by Lynn Austin
They traveled for about an hour before Rebecca found Kate riding alongside her and she decided to chat with the girl. “May I ask you something, Kate? You mentioned this morning that you wished you still worked in the shirtwaist factory instead of for Flora and me. I know firsthand how horrific the working conditions are in those places, so I wondered, are you truly that unhappy with us? Because if so, I want to apologize for dragging you along. Flora and I tried to prepare you for what you might face out here, and I thought we made it very clear that you were free to stay home in Chicago, if you wished. We wanted it to be your choice whether or not you came with us.”
“I know, I know. It’s my own fault for saying yes,” she grudgingly replied.
“May I ask what made you decide to come?”
“I figured it couldn’t be any worse than staying in the city, living on the streets.” She gave a short laugh. “Shows how wrong I was! I didn’t guess it would be like this.” She gestured to the endless hills, barren and brown and as wrinkled as an old potato.
“I’m sorry, Kate. I’m sure you’ve already been through a great deal in your life. Flora and I never intended to add more hardship to it.”
“I got no complaints with you and Miss Flora. . . . I can’t say the same about Petersen, though.”
“He’s just doing his job.”
She gave a sigh, as enormous as the cloudless sky. “It’s just that . . . I don’t know. . . . Never mind . . .”
“Talk to me, Kate. You can tell me anything you want. We have all day.”
It took the girl a long time to reply, and when she did, her voice sounded tiny and subdued, not at all like the brash Kate Rafferty that Rebecca knew. “I feel so lost out here. And every step of the way, as we get farther and farther from home, I feel even more lost. Everything’s so . . . different! I can take care of myself just fine back in Chicago. I don’t need nobody else. But out here I feel . . . small.”
“We do need each other out here, don’t we? We especially need Mr. Farouk and the Bedouin.”
“Well, I don’t like it. I don’t like depending on nobody but myself. How do we know we can trust them? And the sheikh keeps staring at me.”
Rebecca couldn’t imagine what Kate had suffered in her short life to so thoroughly destroy her trust in people, making her unwilling to depend on anyone but herself. “Mr. Farouk was recommended to us by the Archbishop of Cairo,” Rebecca replied. “He comes with the highest credentials. But you’re right, we really don’t know if we can trust any of these men. Yet we serve a God who is completely trustworthy, and Flora and I believe He is leading us on this expedition. We’re His servants, just as you and Petersen are ours. We’re obeying orders, just like you do.”
Kate didn’t reply. Rebecca glanced over and saw her hunched on the swaying animal with her chin lowered. Her straw hat was swathed in gauzy linen to protect her from the sun, so Rebecca couldn’t see her face. She wondered if Kate was crying. For as long as Rebecca had known her, Kate Rafferty had never cried. The poor child was as out of place here as the swarthy Bedouin would be on the streets of Chicago. “Are you okay?” Rebecca asked.
“Yeah,” she sniffed. “I just don’t like feeling small.”
“I understand. . . . But just think what you would have missed if you had stayed behind. You never would have seen the vastness of the ocean, or tasted the salty air, or experienced the mighty power of the waves. You wouldn’t have met people from other countries and cultures, sampled their food, and discovered how wonderfully different we all are. You never would have seen mountains or palm trees or crocodiles on the Nile River . . . or ridden on a camel. You can bring all of those memories home with you and keep them for as long as you live. You might lose all your possessions, as Flora and I once did, but no one can ever take your memories away from you.”
“That goes for the bad ones, too, though.”
Her response jolted Rebecca. Such a negative outlook for someone so young. “Maybe by the time we return home,” she said gently, “all your bad memories will have been buried beneath a pile of new ones.”
“If we ever do make it home again,” Kate mumbled.
Rebecca started to reply, then let it go. Flora had advised her not to try to change Kate or Petersen but to let the Almighty do His work. With a long day ahead of her, Rebecca decided to dig deep into her storehouse of memories again, traveling backward through time as she had during the night, to relive some of her many experiences—the good ones and the bad.
Chapter 7
CHICAGO
1862
TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS AGO
The War Between the States raged on with no end in sight as Rebecca turned seventeen. She and her sister were now firmly entrapped in Mrs. Worthington’s webs of etiquette and propriety and social obligation. They attended dinner parties and dances with young men and women who looked at Rebecca strangely whenever she tried to talk about topics that interested her. The world she was being stuffed inside of felt much too small.
Everything around her was changing. The widow also hired decorators who turned their peaceful home from a place of quiet study and rest into a house of bedlam with workmen renovating rooms, moving furniture, and installing draperies. Even the servants had been forced to learn how to bow and curtsy and greet guests properly. Griffin, their butler, looked uncomfortable answering the door in formalwear. Mrs. Griffin, their housekeeper, always seemed to have her white cap askew and stains on her new ruffled white apron. Rebecca hoped she was doing it on purpose. Their driver, Rufus, looked like a cartoon character in his polished boots and fancy livery. They surely must want their old life back as badly as Rebecca did.
