An Awakened Heart An Awakened Heart

by Jody Hedlund

  A woman with a coiled blond braid glanced up at her from her hard-backed chair near the window. Christine was immediately impressed by the beautiful face with fresh, natural features, as if the young woman belonged among the meadows and valleys of the Alps rather than sitting in a dimly lit room, slaving over garments for twelve hours a day, six days a week. Her eyes were a pretty shade of blue that hinted at violet.

  Within them, Christine caught a glimpse of vulnerability and heartbreaking sadness. It was only then that she noticed the young woman was wearing all black. Mourning clothes. The plainer brown-haired girl sitting next to her was also donned in black. Something in the similar willowy build of their frames and the same elegant shape of their noses told Christine they were sisters. And she surmised that they’d recently lost someone they loved.

  While Christine couldn’t relate to their sadness, she could relate to their loss. With determination she directed her steps toward them. As she stopped next to them, both girls focused on the vests in their laps. Each of their stitches was even and perfect.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Christine said gently.

  The younger of the two sisters looked up again, this time with glassy tear-filled eyes. Her bottom lip wobbled, but she pressed her lips together without saying anything. The older girl continued to work as though Christine hadn’t spoken.

  “As you can see, I lost someone recently too.” Christine laid a gloved hand on her skirt to indicate that she was wearing mourning clothes.

  Again the younger girl looked up, her brown eyes such puddles of sorrow that Christine wanted to bend down and draw her into an embrace. “Who did you lose?” the girl asked.

  “My mother.”

  “We did too. She died just last week.”

  Christine crouched before the girls, glad that she hadn’t worn her cumbersome hoops. Even though her position was entirely unladylike, she felt as though she must lower herself to their level to be able to genuinely offer the comfort that it was clear they needed.

  “I can see you miss her terribly.”

  The girl nodded, and a tear slipped out and dropped onto the vest in her lap, forming a dark spot in the material.

  “Marianne,” chastised the older girl. “Keep working before Uncle sees you.”

  Christine glanced at the bulbous-nosed man who’d answered the door and was now talking with Reverend Bedell. The reverend was in the middle of one of his mini-sermons on the evils of alcohol, likely having caught the whiff of beer on the man’s breath.

  “Is your uncle the supervisor?”

  “Not usually,” the older girl responded curtly. “Only when Mr. Schmidt has gone to return a load of vests and pick up more work.”

  “So this isn’t your home?”

  “No, we board across the hall with Uncle.”

  “And your father, what does he do for a living? Does he work here too?”

  Another tear dripped from Marianne’s chin. “No, Vater died several years ago. And Mutti had no choice but to move in with Uncle.”

  “And now she’s gone too.” Christine understood then the depth of their grief. They’d lost both of their parents. At least they had each other. Christine had no one, no siblings, and certainly no relatives who cared about her except what they might gain from the wealth she’d inherited. “Then we are alike in more than one way, because I too have lost both my father and mother.”

  “Elise,” Mr. Jung said sharply with a strong German accent, “I’ll hold you responsible if your sister’s work is sloppy.”

  The older girl nodded at her uncle and then slid Christine a look that told her to move on before she became the cause of more trouble.

  Christine straightened and took a step back. Somehow the conversation felt unfinished, but she didn’t know if she should venture to speak again since the older girl—Elise—had dismissed her. Christine’s fingers fluttered to her throat, to the cameo pin. She grazed the outline of a woman’s face framed by a finely detailed gold-filigree frame.

  “If you ever find yourself in need of a friend,” Christine said before moving on, “please come see me at the Centre Street Chapel.” She didn’t know what she’d be able to do to help them. She hadn’t been able to help any of the other women who’d attended the services. Even so, she wouldn’t retract her offer.

  “Thank you,” Marianne said, her hand growing idle, her needle only half through the seam.

  “Ask for Miss Pendleton.”

  Marianne nodded, but then was elbowed by Elise, who grumbled something in German under her breath.

