by Lynn Austin
“Petersen did so well tonight, didn’t he?” Flora said when she and Becky were in their tent undressing for bed. “I’m so proud of him for taking charge the way he did.”
“I hope he isn’t putting himself in danger,” Becky said.
“We need to pray for him.”
Kate had been uncharacteristically quiet as she had undressed and climbed onto her cot, wrapping the covers around herself like a cocoon. Flora longed to hold the girl close and reassure her that God was in control, but Kate would never accept such comfort. “We won’t let anything happen to you, Kate,” she said as she blew out the lamp. “I promise.” Or to Petersen either, she added to herself.
Flora stretched out on her camp cot and pulled the blanket up to her chin, remembering the day she first met Soren Petersen and his brother Gunnar. And with those memories came a caravan-load of regrets. . . .
Chapter 20
CHICAGO
1887
THREE YEARS AGO
The children’s laughter created a deep ache in Flora’s heart. She watched the Easter party that was well underway in the dining hall of the orphans’ home and wished she felt genuine contentment. She had founded the home nearly sixteen years ago after returning from her trip up the Nile with Becky, and it was a happy place, considering the tragedies that had brought the children here. She was proud of the work she and her board of directors had accomplished. Yet the yearning for her own child had never gone away.
The matron and her volunteers cut the special cake Flora had brought and set out bags of candy for the children. Becky entertained the children with a mixture of Bible stories and modified tales from The Arabian Nights as they gathered around her, seated on chairs and on the floor at her feet. Becky had a knack for dramatic storytelling, peppering her tales with details from their own travels. The children cheered whenever she walked through the orphanage’s doors on special occasions like this.
Outside, the green buds dotting the tree branches were a sure sign that new life was springing up in chilly Chicago. But inside, the orphanage seemed drab and cold to Flora no matter how hard she tried to keep the walls freshly painted, bright curtains on the windows, and fresh flowers on the dining tables. The institution looked gray and colorless to her, as barren as her empty womb.
She had returned home from her trip to Egypt with a renewed determination to help Chicago’s children, and after arranging an endowment and gathering a board of directors, Flora had created the Chicago Orphans’ Home. She envisioned it not only as a place where homeless orphans could find adoptive parents, but a safe place where families in distress could leave their children for a while, knowing they would be cared for until the family could be reunited. And her vision had succeeded. She’d lost track of the number of children who had found refuge here or new adoptive families. Yet Flora’s prayer for a child of her own remained unanswered. Yes, she had placed the matter in God’s hands—over and over again as she and Edmund consulted physicians and prayed together. But she knew in her heart that she resented God’s will because it contradicted her own.
The children sat spellbound as Becky told the Easter story, describing the women walking to the tomb, finding it empty, seeing Jesus. As Flora scanned the children’s faces she saw two new ones—a beautiful little boy about four years old sitting on the lap of a young man in his teens. They looked so much alike with their blond hair and fair skin that they had to be brothers. She noticed the tender way they held on to each other, their love and devotion apparent with every gesture. When Becky finished her story and the children lined up for cake, Flora asked the head matron, Mrs. Miller, about the newcomers.
“They came to us two weeks ago,” she replied. Mrs. Miller was a warm, plump woman who showed affection freely to these children who so desperately needed it. Even when she was firm with them, she always did so in a loving way. She lived at the orphanage with her husband, who was the handyman and groundkeeper. “Those boys were so dirty and ragged when they first arrived,” she continued, “we had no idea how blond and fair-skinned they were. Their names are Soren and Gunnar Petersen, so we assume they have a Scandinavian heritage.”
“They’re so thin. Are they eating well?”
“They are now. I made sure of that. But from the way they wolfed down their food, it seemed they hadn’t eaten a proper meal in a good, long while.”