At times, she thought her life couldn’t possibly become more dreary or meaningless. She was stuck in a boring school, mired in a lifestyle she hated, and unable to pursue her dream of traveling to exotic places. Worst of all, her sister and best friend, Flora, was becoming just like the empty-headed girls they used to disdain. Rebecca knew she needed to take action. It was time to plan another adventure.
She found her sister lounging on the settee in their newly renovated sitting room, paging through one of the widow’s magazines. Beyond the French doors, which were also new, their exercise bars stood idle in the bright summer sunshine, beckoning to Rebecca. “Are you going to read ridiculous fashion magazines all day?” Rebecca asked. “We have more than enough dresses, Flora.”
“I know. But I like looking at the new ones.”
Rebecca reached down and closed the magazine. “Let’s do something fun together. Why don’t we put on our bloomers and get some exercise outside? We could practice speaking Greek to each other at the same time.”
“It’s too hot outside. And we already know enough Greek. Besides, we can’t travel to Greece until the war ends, and who knows when that will be.”
Rebecca’s frustration with her narrowly constricted life had simmered for months. Now it boiled over. “I need to go on a marvelous trip right now!” she shouted. “Today!”
“But, Becky, we can’t—”
“Don’t tell me we can’t! We used to have so much fun exploring together, remember? Now Mrs. Worthington has taken over our lives and you’re no fun at all anymore.” She started to leave, but Flora called to her.
“Wait! Don’t be mad, Becky. . . . What would you like to do today—besides exercise?”
Rebecca remembered something their Greek teacher had told them and an idea started forming in her mind. “Let’s explore parts of the city we’ve never seen before—like the section of Chicago where the Greek sailors and their families live. It will be almost like visiting Greece, and we can practice listening to them talking.”
Flora wrinkled her dainty nose. “Oh, dear . . . foreign sailors?”
Her reaction made Rebecca all the more determined to rescue her sister from frivolous boredom. “Why not? Mr. Vasilakis told us where the sailors’ boardinghouses are, remember?”
Flora seemed to sink deeper into the sofa cushi
ons as if taking root there. “I don’t know . . . is it safe to wander around Chicago by ourselves? Shouldn’t we have a chaperone? I don’t think it’s proper to—”
“For heaven’s sake, Flora! If we want to have a marvelous adventure, we can’t worry about propriety! Let’s have some fun for once! Let’s learn about new things, explore new places, meet exotic people.” She grabbed Flora’s hand and yanked as if trying to uproot an oak tree, determined to rescue her. “Come with me. Please?”
“But Mrs. Worthington is coming later this afternoon to—”
“I don’t care! I’ve had enough of her. For nearly two years I’ve done every boring thing she wanted me to do, and everything you insisted that I do, for Father’s sake. Now I want to do something different, something . . . thrilling!”
“But our reputations—”
“Bah!” Rebecca dropped Flora’s hand and moved toward the door. “I’m going exploring, with or without you.”
“Becky, wait!”
Rebecca halted and turned back, watching Flora squirm to extricate herself from the sofa’s plump grip. Her corset and voluminous skirts barely allowed her to breathe, much less move freely. Flora’s struggles were a fitting metaphor for the hold that her indolent life was having on her. “Are you coming with me?”
“You need to think this through and—”
“I’ll see you later.” Rebecca raced up to her bedroom in a very unladylike way, taking the steps two at a time. She and Flora slept in separate bedrooms now, after Mrs. Worthington convinced Flora to move into one of her own so she would have room for her wardrobes full of gowns and accessories. It was another sign of the growing distance between Rebecca and her sister, and she hated it.
When she reached her room, she shrugged off the ridiculous wrapper the widow insisted she wear around the house and dug in the wardrobe for the dress she’d worn to France two years ago. She hoped it still fit. She laid it on the bed, then searched for her sturdy leather shoes, remembering the miles of wear they’d endured as she’d wandered through London’s fascinating museums and strolled the charming streets of Paris and climbed the hills of Rome. She swallowed a lump in her throat. Would she ever be able to travel and explore the world again?
The dress was a little tight and two inches too short, but she could still wiggle into it. She couldn’t walk far in the shoes, but they would do for now. In spite of her snug clothing, Rebecca felt comfortably dressed for the first time since the widow had invaded her life. She turned toward her bedroom door and saw Flora watching her with a mixture of anxiety and jealousy. “Are you coming with me or not?” Rebecca asked her.
“I . . . I . . .”
“Because if you are, you’ll need to change your clothes and put on real shoes.”
“Oh, Becky. I don’t know what to say. . . .”
“We used to be partners in all our exploits until the widow squashed you into her tight corsets and tied you up with her rules of etiquette. Remember how much fun we had when we explored Paris together? We never would have visited the Garden of Tuileries on a gorgeous summer day or seen the Egyptian obelisk if the widow had been around.” Flora stared at her without speaking, and Rebecca sensed how torn she was. She pushed past her dithering sister into the hallway. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”
“Wait! You aren’t going to walk around the city by yourself, are you?”
“I won’t be walking. I think I’ll take public transportation. It’ll be a new experience.” She reached the end of the hallway and started down the stairs.
