many decades before.
Evangeline cleared her throat. “I was working in the archives this morning and found a letter that
mentions your name. I don’t really know where to file it—I was wondering if you would help me to
understand what it is about, so that I can put it in its proper place.”
“Proper place?” Celestine asked, doubtful. “I don’t know if I can be much help at putting anything
in its proper place these days. What does the letter say?”
Evangeline gave the page to Sister Celestine, who turned the thin paper over in her hands.
“The glass,” she said, fluttering her fingers toward the table.
Evangeline placed the magnifying glass in her hands, watching Celestine’s face intently as the lens
moved over the lines, transforming the solid paper into a sheet of watery light. It was clear by her
expression that she was struggling with her thoughts, although Evangeline could not say if the words
on the page had caused the confusion. After a moment Celestine laid the magnifying glass in her lap,
and Evangeline understood at once: Celestine recognized the letter.
“It is very old,” Celestine said at last, creasing the paper and resting her blue-veined hand over it.
“Written by a woman named Abigail Rockefeller.”
“Yes,” Evangeline said. “I read the signature.”
“I am surprised you found this in the archives,” she said. “I thought they had taken everything
away.”
“I was hoping,” Evangeline ventured, “that you might shed some light on its meaning.”
Celestine sighed deeply and turned her eyes, framed by folds of wrinkled skin, away. “This was
written before I came to live at St. Rose. I didn’t arrive until early 1944, just a week or so before the
great fire. I was weak from the journey, and I didn’t speak a word of English.”
“Do you happen to know why Mrs. Rockefeller would send such a letter to Mother Innocenta?”
Evangeline persisted.
Celestine pulled herself up in the wheelchair, straightening the crocheted blanket about her legs. “It
was Mrs. Rockefeller who brought me here,” she said, her manner guarded, as if she might give too
much away. “It was a Bentley we arrived in, I believe, although I have never known much about cars
made outside of France. It was certainly a vehicle befitting Abigail Rockefeller. She was a plump,
aged woman in a fur coat, and I could not have been more her opposite. I was young and unspeakably
thin. In fact, dressed as I was in my old-fashioned Franciscan habit—the variety they still wore in
Portugal, where I had taken my vows before embarking upon my journey—I looked much more like
the sisters gathered at the horseshoe driveway in their black overcoats and black scarves. It was Ash
Wednesday. I remember because crosses of black ash marked the sisters’ foreheads, blessings from
the Mass conducted that morning.
“I will never forget the greeting I received from my fellow sisters. The crowd of nuns whispered to
me as I passed by, their voices soft and encompassing as a song. Welcome, the sisters of St. Rose
Convent whispered. Welcome, welcome, welcome home.”
“The sisters greeted me in a similar way upon my arrival,” Evangeline said, recalling how she had
wished for nothing more than that her father would take her back to Brooklyn.
“Yes, I recall,” Celestine said. “You were so very young when you came to us.” She paused, as if
comparing Evangeline’s arrival with her own. “Mother Innocenta welcomed me, but then I realized
that the two women were acquainted already. And when Mrs. Rockefeller replied, ‘It is lovely to
meet you at last,’ I wondered suddenly if the sisters had been welcoming me at all, or if it was Mrs.
Rockefeller who had won their attention. I was aware of the sight I presented. I had dark black circles
under my eyes, and I was many kilograms underweight. I could not say what had caused more harm—
the deprivations in Europe or the journey across the Atlantic.”
Evangeline strained to imagine the spectacle of Celestine’s arrival. It was a struggle to picture her
as a young woman. When Celestine had come to St. Rose Convent, she had been younger than
Evangeline was at present. “Abigail Rockefeller must have been anxious for your well-being,”
Evangeline offered.
“Nonsense,” Celestine replied. “Mrs. Rockefeller pushed me forward for Innocenta’s inspection as
if she were a matron presenting her debutante daughter at her first ball. But Innocenta merely propped
open the heavy wooden door at a great angle, anchoring it with her weight so that the mass of sisters
could return to their work. As they passed, I smelled chores on their habits—wood polish, ammonia,