  “Actually, I would love to see you any time,” Christine offered. “Whether you need a friend or not, don’t hesitate to visit me there at the chapel.”

  Long after she’d left Kleindeutschland, and long after she said good-bye to the reverend, Christine’s thoughts kept returning to the two beautiful girls in mourning. As her brougham rolled to a stop along West Twenty-eighth Street, she peered out the window at her four-story home of red brick and white limestone trim, with its elaborate towers, spires, and mansard roofs. The dwelling had at least thirty rooms, not including the kitchen, larder, and other utility rooms in the basement.

  How could she ever again enter this mansion and live alone in its many spacious, well-furnished rooms when a tenement building was smaller but housed dozens of families and their boarders amidst unsanitary conditions, which magnified the dangers of fire and disease?

  The carriage door swung open, and Ridley’s distinguished face appeared. “Shall I have one of the servants draw up water for a bath?”

  She didn’t budge from the plush velvet cushion. “Ridley, I’m completely at a loss for what to do for those people.”

  Ridley doffed his tall black coachman’s hat, revealing a head of white hair that matched his shaggy eyebrows. He flattened the waves with his palm and regarded her with the seriousness she’d always appreciated about him.

  “I need to do something more than offer those poor people platitudes. What good are kind words when they’re sweltering under hardship and oppression?”

  “I take it then that Reverend Bedell couldn’t be persuaded to consider any type of charity at the chapel?” She’d discussed her frustrations with Ridley last week. She was grateful he never failed to stop what he was doing to give her his undivided attention.

  “The reverend is of the mind that simply handing out charity to people will do more harm than good.” Weary, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, wishing she could as easily close her mind’s eye to the horrible sights she’d witnessed during the visiting. “I understand his position. Really I do. But surely there must be something we can accomplish besides handing out tracts and then waiting for a miracle.”

  “Maybe instead of waiting for the miracle, you need to be the miracle.” Ridley’s confidence and faith in her was unswerving.

  “Be a miracle?”

  “Sometimes God calls us to wait for Him to act. And then other times He calls us to act.”

  “But that’s the problem. I don’t know what to do.”

  “You have a fortune, Christine.” Ridley was not only her coachman and friend, but he’d also been her father’s financial advisor for many years. After Ridley had retired from the bank, he asked Mother to hire him to help in any role she needed. Since he had no family of his own, he’d wanted to stay busy. In hindsight, Christine realized now he’d taken a job as their hired help so that he could remain close to her. Although he never said it, Christine knew he loved her like a daughter. He was more of a father to her than her own had ever been.

  “Your father had many stipulations on the trust,” he continued. “But I think I can find a way to pull some of it out for you to use.”

  “Then you think I should give the poor my money?”

  “Not directly. I agree with Guy Bedell on that. They don’t need a handout. They need good, honest work with fair wages and decent working conditions.”

  “Fair wages. Decent working conditions.” Ridl
ey’s words rolled around her mind like carriage wheels bumping over cobblestone. She’d been grasping for a solution that jostled out of reach.

  “Your father was an investor in D. and J. Devlin,” Ridley said. “In fact, he was a personal friend to Mr. Devlin and loaned him money when his business nearly went bankrupt in ’49. Now Devlin has one of the biggest businesses in the Second Ward.”

  D. and J. Devlin was a clothing manufacturer similar to Brooks Brothers. But what did that have to do with her?

  Ridley’s eyes sparked with a keenness that showed his mind was still as sharp now as it had been in the days when he was a sought-after investor. “I’m sure Mr. Devlin would have a very hard time saying no to Ambrose Pendleton’s daughter.”

  Her thoughts bumped irregularly for another moment. Then the clattering ceased. She stared at Ridley and smiled. “I think I’m finally catching on.”

  Ridley returned the smile, his clean-shaven face still suave and sophisticated, the same as when he’d been a younger man. “You’re a strong and intelligent woman, Christine. Much more than you allow.”