Flora watched as the new boys waited in line for their cake and a bag of Easter candy. Instead of joining the other boys his age, the older brother stayed with the younger one, sitting close beside him and helping him with his cake. The little one seemed skittish. While the other four-year-olds ran around the dining hall, laughing and playing, he clung to his brother. Flora fought the urge to take the little one on her lap and bury her nose in his golden hair. “Do they always stick this close to each other?” she asked the matron.
“Always, and it’s a bit of a problem. We find Soren sleeping on the floor in Gunnar’s dormitory every morning. He’s supposed to sleep with the boys his own age, but he won’t stay there. He’s devoted to that child.”
“Then let them stay together, Mrs. Miller, regardless of their ages. Don’t send them to different dormitories.”
“But the house rules say—”
“Rules need to be bent sometimes. Anyone can see that it would be cruel to separate them. Give them time to settle in together.”
“Yes, Mrs. Merriday.”
Becky joined Flora and Mrs. Miller with a piece of cake for each of them and one for herself. “What happened to their parents?” Becky asked as the older one tucked his own bag of candy into his brother’s pocket.
“They won’t tell us much. The landlord who reported them to city officials said they’d been living with their mother until she died. There didn’t seem to be a father or any next of kin that he knew of. He hated to kick them out on the street, but they had no way to pay the rent. He sent for us.”
“They’re beautiful children,” Flora murmured. They could be Edmund’s sons with their fair hair and slender builds. She imagined herself rocking the little one in her arms, kissing him good-night. Then she stopped. How many times had she fought this battle? Each time the longing for a child threatened to undo her, she surrendered it back to God, knowing that if it was His will for her and Edmund to have a baby, He could easily have given her one over the years. But now that she was forty-one and Edmund fifty-eight, the time to bear children had passed.
Becky finished her cake and set down the plate. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to find a family to adopt those boys, I would think,” she said.
“Oh, we could easily place little Gunnar in a home,” Mrs. Miller replied, “but Soren won’t agree to let him go.”
“Why would you even ask such a thing of him?” Flora said. “Isn’t it our policy to always keep families together?”
“Yes, of course it is. It’s just that there’s such a large age difference between the two. Gunnar is four, and Soren is sixteen—nearly old enough to leave the orphanage and find a job. We tried to explain to him that it would be better for Gunnar to get a new start with a loving family than to stay here in this gloomy place, but he insisted that they stay together.”
“Surely you can find a family willing to take both of them, can’t you?” Becky asked.
“I wish we could, Miss Hawes—and we’ll keep searching for one. But nearly all of the families want to adopt very young children. They fear the older ones will have bad habits that are difficult to break.”
“Is that why there are so many older children here?” Becky asked.
“Yes, Miss Hawes. We’ll probably never find homes for them. We try to teach them to read and write, but they’re often far behind in school by the time they come here, and they don’t want to sit in a classroom with children half their age. Once they turn seventeen they go off on their own.”
Flora stayed until the cake and lemonade were gone and the children had bundled up to play outside in the yard behind the building
. She wished she could do more as she watched them stream outside into the sunlight, but at least they each had a warm jacket and shoes that fit. They would have three good meals every day and a warm bed to sleep in at night. But no amount of money could give them what they needed most of all—love.
“You’re very quiet,” Becky said on the ride home to Evanston. “Are you all right, Flora?”
“Yes, I’m just thinking.”
“Well, I’m thinking that if visiting that place and hearing such tragic stories is difficult for me, it must break your heart. I don’t know how you do it.”
“It does break my heart.” She closed her eyes for a moment, still picturing Gunnar, the little blond-haired boy. Hundreds of orphans had walked through the doors of the orphan home over the years, but she had never felt such an instant, soul-deep longing for a child the way she had today.
“May I ask you a delicate question, Flora? . . . Why haven’t you and Edmund ever adopted a child?”
“I’ve thought about it. But I can’t take all of them, and to choose one over all the others would be impossible. And so unfair. I decided it would be better if I continued to find loving families for them and to make the orphan home a cheerful place, where those who aren’t adopted can have a good life. Besides, I wouldn’t have time for my charity work if I adopted children of my own.”
