religious. It is a great responsibility to be the guardian at the gate. I would like you to report all unusual correspondence to me.”
“Of course,” Evangeline said, confused by the zeal in Philomena’s voice. Her curiosity getting the better of her, Evangeline added, “There is one thing I was wondering, Sister.”
“Yes?” Philomena responded.
“Was there anything unusual about Mother Innocenta?”
“Unusual?”
“Something that would inspire interest in a private research consultant whose specialty is art history?”
“I haven’t the slightest notion what might interest such people, my dear,” Sister Philomena said, clucking her tongue as she walked to the door. “I would hope that the history of art is filled with enough paintings and sculptures to occupy an art historian indefinitely. Yet, apparently, our collection of angelic images is irresistible. One can never be too careful, child. You will inform me if there are any new requests?”
“Of course,” Evangeline said, feeling her heart beat unnaturally fast.
Sister Philomena must have taken note of her young assistant’s distress and, stepping closer, so that Evangeline could smell something vaguely mineral about her—talcum powder, perhaps, or arthritis cream—she took Evangeline’s hands, warming them between her chubby palms. “Now, there is no reason for worry. We won’t let them in. Try as they might, we will hold the door closed.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Sister,” Evangeline said, smiling despite her bewilderment. “Thank you for your concern.”
“You’re welcome, child,” Philomena said, yawning. “If something more should come up, I’ll be on the fourth floor the remainder of the afternoon. It is nearly time for my nap.”
The instant Sister Philomena had left, Evangeline was thrown into a morass of guilt and speculation over what had just occurred between them. She regretted that she had misled her superior in such a manner, but she also wondered at Philomena’s strange reaction to the letter and the intensity of her desire to keep visitors away from St. Rose’s holdings. Of course Evangeline understood the necessity of protecting the environment of contemplative calm they all worked hard to create. Sister Philomena’s reaction to the letter had seemed excessive, but what had inspired Evangeline to lie in such a bold and unjustifiable fashion? Yet, there it was, a fact: She had lied to an Elder Sister. Even this breach had not assuaged her curiosity. What was the nature of the relationship between Mother Innocenta and Mrs. Rockefeller? What had Sister Philomena meant when she said that they would not “open our home to outsiders”? What harm could possibly come from sharing their beautiful collection of books and images? What did they have to hide? In the years Evangeline had spent at St. Rose—nearly half her life—there had been nothing at all out of the ordinary. The Franciscan Sisters of Perpetual Adoration led exemplary lives.
Evangeline slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out the thin, weathered onionskin letter. The writing was florid and slick—her eyes slid across the arches and dips of the cursive with ease. “Your guidance has helped the progress of the expedition enormously, and I daresay my own contributions have been useful as well. Celestine Clochette will be arriving in New York early February. More news will reach you soon. Until then, I am sincerely yours, A. A. Rockefeller.”
Evangeline reread the letter, trying to understand its meaning. She folded the thin paper carefully, securing it in her pocket, knowing that she could not continue her work until she understood the significance of Abigail Rockefeller’s letter.
Fifth Avenue, Upper East Side, New York City
P ercival Grigori tapped the tip of his cane as he waited for the elevator, a rhythm of sharp metallic clicks pounding out the seconds. The oak-paneled lobby of his building—an exclusive prewar with views of Central
“Of course,” Evangeline said, confused by the zeal in Philomena’s voice. Her curiosity getting the better of her, Evangeline added, “There is one thing I was wondering, Sister.”
“Yes?” Philomena responded.
“Was there anything unusual about Mother Innocenta?”
“Unusual?”
“Something that would inspire interest in a private research consultant whose specialty is art history?”
“I haven’t the slightest notion what might interest such people, my dear,” Sister Philomena said, clucking her tongue as she walked to the door. “I would hope that the history of art is filled with enough paintings and sculptures to occupy an art historian indefinitely. Yet, apparently, our collection of angelic images is irresistible. One can never be too careful, child. You will inform me if there are any new requests?”
“Of course,” Evangeline said, feeling her heart beat unnaturally fast.
Sister Philomena must have taken note of her young assistant’s distress and, stepping closer, so that Evangeline could smell something vaguely mineral about her—talcum powder, perhaps, or arthritis cream—she took Evangeline’s hands, warming them between her chubby palms. “Now, there is no reason for worry. We won’t let them in. Try as they might, we will hold the door closed.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Sister,” Evangeline said, smiling despite her bewilderment. “Thank you for your concern.”
“You’re welcome, child,” Philomena said, yawning. “If something more should come up, I’ll be on the fourth floor the remainder of the afternoon. It is nearly time for my nap.”
The instant Sister Philomena had left, Evangeline was thrown into a morass of guilt and speculation over what had just occurred between them. She regretted that she had misled her superior in such a manner, but she also wondered at Philomena’s strange reaction to the letter and the intensity of her desire to keep visitors away from St. Rose’s holdings. Of course Evangeline understood the necessity of protecting the environment of contemplative calm they all worked hard to create. Sister Philomena’s reaction to the letter had seemed excessive, but what had inspired Evangeline to lie in such a bold and unjustifiable fashion? Yet, there it was, a fact: She had lied to an Elder Sister. Even this breach had not assuaged her curiosity. What was the nature of the relationship between Mother Innocenta and Mrs. Rockefeller? What had Sister Philomena meant when she said that they would not “open our home to outsiders”? What harm could possibly come from sharing their beautiful collection of books and images? What did they have to hide? In the years Evangeline had spent at St. Rose—nearly half her life—there had been nothing at all out of the ordinary. The Franciscan Sisters of Perpetual Adoration led exemplary lives.
Evangeline slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out the thin, weathered onionskin letter. The writing was florid and slick—her eyes slid across the arches and dips of the cursive with ease. “Your guidance has helped the progress of the expedition enormously, and I daresay my own contributions have been useful as well. Celestine Clochette will be arriving in New York early February. More news will reach you soon. Until then, I am sincerely yours, A. A. Rockefeller.”
Evangeline reread the letter, trying to understand its meaning. She folded the thin paper carefully, securing it in her pocket, knowing that she could not continue her work until she understood the significance of Abigail Rockefeller’s letter.
Fifth Avenue, Upper East Side, New York City
P ercival Grigori tapped the tip of his cane as he waited for the elevator, a rhythm of sharp metallic clicks pounding out the seconds. The oak-paneled lobby of his building—an exclusive prewar with views of Central
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