  She reached for his hand, and he clasped hers in return. “Thank you for always believing in me.”

  “I could do nothing less.” He squeezed her fingers, and from the sorrow that flashed in his eyes, she knew he was remembering the harsh words her father had spoken to her over the years. His words had been a bludgeon, berating her for being a daughter instead of the son he’d coveted. Her father hadn’t hidden his disappointment from anyone. In fact, quite the opposite. He’d been openly disdainful, making it clear to everyone that he wished Christine had never been born.

  She could only thank God that He’d been gracious enough to bring Ridley into her life. The dear man had somehow looked past her stiff and severe façade into her aching little heart to see how rejected and unloved she truly was. He’d whispered words of encouragement that had brought healing to her soul. And he’d never stopped. Even now, though he surely had his own small fortune, he continued to wait on her every need.

  “I’ll outline the plan,” she said. “And then shall we discuss it more at dinner?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” He helped her from the carriage and accompanied her up the brick walkway to the portico. “Just promise me you won’t neglect Reverend Bedell in your plans.”

  “I don’t think this venture will be to his liking.” Even if the reverend had been kind to her again today, their philosophies about how to spend their time and resources clearly diverged.

  The May sunshine lent Ridley’s black hat a glossiness and warmed it enough to bring out a mustiness of the beaver pelt of which it was made. He opened the ornately carved mahogany door and held it wide, revealing the front hallway with its enormous chandelier glistening with dangling crystal jewels. It hung from the high ceiling above a wide, spiraling marble staircase.

  “Besides,” Christine said, pausing in the doorway, “if you help me, I won’t have to worry about the reverend’s assistance.”

  “I’ll help you in any way I can. You know that.”

  She nodded.

  “But,” Ridley added, “we don’t have the connections among the immigrants and the years of experience that Reverend Bedell has.”

  Everywhere they’d gone today, people had received the reverend with open arms. He clearly had developed trust within the immigrant community. “You’re right, Ridley. I’ll have to figure out a way to gain his cooperation.”

  “From what I could see, he already wants to cooperate with you.”

  Her ready response stalled. She wasn’t sure if she’d heard Ridley correctly, but at the ensuing sparkle in his eyes, she shook her head and stepped inside hoping her friend couldn’t see the flush that was surely creeping into her cheeks.

  “He’s a widower and completely devoted to his work. That’s all.” She tugged at the fingertips of her gloves.

  “I suppose that’s why he decided to have you accompany him rather than assigning you to another group?”

  She slipped off the glove heedless of the fact that two fingers were rolled in. She dropped it onto the silver tray that graced the pedestal table, then began to pluck at the other glove. “I’m sure he meant nothing by his actions.”

  Ridley was silent as she finished divesting her fingers of the tight leather and carefully began to remove her hatpins and drop them in the silver tray with a clink. She could feel him watching her, waiting. Finally, after she had her hat off and couldn’t avoid him any longer, she turned and met his gaze.

  “You are not giving yourself enough credit,” he said gently. “You’re a delightful young woman.”

  “I’m old and unappealing.”

  “Thirty isn’t old. And you’re very pretty.”

  “Of course you would say so.”

  “I may be ancient and slightly biased,” Ridley said with a return smile, “but my eyesight is still quite proficient. And I had no trouble seeing that Reverend Bedell had a hard time keeping his attention off of you.”

  Christine shook her head in disbelief. “Thank you for attempting to cheer me with your nonsense. But I’ve had many years to resign myself to my singleness and have no interest in entertaining thoughts of heartache.” As she crossed to the spiraling staircase, her footsteps clopped with finality against the polished white tile. She might need Reverend Bedell to carry out her plans, yet she didn’t need him beyond that. Most certainly not.

  Chapter 4

  Elise stroked Sophie’s long hair, letting her fingers linger in the strands that were finer than freshly ground flour.

