Fortune's Rocks (42 page)
“It seems there are not many in residence. You shall be rattling around.”
“If I may say so — and I hope you will not be offended by this — you look very lovely tonight,” Tucker says. He takes off his spectacles and puts them on the table beside his plate. She is startled to see, without the buffer of the gold-rimmed eyeglasses, how intensely black his eyes are, how long and silky his lashes.
“If I am offended by such a pronouncement,” Olympia says, “I do not know how we shall proceed with my case. As I recall, we spoke of rather more disturbing matters during our first meeting at your office.”
Tucker’s hair, worn straight back from his forehead tonight, is shiny with hair wax or with oil. This must be a new fashion as well, Olympia thinks, and she is certain that her emerald suit, no matter how altered, will be seen to be hopelessly out of date.
“You live with your family in Exeter?” she asks.
“I live with my mother and father and sister,” he says. “I am in practice with my father, who was kind enough to take me in. Had you come a half hour earlier to our offices, it would be he who would be your advocate.”
“Well, then, for once in my life, I must be glad that I was late,” she says.
“And I, too, am exceedingly glad,” Tucker says with perhaps rather more warmth than Olympia is comfortable with.
A waiter arrives with champagne, which, when she takes her first sip, is so dry that it seems to bubble right up through Olympia’s nose.
“Do you like oysters?” he asks.
“Yes, I do.”
“I feel obliged to mention, since I do not wish to deceive you, nor compromise your suit in any way, that I am only one year out of the Yale School of Law,” Tucker says disarmingly when the waiter has left them. “I have discussed your case with my father, and if you would prefer that he represent you, I will not be insulted in any way. In fact, I would advise you to consider this option carefully. My father has rather more experience with the state courts than I do, although your case is unusual, and I am sorry to say my father has not brought forth a suit similar to yours. In fact, I cannot find a like case in the county files at all.”
“Is it so unusual? My case?” she asks.
“It would appear so. As far as I can tell, such a suit has been put forth before only twice in New England.”
He seems about to speak further, but stops himself, brushing his mustaches with the back of his fingers.
“And the outcome of these two suits?” she asks after a time.
“In neither case was the petitioner successful,” he says quietly.
“I see,” Olympia says.
“I was quite fascinated to read of the history of your house,” Tucker says, in an obvious attempt to change the subject.
“You have had occasion to read of my house?” she asks, looking up.
“I thought I recognized the address when you were in my office. Six months ago, while I was working on a case for the Catholic Diocese in Ely Falls, I came across a few old documents relating to the convent,” he says. “Did you know that the church was forced to close the convent’s doors? It appears there was something of a scandal there.”
“No,” she says. “I was always under the impression that the church had decided to move the sisters into Ely Falls so that they could run the hospice and the orphanage. I am sure that was what my father was told.”
“Yes, I do not doubt that it was. The scandal seems to have been kept rather quiet. The Catholic Church had — has — tremendous political influence in Ely Falls.” He pauses while the waiter serves the oysters in a large silver tray with cracked ice and lemon and horseradish sauce. “The house was set up in the late
1870
s to house young women who were felt by their families to be wayward or to have gone astray. A convent within a convent, as it were,” Tucker explains.
1870
s to house young women who were felt by their families to be wayward or to have gone astray. A convent within a convent, as it were,” Tucker explains.
“Schoolgirls?”
“Some were as young as twelve. Others as old as twenty. A few of them were victims of brutalities upon their persons or were servant girls who had been taken advantage of by their masters.”
Olympia lays down her oyster fork. “Mr. Tucker, you surprise me with this story.”
“Miss Biddeford,” he says in the manner of a man who has become aware of a terrible social gaffe, “I am so very sorry. Forgive me.”
“Not with the story itself,” she says. “But with its obvious parallel to my own situation. I assume we are speaking of unwed mothers.”
“Of course, I did not intend . . . I cannot think why I have . . . I suppose I simply do not think of you as I do those unfortunate girls. I am most sincerely sorry if I have offended you.”
“No, no,” she says, waving her hand. “Do not trouble yourself. I cannot pretend that I am not surprised by this news, and I am clearly more than a little sensitive about my own situation, but I must tell you, Mr. Tucker, in the same breath, how tremendous a relief it has been for me to have someone to speak to of such matters. I have kept them in my heart for all these years and have confided in no one. And in not being able to speak of facts that are true, one watches them grow and distort themselves and take on greater significance than one ought to allow, the result being that one is crippled by the actions of one’s past. Indeed, I have lived these four years with no other reality.”
Tucker is silent for a moment. “I am sorry that the past has burdened you so, Miss Biddeford,” he says with evident concern, “and yet I confess I am honored to be the recipient of these closely held truths.”
Olympia touches her mouth with her napkin. “I am not usually this priggish,” she says quickly. “Please continue with your story. You have whetted my curiosity.”
“Well, it is a grim tale altogether. The infants were taken from the girls at birth and given to the orphanage. In those days, such infants made up the bulk of the population of the orphanage and were largely the reason for its existence. But not all of the girls were in such dire straits. Some were merely thought, because of excessively high spirits, to be troublesome to their families.”
“And the families had them put away because of this?”
“Yes, with the idea that the girls would then be ‘broken’ — like horses, I suppose. The discipline was quite severe. The girls were forced to take vows of silence, as the members of the order themselves had.” He pauses. “It beggars the imagination.”
“I am dismayed, Mr. Tucker, to think of my father’s house being used in this manner. I had envisioned something altogether different, something rather more peaceful and contemplative.”
