The Island of Doves Read Free Page B

stood now on the opposite side of the street and watched Susannah, her hands clasped in front of her as if she were waiting. Two carriages shuddered by, then a wagon piled high with onions, translucent skins fluttering in the air as it passed. Finally the woman strode across the street to her.
    “Good afternoon,” Susannah said. “Is it more than a coincidence that I seem to see you everywhere I go?”
    “Mrs. Fraser,” the woman said, her voice low. “Let us walk together for a bit.”
    She moved to touch Susannah’s elbow, but Susannah moved it out of the path of her hand. “Who
are
you?”
    “My name is Sister Mary Genevieve.”
    Susannah glanced at the simple woolen gown and white apron, the plain black bonnet tied beneath her chin. “You are . . . a Roman sister?”
    The woman nodded. She seemed to be in her midforties and she had the long black lashes of a doe.
    “I never knew there was a convent in Buffalo,” Susannah said.
    The sister nodded. “There is not, but I have been assigned at the rectory at the Lamb of God Church to assist Father Adler.” Susannah knew of the church—there was only one Catholic church in Buffalo, but one was more than enough, according to most people of her class.
    People were stepping around them, each man tipping his hat, each woman bowing her head, all of them saying, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fraser,” then glancing curiously at the nun. Susannah could only imagine the explanations they were inventing, the rumors they might whisper about Susannah Fraser consorting with a Catholic woman in the street. The only thing Edward despised more than Papists was gossip, and what a woman might do to incite it.
    “I see,” Susannah said. She had walked past the church before, though she didn’t know Father Adler or anyone associated with it. It was tucked away in the woods, little more than an old barn with a few colored-glass windows and a painted sign. “But what does that have to do with me?”
    “I wanted only to make your acquaintance. Your hired girl, Marjorie, has often spoken of you.” The nun held Susannah’s gaze for a long moment. “And of your husband.”
    Susannah blinked at the nun, and the road seemed to lurch like a boat in a storm.
Oh, Marjorie
, Susannah thought.
What have you done?
If the girl had revealed anything about Edward, Susannah would pay the price.
    “I have to go,” Susannah said, still aware of the eyes of strangers.
    Sister Mary Genevieve nodded. “Perhaps we will have the chance to meet again. If ever you find yourself in need of help, I hope you will remember me. My door is open to you.”
    Susannah turned away without responding, hurrying down the road toward Hawkshill. Marjorie had each Saturday night off to spend with her husband in Black Rock, so for the few hours until Edward returned home, Susannah would be alone in the house. As she walked she tried to shake off the strange encounter and convince her rattled nerves that it would come to nothing. She decided to spend her evening doing the one thing that brought her peace: working in the greenhouse with her plants.
    The greenhouse Edward had built for Susannah was to her both a heaven and a hell, a prison and an escape. At times she hated its stifling, fetid air and the clang of the steam in the pipes that kept it warm throughout the long winter. It was a mere
simulation
of the natural world, with the wildness edited out. For Edward it was a symbol of their wealth, a place for Susannah to host tea parties with the wives of prominent men. He had given her orchids and cloying overblown lilies to tend because that was what a greenhouse was for: coaxing up temperamental plants designed for warmer climes, proving with each stretching stem, verdant tendril, and lush unfurling petal that nature was a pawn in man’s ongoing game of dominance, that it could be tricked, cajoled, and compelled to bloom and flourish at the place and time of his choosing. A greenhouse was mind over matter, order