Most Pure Heart

by Rebecca G

A story inspired by a Winterfest Online 2023 Daily Drabble Challenge

The prompts: Brigit, a piece of jewelry, a bookstore in Manhattan

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She autographed the last copy and handed it to Mr. Cohen. “Someone will pick it up,” she said in her lovely Irish lilt.

“Thank you, Mrs. O’Donnell. The reading was wonderful. We hope you’ll visit us here at the Argosy again. And –” he shook her hand warmly, “I hope your visit this week will be a bit less –”

“Less dramatic than last time? I hope so too,” she sighed. “I have an old auntie here in New York, and I plan to visit her.” She laughed. “A nun, no less. So I can’t possibly get into any trouble this time.”

The Franciscan Handmaids of the Most Pure Heart of Mary were only a few blocks north of Central Park, in Harlem – an hour’s walk. She set out, the bright bustle of 5th Ave rushing by on her right, and memories rustling the leaves of the trees on her left.

Sister Clare was 80 but spry, and her hug was warm.

“Dia dhuit, Sister.”

“Dia is Muire dhaoibh, niece,” Sister Clare said brightly, and then whispered, “It’s good you are here, Bridget. We need your help.”

In the quiet chapel, Sister Clare introduced her niece to Mother Mary Michael, a tall, elegant black woman who was loved and revered from the Harlem River to Morningside. Bridget kissed her hand; she cupped her ebony fingers over Bridget’s, and passed her something. A rosary?

Bridget opened her hands and gasped. No, it was an earring, huge, elaborate, with tiny seed pearls dripping from a golden crescent.

“What’s this then?”

“It was a gift,” said Mother Mary Michael softly. “A donation, made anonymously.”

“It looks old,” Bridget whispered. “From… India, do you think?”

“Indeed,” Sister Clare frowned. “Bridget, it’s not just this one piece, there’s more. A good deal more.”

“What will you do with it?”

Mother Mary Michael shrugged. “What can we? We can’t even explain how we got it, much less use it.”

“But if you sold it, to a museum even, surely the money would do a great deal of good.”

“Indeed, it would,” Sister Clare interjected. “But how would we even go about finding the value of such things? Bridget, my love, that’s why we need your help.”

New York was known as a place for pirates to freely unload loot; local officials exchanged privateering commissions for shares of the booty. New York’s most famous privateer, Captain Kidd, was betrayed by the Governor, hunted down and executed. But not before he’d hidden an immense treasure hoard stolen from the Mughal Empire in India.

Sarah Kidd remarried, keeping a lovely estate – possibly on Pearl St, at the south end of Manhattan, or 75th, by the river…

Bridget spent the week quietly consulting antiques dealers. Foolishly, perhaps, she carried the earring always with her, in her purse. She would hold it, when no-one was near. The weight of it – she could close her eyes and see the many miles this small thing had traveled, the blood that had been spilled for it… They just needed a contact for a buyer who wouldn’t ask too many questions, but not so shady as to make the Handmaids of the Most Pure Heart of Mary uncomfortable.

Bridget shook her head in dismay; it seemed impossible. To have such a treasure, such a resource, when so many needed the help the sisters could offer, and not be able to employ it – it was maddening. And even more maddening – where had this gift come from? She had the distinct feeling that Mother Mary Michael knew, but would not say