“Wait! . . . I-I’ll go with you if . . . if you let Rufus drive us. And if we just explore a new part of the city instead of trying to talk to Greek sailors. . . . And if we’re back before Mrs. Worthington comes . . .”
“Excellent!” Rebecca said before Flora could add any more ifs. “I’ll tell Rufus to prepare the carriage while you change your clothes. . . . And no hoop skirts, Flora.”
Rebecca began formulating a plan as she stood in the carriage house waiting for Rufus to hitch up their horse. The real Flora still lay buried somewhere inside, even though the widow had nearly suffocated her beneath mounds of fancy gowns and social expectations. Rebecca needed to unearth her—the Flora who used to carry a pocketful of change wherever she went so she could give alms to the poor. The sister who’d longed to find God’s purpose for her life more than she longed for a full dance card or a successful husband. “Do you know which section of the city has the most Irish immigrants?” she asked their driver.
“Yes . . . but you don’t want to go there, Miss Rebecca.”
“That’s exactly where I want to go, Rufus. And please don’t change into your fancy driving jacket and trousers.”
“But Missus Worthington says—”
“She isn’t here, Rufus. Let’s just drive around like we used to do in the old days.”
He gave her a wide grin. “Yes, Miss Rebecca.”
Flora emerged twenty minutes later looking uncomfortable in her plain, well-worn skirt and shirtwaist. The seams in the bodice looked as though they were about to burst, but at least Flora hadn’t grown any taller during the past two years so her ankles weren’t showing. She was carrying her reticule, which meant she probably had some money with her—although she probably had her smelling salts with her, too. Dainty young ladies were instructed to carry them everywhere.
Rebecca felt lighter—freer—as they rode away from the lake and their wealthy neighborhood. “You know, Flora, exploring Chicago might be nearly as much fun as exploring a foreign country. I should have thought of it sooner.” She and Flora were together again, sisters and partners in their sensible skirts and unfashionable shoes, having an adventure.
The jumbled buildings crowded closer together once they bypassed the city center. The streets deteriorated into unpaved lanes. Rebecca held her breath to keep from gagging as the odors of overflowing outhouses and uncollected garbage intensified. She nearly vomited as they passed a dead horse rotting in the street. Flora pulled a lace handkerchief from her reticule and held it over her nose. Eventually, the narrow lanes became so crowded with people and activity that the carriage could go no farther. “Let us out right here, Rufus. We’d like to walk.”
“This is no place for you, Miss Rebecca. Your father wouldn’t like this.”
“We’re only going to walk down to the end of this street and back again. You can watch us from here. We’ll be fine.” She scrambled out as she spoke, pulling her sister behind her.
Flora stammered, “Um . . . I don’t think we should . . .”
“Flora. The Lord knows when the end of our days will be. We don’t need to be afraid.”
“Yes, but I don’t think the Good Lord would like us to put ourselves in danger on purpose.”
“Look around you, Flora. This is a neighborhood, even though it’s a very poor one. These homes are where families live and children play. It’s very different from our neighborhood, but I don’t see any danger here.” She tugged her sister along as she spoke, gesturing to the rickety tenements webbed with strings of flapping laundry. They passed a pen with live sheep and pigs in front of a meat market. Bloody carcasses and un-plucked chickens hung from hooks in the window. The smell nearly overpowered both of them. They hurried on and came to a group of ragged children playing in a mud puddle beneath the community’s water spigot while their older siblings lined up to fill pails and cooking pots.
“See? They’re just like us, Flora—only poor.”
They passed a little girl about four years old, struggling to care for an infant and a toddler, both with bare bottoms. “Oh, look at all these little ones!” Flora said, her soft heart already touched. “It’s so sad that this is the only place they have to play!” The children watched them curiously as they passed, as if she and Flora were animals escaped from a zoological garden. They came to a battered, wooden street cart piled with fruit, and the old man pushing it looked up with hope in his rheumy eyes. “How much are your apples?�
� Flora asked. She purchased as many as she and Rebecca could hold, then returned to where the children were playing. “My name is Flora,” she said, offering an apple to one of the little girls. “What’s yours?”
“Maggie.” She accepted the offered fruit as if it were made of glass. More children quickly gathered around, emerging from narrow alleyways and front stoops, giggling as they told Flora their names. They stared at the apples in wonder, savoring the smell and the feel of them before allowing themselves to take a bite. The little girl named Maggie put the apple in her pocket.
“Don’t you want to eat it?” Rebecca asked.
She nodded shyly then said, “But I’ll share it with Mama and my little brothers.”
“Which school do you go to?” Flora asked. Maggie shrugged.
“We don’t go to school,” an older girl said.
“Why not?”
“We watch the babies while our mamas work.” She sounded proud.
“Are your fathers away at war?”
Most of the children nodded, but one boy said, “Mine works in the leather factory.” He pointed to a grim brick building with smudged windows half a block away.
“My sister used to go to school,” another child said, “but now she works there, too.”
Flora looked at Rebecca, clearly distressed. “Isn’t there anything we can do to help these children? They need to learn to read and write if they’re going to have a better life than this.”