“But I can clearly see the longing in your heart. The way you looked at those two new boys today . . . Maybe God is asking you to adopt them and—”
“I was warned when I began this work, as well as my work with the Sunday schools, that I mustn’t allow myself to get emotionally attached to the children. I believe the work I’m doing will improve their lives, and that’s reward enough. Of course, I continue to look for new solutions to poverty and illiteracy, but—”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
Tears stung Flora’s eyes, but she fought to keep them from falling. “I can’t lose my heart to each and every child, Becky. If I do, I’ll collapse beneath the load and die of a broken heart. There are just too many suffering children here in Chicago, too many needs for me to carry them all on my shoulders.”
“Are you certain you’re able to remain detached? Because even I had trouble hardening my heart today.”
“On days like today, when I look into those children’s eyes and see their longing for a mother’s love . . . well, that’s when I have to leave and go home.” She dabbed her handkerchief at a tear that escaped.
“I worry about you, Flora. Your work takes a huge emotional toll on you, especially since you want children of your own—”
“It’s up to God to decide whether or not I’ll have children, and He has clearly decided that I won’t.” She wanted to end this painful conversation; thankfully they arrived home a moment later. As Flora walked into the house with her sister, she hoped Becky hadn’t detected the bitterness in her heart.
A month later Flora, Edmund, and Becky left Chicago on a long-planned trip to Greece. They traveled the hilly countryside by horseback with pack mules to haul their baggage, reading the book of Acts and the writings of St. Paul along the way. Since there were few inns available in the remote villages, they often spent the night in monasteries, making friends with the Greek Orthodox monks who welcomed them and enjoying long, interesting discussions about the Scriptures. Flora and Becky still hadn’t forgotten their Greek after all these years or their childhood fascination with Homer’s Odyssey and Iliad.
One of Becky’s goals had been to see the ruins of Mycenae, where a thousand ships had been launched to attack Troy, according to the Iliad. Flora was breathless by the time they reached the top of the hill. The three of them stood together inside the crumbling citadel walls, row after row of terraced green hillsides rising toward the clear blue skies in the distance. “This is breathtaking,” Flora said. “That goes for the view as well as the climb.”
“It’s so inspiring,” Edmund said. “Just look at these immense building stones, hauled into place thousands of years ago. Such industry and ambition!”
“I’m even more inspired by the perseverance of Mycenae’s archaeologist,” Becky said. On the climb to the top of the hill, she had shared the story of the self-made millionaire, Heinrich Schliemann, who had made the discovery. Convinced that Homer’s poems were based on historical facts, Schliemann had begun digging here nine years ago, unearthing the walls of the citadel and a wealth of gold and silver artifacts, including what he claimed was the mask of Agamemnon, who had led the attack on Troy.
“I love that every time there’s another archaeological discovery, it adds to the story of mankind’s past,” Becky said. “And while Mycenae doesn’t have any bearing on the Bible, it does show that what we once believed was myth may have a basis in historical fact. The discoveries in the Holy Land and the ancient scrolls we’re finding are going to do the same.”
“I like that Schliemann pursued his passion,” Flora said, “and didn’t let critics stop him. I hope we can look back someday and say that we’ve lived a life of purpose, too.”
“Hey, now,” Edmund said. “We’re much too young to talk this way. I’m certain we have many more years ahead of us.”
“And many more years of travel,” Becky added.
Flora smiled at her sister. “Here’s to us!” she said, making a mock toast with her canteen of water. “The Adventure Sisters!”
“Hear, hear!”
The leaves were changing color the day Flora visited the orphanage again after being away in Greece for more than three months. She hadn’t forgotten her interest in the Petersen brothers and went around to the backyard to scan the playground for them. The yard was deserted. It seemed unusual to find it empty on such a warm fall afternoon, but perhaps there was a special event going on inside. Flora bumped into the matron just inside the door and almost didn’t recognize her. Mrs. Miller was wearing a drab, gray uniform, of all things, with a starched white apron and a cap on her head.