“Quite.”
The waiter brings the next course, which is the turkey. “The scandal came to light when one young woman, who had been committed by her guardian for ‘wanton and lascivious behavior,’ accused a priest of assaulting her and took him to court,” Tucker continues. “Before the case was settled, it was discovered that the priest — whose name has been stricken from the records, I might add — had been physically examining the young women to ascertain if they were . . .” Tucker pauses. Olympia can see that he is blushing. “It is impossible to put this delicately,” he says. “According to the results of this examination, the girls were then segregated on the theory that those who were seen to be less than . . . intact . . . might corrupt the innocents.”
“I see.”
“The case was settled out of court. And as part of the settlement, the church agreed to close the house down. The nuns, most of them of course blameless, were moved into Ely Falls. The two sisters who collaborated with the priest were sent back to Canada. As you are doubtless aware, the Sisters of the Order of Saint Jean Baptiste de Bienfaisance now have a remarkable record of good works, many at considerable sacrifice. And they no longer keep vows of silence as they once used to do.”
“Not very practical.”
“No. Quite. Indeed, the silence was seen in retrospect to have allowed the molestation to continue.”
“And what happened to the girls?”
“There is no mention of that in the records.”
Olympia tries to imagine their fate. “Would their families have taken them back in?” she asks.
“I do not know.”
“I see. The oysters were delicious, by the way,” she says.
He smiles. “You have an appetite, Olympia Biddeford.”
Somewhat abashed, she smooths the napkin in her lap. “That is the second time I have heard that said of me this fall,” she says.
“It is an admirable quality, your considerable appetite,” Tucker says. “I cannot bear women who feel obliged to appear delicate in their constitutions, when, in fact, they are not. Most women must eat as regularly and as heartily as men. And why should a woman not enjoy her food? Indeed, it is one of life’s greater pleasures, do you not think?”
He waits until the waiter has left them. “Miss Biddeford, there are some matters which we must discuss,” he says. “If I could, I would delay mentioning such unpleasant subjects forever, but clearly I cannot if we are to proceed with your suit. But I should like to say before I begin that I am thoroughly enjoying your company, and I am hopeful that we shall one day have a meal together when it will not be necessary to discuss business.”
“Yes,” she says. “Thank you.”
“May I speak frankly now?” he asks.
“Please.”
“I do not wish to discourage you,” he says, “but I must warn you that your case is difficult. In most states that have decided the matter, the biological mother has fewer rights than the surrogate maternal figure. You, of course, are the biological mother, and Albertine Bolduc will be seen to be the surrogate mother.”
Olympia is discomfited by the mention of another woman as the mother of her son, however much she has known this to be true.
“Furthermore, an unwed mother is the least likely person to be given custody of a child. An unwed mother who has been seen to have abandoned her child has essentially no rights to the child at all.”
“I see,” she says.
“I know that this is difficult,” Tucker says. “Please tell me if I am already upsetting you too greatly.”
Olympia struggles for composure. She must, she knows, steel herself for all manner of revelations. She cannot afford to be discouraged so soon. And she thinks now that Tucker’s discussion about the provenance of her father’s cottage must have been a deliberate attempt to prepare her in some small way for the even more difficult matter of her own case.
“No, I am fine,” she says. “Well, I am not fine. Of course I am not. But I understand I must hear what you have to say. Indeed, I wish to know everything you know, for I cannot make any intelligent decisions otherwise.”
Tucker nods. His hand hovers close to hers on the tablecloth, and she senses that under different circumstances he might touch her, but now will not.
“That is why it is so important that we establish that you did not abandon your child, but rather had the child stolen from you,” he continues. “I have some further facts I should like to tell you if you think you can bear them.”
“Are they so terrible?”
“They are . . . difficult.”
“I am as ready as I ever shall be,” she says.
“Shortly after his birth, the boy was given to Josiah Hay by your father,” Tucker begins.
“Josiah!” Olympia exclaims before she can stop herself.
Tucker puts up a hand. “Only to transport the child,” he says. “He and his wife, Lisette, took the child and journeyed up to Ely Falls by train the afternoon of the birth.”
Olympia’s head swims with the news. Lisette! How is that possible? Olympia thinks back to the day of the birth. Was Lisette at her side after she delivered? She cannot remember. No, perhaps she was not. Was it not, in fact, her mother who sat with her all that long day as Olympia drifted in and out of consciousness?
“They brought the child to John Haskell, who was staying at a hotel in Ely Falls. It is my understanding that John Haskell examined the child and dismissed Josiah and Lisette, who took the next train back to Boston. Dr. Haskell then took the child to the Saint Andre orphanage. He had already made arrangements.”
“I find this so difficult to comprehend,” Olympia says. “I do not know how he could have given up the boy,” she adds, momentarily benumbed.
“Do you need some time?”
Olympia shakes her head.
Tucker puts his glasses back on. “Very shortly,” he continues, “the boy was taken on by Albertine and Telesphore Bolduc. They have not formally adopted the child because John Haskell cannot be found, and he did not sign the appropriate waivers before he left. Such an adoption, even if the Bolducs had the money for the legal fees, which they have not, has not, therefore, been possible. It will, however, become possible simply by the fact of your bringing this suit.”
“I
can
bring suit then?” Olympia asks.
can
bring suit then?” Olympia asks.
“Legally, yes. In John Haskell’s absence and considering that he has abandoned the child.”
“But you are telling me that if I lose, the Bolducs may legally adopt the boy.”
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