  “And so when the orphans bit into the warm, chewy buns, they were surprised to find gold coins inside,” Marianne whispered from the other side of Sophie.

  In the dark, Sophie snuggled against Elise. It didn’t matter that the night air was heavy and sticky with moisture. Elise relished her sister’s slight frame against her.

  They’d spread a blanket on the parlor floor for their bed near the sofa, as they usually did. But they didn’t need a covering, not like in the bitter cold winter when their threadbare blankets did little to keep them warm from the drafts that whistled through the cracks around the window frames.

  On the sofa, the soft even breathing of Olivia and Nicholas told Elise the two infants had already been lulled to sleep by Marianne’s story.

  “And then the children returned to the baker and his wife?” Sophie asked, even though she’d heard Marianne’s story a dozen times and already knew the answer.

  “Yes, the children went back to thank the baker,” Marianne said. “And they told him they couldn’t take his gold coins unless he allowed them to work for him.”

  For just a brief moment, Elise could picture the three of them back in Hamburg in the big feather bed they’d shared in their dormer room, cuddled together under a thick down blanket with the scents of sourdough and pumpernickel wafting up through the floorboards to permeate even the uppermost level. She could imagine the security of knowing Vater was awake in the bake shop below, tending his loaves throughout the night so that they would be fresh and hot in the morning.

  “So he gave them a room above the bakery?” Sophie whispered.

  Marianne’s fingers joined Elise’s in combing Sophie’s hair. When they’d left the Fatherland, Sophie had been such a little girl. Now after living in New York these past seven years, she had learned English so completely that she no longer had even a trace of a German accent. Unlike Elise who hadn’t been ready to let go of their old life.

  Father had insisted that all his daughters attend the public school. Sophie and Marianne had benefitted the most. All Elise had been able to think about when she was sitting on the hard bench in the stuffy classroom full of immigrant children was how she missed working alongside Vater. She wanted nothing more than to bury her fingers in thick, sticky dough, kneading and twisting and shaping it into rolls, horns, and pretzels.

  “The baker and his kind wife made a room for the children, who never went hungry aga
in and who lived happily ever after.” Marianne’s story tapered to an almost inaudible whisper.

  Elise could feel Sophie’s body beginning to relax, her chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm.

  Outside their tenement in the hallway and stairwell came shouts, mostly in Plattdeutsch. The footfalls and banging of doors and arguing hardly ever stopped, except perhaps in the early morning for an hour or two. The noise, the odors, the lack of privacy, the shortage of fresh air—sometimes it was too much to bear. The chaos only added to the bitter acid already eating at Elise’s insides. This wasn’t the kind of life they were supposed to have.

  Someday, somehow, she’d find a way to make things better for all of them. She vowed it.

  At the rattle of the doorknob, Elise stiffened. A muffled curse was followed by bumping and thudding. The hour was too early for Uncle. He usually stayed at the beer halls until dawn. Then he came home and slept for most of the day, only joining them in the shop when Mr. Schmidt called for him.

  Elise silenced her breathing and noticed that Marianne had done the same. Thankfully, Sophie was already asleep. And thankfully Uncle’s sons weren’t there for him to fight with anymore.

  Uncle’s two boys, Alexander and Erick, had run away from home several months ago. The warmer temperatures of spring had lured them to the streets, away from their father who demanded their labor in the garment shop but took every penny they earned. Once Erick had decided to hold back some of the pay for his own use, and Uncle had beaten the boy until he wasn’t able to stand.

  After Erick’s wounds healed, he’d left and never returned. Elise didn’t expect to see the boys ever again. At twelve and fourteen, they were old enough to survive on the streets. There were plenty of other runaway and orphan children who lived on the streets year-round and managed to eke out a living.

  The door finally opened, and Uncle stumbled inside. Elise didn’t move and neither did Marianne. They’d learned it was better to pretend they were asleep. When Uncle was in one of his drunken states, there was no telling what he might do.