“Why, Mrs. Merriday! Welcome back,” she said when she saw Flora. “I trust you had a nice trip?”
“Yes, very nice, Mrs. Miller.” Normally the matron would have enveloped Flora in a long hug, but she held back for some reason. She seemed nervous and as stiff as her new uniform. She had always dressed like a beloved grandmother, wearing comfortable dresses and calico aprons with her gray hair askew. Her spectacles usually perched on her head instead of a fussy, white cap. “Why are you wearing a uniform, Mrs. Miller? It looks new.”
“It is new. A lot has happened while you’ve been away.” She reached up to tuck a stray curl beneath the cap. “The director fell ill a week after you left for Greece and had to resign.”
“Oh, no. I hope he’s recovering.”
“I’m sorry to say he passed, ma’am. The board did a quick search and hired Mr. Wingate to replace him. He’s around here somewhere, if you’d like to meet him.”
Before Flora could reply, a group of five young schoolgirls came out of their dormitory room and walked down the hall to the kitchen in a straight line. None of them spoke a word, let alone giggled. Flora noticed other changes as she followed Mrs. Miller into the deserted lounge. The orphanage seemed too quiet, the living areas too prim and neat considering the large number of children living there.
“Please tell me about the new director before I meet him, Mrs. Miller. I can’t help noticing a different atmosphere around here. Everything seems so rigid, and the children are unnaturally quiet. Why aren’t they playing outdoors? And why are you dressed in a uniform—?” Before she could finish, Flora heard shouts and the sound of a fight in the hallway on the second floor.
“Oh no!” Mrs. Miller said. She hurried up the stairs with Flora right behind her. Two teenaged boys were on the hallway floor, fighting and wrestling and calling each other names. Mrs. Miller waded into the middle of it and began pulling them apart. “Stop! You boys have to stop fighting! I don’t know what this is about, but you’re going to get into terrible trouble
if you get caught!” She spoke in a whisper, as if she didn’t want to be overheard. Then a voice thundered from behind Flora, making her jump.
“That’s enough!” A bearded man with the ramrod posture of a soldier marched forward with a riding crop in his hand. “This behavior will not be tolerated!” He grabbed one of the boys by the arm and yanked him to his feet, then struck him with his crop. Before Flora could draw a breath to stop him, he did the same to the second boy. Flora felt Mrs. Miller’s arms surrounding her as if to shield her or perhaps hold her back as the man continued his tirade. He ordered all of the other boys to come out of the dormitory room and line up in the hallway, including the ones who were crowding in the doorway to watch. Then he shoved the two brawlers inside and locked the door behind them with his key. “I’ll be back to deal with both of you shortly,” he shouted through the closed doors. It sounded like a threat. “The rest of you, go downstairs to the lounge and wait.”
“You . . . you can’t do that!” Flora said in outrage when she finally found her voice.
“Who are you?” Mr. Wingate was breathing hard as he straightened his vest and smoothed his dark hair back into place.
“I’m Mrs. Edmund Merriday, and I’ve been on the board of directors of this orphanage since its founding. I will not have our children treated this way.”
“Come to my office.” He marched down the stairs as if to a drumbeat and led the way into the director’s office. “Have a seat, Mrs. Merriday.”
“I will not sit! I’m appalled at what I just witnessed! That was a highly inappropriate way to handle an everyday spat. We do not beat our children—for any reason!”
“We’re grateful for all you do, Mrs. Merriday. All of the orphanage’s board members are much appreciated. But I’m the new director here, and I have a great deal of experience in dealing with young ruffians. Those boys must learn to obey the rules.” He laid his riding crop on his desk as if it were a trophy. Flora had the urge to snatch it up and use it on him.