“Have you told anyone of your desire to reclaim your child?”
“Only Rufus Philbrick.”
“And you say you saw the boy again today?”
“Yes.”
Tucker sits back in his chair and folds his hands in front of his chin. “I cannot tell you today whether or not it is possible to pursue this case,” he says.
“I understand.”
“I will need to investigate certain matters.”
She nods.
“To do this, I will have to hire a private investigator. This is usual in these cases. . . .”
“Yes,” says Olympia.
“I am sorry to have to broach the subject of fees, but I fear — ”
“I have money,” Olympia says quickly. “Money is not a difficulty.”
“Very well then,” he says, standing, and she takes this as her cue to stand as well.
“May I call your carriage?” he asks. “Or do you have a motorcar?”
“Mr. Tucker, I live alone,” Olympia says. “I have neither carriage nor motorcar, and I believe I have missed the last trolley to Ely. If you would be so kind as to call me a cab. . . .”
Tucker takes the gold watch from his vest pocket and consults it. “Yes, yes, of course,” he says. He turns and appears to be looking for something on his desk. “Can you be reached on the telephone?”
“No.”
“I shall need your address then.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I may have to visit you in Fortune’s Rocks from time to time to discuss this case,” Tucker says casually. He turns back to her with an address book in his hand. And she is surprised to see, in his face, that Payson Tucker finds her interesting, or intriguing, or possibly even attractive. And that because of this, he will take her case. For a moment, Olympia ponders the uneasy question of whether or not to use this attraction to gain what she wants.
And then she thinks about the boy, her son, in his cracked leather shoes.
“I will look forward to your visits,” she says.
• • •
When Olympia returns to Fortune’s Rocks, she writes to Rufus Philbrick to tell him that she has hired a lawyer to look into the matter of the boy. She also writes to her father to ask him for money, neglecting to explain the reason. While she awaits a reply from each, she contemplates possible ways in which she might earn extra funds to pay for an eventual custody suit; but she can see no immediate manner in which to secure a living, apart from hiring herself out again as a governess, which she most sincerely does not want to do. To pass the time, she reads books and newspapers, but the outside world seems to her more and more remote, particularly as the summerfolk desert Fortune’s Rocks. The days grow colder still, and she wonders if she will, after all, be able to remain in her cottage.
On the twenty-eighth of September, Olympia receives a letter — but not from Rufus Philbrick or her father.
27 September 1903
Dear Miss Biddeford,
I shall be staying at the Highland Hotel on 2 October and would be pleased if you would dine with me there. I understand that this may be awkward for you, and if you prefer, I will be happy to suggest an alternative venue. In either event, may I call for you at six o’clock on the evening of the second? I have some information regarding your custody suit that I think you will want to hear.
Respectfully yours,
Payson Tucker, Esq.
Olympia sits down at her kitchen table with the letter in her hand and reads it through once more. The Highland Hotel. She can see its high ceilings, its cavernous lobby, its long mahogany desks. She has not thought she would ever again be able to enter the Highland, but it seems cowardly now to have to say to Payson Tucker that she cannot do that, particularly so if she wishes to impress him with her courage and resolve. She takes her pen and ink from the drawer in the kitchen table and begins to write.
29 September 1903
Dear Mr. Tucker,
I should be pleased to dine with you at the Highland Hotel on the evening of the second of October. I shall expect you to call for me at six o’clock. I look forward most sincerely to hearing your information.
In anticipation of your arrival, I remain,
Olympia Biddeford
She blots the letter, puts it into an envelope, and seals it with wax. She glances about her kitchen.
So it is beginning, she thinks.
• • •
Olympia dresses for the evening of October 2 in an emerald velvet suit with black braid piping and frog closures. The suit, though somewhat out of date, squares her shoulders and flatters her waist. With the suit, she wears a high-necked ivory silk blouse that once belonged to her mother and was left behind in her closets. Olympia chooses pearls for her jewelry: drop earrings, a rope at her neck, and a bracelet. She fusses for nearly an hour with her hair, forming wide wings at the sides and a double bun at the back. When she is dressed, she studies herself in the glass in the kitchen and is somewhat surprised to see that her face looks considerably older than she has remembered it, its planes more accentuated. Her figure is thinner as well, somehow longer, or perhaps this is just an illusion created by the suit. No, she is definitely thinner. She seems foreign to herself and yet oddly familiar, familiar from a time when it was not unusual to dress in velvet and pearls or to spend an hour on one’s hair.
Payson Tucker comes for Olympia at precisely six o’clock, as he said he would, in a smart lemon and black motorcar. His white shirt shines in the headlamps as he passes in front of the automobile after helping her in. He seems larger, more adroit than she has remembered him. Since it is only Olympia’s second time in a motorcar (though she does not tell Tucker this), she is more than a little tremulous when they begin to move faster than seems prudent along the winding narrow lane that abuts the seawall and the summer cottages of Fortune’s Rocks.
“You must be one of the few people still in residence on the beach,” he says.
“I think I may be.”
“You do not mind being so isolated?” he asks.
“No,” she says. “In fact, I am rather afraid I am enjoying it.”
At the hotel, a valet takes the car from Tucker, who touches Olympia’s elbow gently as he guides her up the long set of stairs. Although she has prepared herself, she hesitates a bit when they enter the lobby, a misstep she tries to hide with conversation.
“What brings you to the Highland so late in the season?” she asks Tucker.
“I have business in Fortune’s Rocks both today and tomorrow,” he answers, moving her firmly through the lobby, “and it seemed pointless to make the journey back and forth to Exeter, which is where I live. And besides, it has given me an excellent opportunity to see you again.”
He leads her into the dining room, which seems not to have changed at all. There are, she notes, only a few diners on this Tuesday in October. Olympia and Tucker are led to a table with white candles and late-summer roses, and as she sits, she takes in the sparkling goblets, the silver champagne buckets, the heavy cutlery, the massive crystal chandelier at the dining room’s center, and then the menu (haricot mutton, turkey with oyster sauce, mock turtle soup, apple brown Betty), reflecting that it has been four years since she was last in society. And she further reflects how very much, when she was, she took for granted its luxury, its furnishings, its food, its accoutrements, as if they were her birthright, her due, with hardly a thought — barely even an imagining — of those who would never have such luxury offered to them. Perhaps obliviousness is necessary, she thinks, to enjoy, or even to bear, this excess.
“The hotel will be open only a week longer,” says Tucker.
“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 1870s 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.”