wrist. “You will tell the magistrate that your accusations were invented, that Clara died by accident, and that the physician’s report was forged.” “So that is why you want me.” “That is one reason.” “And the other?” He leaned close enough that she smelled wine on his breath. “You belong to men who can afford you.” The tapestry moved. Cardinal Bellori stepped into the room. “No, Bishop Wycliffe,” he said. “It appears that you belong to me.” Wycliffe released Eliza. “Your Eminence, this woman has deceived you.” “I heard no deception.” “She tempted me into speaking recklessly.” Mother Agnes emerged behind the cardinal. “With the door locked?” Wycliffe’s face collapsed as two guards entered from the corridor. He was taken before dawn. The physician was arrested the following week, the magistrate’s son fled the country and was captured at the northern border, and the newspaper that had once refused Eliza’s evidence printed Clara’s name across its front page. Months later, Eliza stood outside Saint Oralia’s gate again, though this time she was well fed, warmly dressed and not alone. Beside her stood Beatrice, no longer Sister Beatrice, having chosen not to take her final vows. “Are you certain?” Eliza asked. Beatrice adjusted the strap of her travelling bag. “I have prayed, considered, doubted, reconsidered and annoyed Mother Agnes with so many questions that she threatened to send me away herself.” From the open gate, Mother Agnes called, “That is not an exaggeration.” Cardinal Bellori had arranged for Eliza and Beatrice to manage a small house in the city where women escaping violence, poverty or the streets might find food, employment and protection without being forced into penitence. They named it Clara House. Before they departed, Mother Agnes embraced Eliza. “You arrived here because you had nowhere else to go,” she said. “Now you are leaving so that other women may have somewhere.” Eliza looked at Beatrice, waiting beside the carriage, smiling beneath the morning sun. “I did not think my life could become this.” Mother Agnes followed her gaze. “Grace rarely asks permission before arriving.” Eliza walked toward Beatrice, who held out her hand. “Where shall we go first?” Beatrice asked. “To Clara House.” “And afterward?” Eliza climbed into the carriage and pulled Beatrice beside her. “Afterward,” she said, kissing her as the convent bells began to ring, “we shall go wherever we please.”