“Please take good care of her,” I said as Sister Agatha escorted Cora out of the room. The nun glanced at me over her shoulder disdainfully, and I felt my stomach sink. Cora was in for a rough time.
Cora turned to us from the doorway. “Thank you so much, sirs. I hope to one day repay your kindness.” She gazed straight at me and smiled sweetly.
I nodded, and she gave me an almost imperceptible wink.
“Sister Agatha will take great care of her,” Sister Benedict said haughtily.
“Of course,” Damon said soothingly. “My brother sometimes takes the concept of turning the other cheek and being kind to the needy a bit too far. But there are worse vices. To set his mind at ease, and for our own consideration as we allocate funds for the Magdalene Asylum, may we have a tour? We always like to feel invested in the causes we support, and we’d like to make sure young Cordelia is in the place most appropriate to her needs.”
I had to hand it to Damon: When it came to getting his way, he was good.
Sister Benedict rose from her chair. “It’s normally against policy to allow gentlemen inside. But considering your generosity, as well as your clear commitment to the poor, lost girls of Whitechapel, I suppose I could show you around. But I do have to warn you. The girls are not fully rehabilitated, and seeing a member of the opposite sex sometimes overexcites them.”
“Thank you for letting us know,” Damon said seriously. “We’ll be careful.”
“Just don’t be alarmed. Follow me,” she directed. “Sister Agatha will take Cordelia on her own tour and get her settled. I’m certain you’ll feel it’s the right place for her,” Sister Benedict said as she swept out the door, hardly looking back to see if we were following as she led us deeper into the Asylum.
The more steps we took into the basement, the hotter it became. Damon had been wrong. The tunnel wasn’t the closest we could get to hell—the basement of the Magdalene Asylum was.
At the end of the staircase was a single wooden door. Sister Benedict, seemingly unaffected by the temperature, twisted the knob and instantly, I realized why it was so hot. Vast metal tubs full of scalding water crowded the room, each one lined with girls in gray smocks, their sleeves rolled up as they washed pile after pile of soiled linen.
“This is our laundry room, where the girls work. They clean the linens from the Magdalene Sisters of Charity hospital. We find that physical labor prevents idle thoughts. And since idle thoughts lead to evil deeds, they are literally scrubbing their minds clean of sin,” she explained proudly, gesturing to the rows of girls bent over scrub boards. Their faces were bright red and shiny with sweat, and none of them acknowledged one another, nor the fact that we were watching and talking about them as though they were animals in a zoo.
Just then, Sister Benedict turned and directed her gaze toward a small, dark-haired girl in the corner. The girl’s shoulder blades stuck out from beneath her gray cotton smock like wings.
“Daphne,” she barked. The girl turned toward us, blinking in fear. “Idle hands are the devil’s tools.”
I suddenly regretted our decision to bring Cora here. When she had first told us about the Magdalene Asylum, I’d imagined it to be similar to the rooming houses above the Ten Bells: full of girls who’d fallen on hard times, but who had a roof over their heads and friends to commiserate with. I wasn’t expecting it to be some sort of workhouse. Even the tunnel seemed better than this. I wondered if it was too late to free Cora; I didn’t want her to have to endure even a day of this torment.
“I’m sorry, Sister!” the girl said as she went back to rubbing a sheet against the board.
“May we see the rest of the facility?” I asked, wanting to spare the girl another moment of Sister Benedict’s presence.
“See the rest of the facility?” Sister Benedict repeated, her glasses sliding down her nose. “Well, it wouldn’t be appropriate to allow gentlemen into the living quarters, where the girls change and sleep. We do want to protect our charges.”
I was tempted to argue, but didn’t. Instead, I stared into her watery eyes, concentrating on a single white speck embedded in her left iris. In a young woman, the mark would have been fascinatingly beautiful, but on Sister Benedict it looked sinister.
“I understand that,” I said slowly. “But it’s nowhere near nightfall. We simply want to see whether we should add an additional donation for the improvement of the facilities.”
Sister Benedict’s eyes lit up greedily. “Oh! Well, in that case, I’m sure we can make an exception,” she said. “All right. But only briefly,” she allowed as she turned on her heel, her long robe sweeping the path we were to follow.
As we walked up the stairs, I heard a far-off shriek. It was a heartwrenching cry, but Sister Benedict didn’t seem the least bit perturbed.
“Did you hear that?” I asked Damon softly, but Damon only shrugged.
“How many girls are here?” I asked.
“We usually have fifty or so at a time. And of course, our hope is that they will all be rehabilitated. But some…” Sister Benedict shook her head. “Some are too far gone by the time they get to us. Imagine a pigeon getting stuck on a slick of tar. If you got it out right away, brushed off its feathers, and cleaned its feet, it’d be right as rain. But wait too long, and it’s stuck. Ruined. We hope to get the girls before that point. And of course, before anything else gets them,” she added.
“Such as Jack the Ripper?” I asked.