by Lynn Austin
Flora could no longer remain silent. “Your honor, may I please speak?”
The judge frowned. He knew Flora and Edmund from the society functions and fund-raisers that he and his wife attended with them. Flora had remained active in many of the social circles that Mrs. Worthington had introduced her to in order to persuade Chicago’s wealthiest citizens to give generously to the poorest ones. “Yes, Mrs. Merriday?” he asked.
“I know Soren Petersen. He used to live in the orphanage that my charitable foundation supports and where I work as a volunteer. If you will kindly set bail, my husband and I will take Soren home with us and be responsible for him.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing? He may pose a danger to you.”
“I’m quite confident that he won’t.” Even so, the judge set a very high bail amount and slammed down his gavel. Flora made arrangements to pay, and Soren was released by noontime. As they stood on the street outside the jail, Soren spoke for the first time since pleading not guilty.
“Are you taking me back there?”
Flora knew he meant the orphan home. “No, Soren. You’re coming home to Evanston with us.”
“Why? What do you want with me?” The bitterness simmering behind his cold blue eyes made Flora shiver. He still looked as though he wanted to murder someone. She had acted on impulse when she’d stood up for him in court and hadn’t determined what the next step would be.
“You can work for us in return for your room and board. After all, we just put up a great sum of money for your bail. Unless you’d prefer to remain in jail?”
He stared down at his bruised knuckles, massaging them. “No.”
“Then let’s go home.” Flora gestured to her carriage and saw Soren hesitate. “It’s all right, Soren. Get in.” He smelled as though he hadn’t bathed or washed in months, and the odor expanded to fill every inch of the confined carriage. Flora resisted the urge to cover her mouth and nose with her handkerchief. “I’m taking a huge chance on you, Soren,” she said as they began to move, “because I don’t believe you’re a vicious murderer. I was very sorry when I heard that you had run away with the other boys.”
“I had no reason to stay. Wingate took my brother.”
“I understand. I saw you with your brother, and you were always so gentle and loving, not at all like those other two boys. Why did you run away with them?”
“They said they’d help me find Gunnar. And they wanted to get even with Wingate, too. I wouldn’t have beaten him if he’d just told me where Gunnar is.”
“I understand that your brother is living with a good family. Mr. Wingate believed it was better for him than growing up in an orphan home.”
“Do you know where Gunnar is?”
“No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”
“Can you find out for me?”
Flora sighed. “The adoption records are sealed by the court. But right now we need to take care of your situation. Attempted murder is a very serious charge.” Soren didn’t reply. He continued staring down at his hands on the long ride home. When the carriage halted outside Flora’s house, he lifted his head for the first time. She saw him take the measure of it, and although it wasn’t a mansion by any means, he seemed to shrivel back in his seat.
Edmund asked him to climb from the carriage first, then took Flora’s hand and held her back for a moment. “Are you two going to be fine together, or would you like me to stay?” he asked softly.
“Of course we’ll be fine. You need to go to work. Becky is here with me.” She kissed Edmund and stepped out, then led Soren through the back door into the kitchen. They had a new cook and housekeeper now that Maria Elena and the Griffins had retired, and the servants sat at the table eating lunch with Becky, who often joined them for the noon meal when she didn’t want to eat alone. “This is Soren Petersen,” she told everyone.
Becky smiled and said, “How do you do? I’m Rebecca Hawes,” but the others looked him over warily. Flora saw the housekeeper prop her elbow on the table and discreetly pinch her nose shut.
“Soren is going to be staying here and working for us, but right now he needs a bath, and his injuries need to be tended. Please find him some clothes to wear, too—perhaps some of Edmund’s old ones. He can sleep in the servants’ rooms on the third floor.”
“Yes, Miss Flora.” The housekeeper pushed back her chair and started poking the coals on the stove to heat the bath water. Flora smiled up at Soren, but he remained somber.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “What do you want with me?”
“Nothing. I simply want you to have a second chance. I’ll try my best to keep you from going to prison by explaining that you suffered a terrible injustice at Mr. Wingate’s hands. But if you run away and disappear, I’ll forfeit all my bail money—and it’s a considerable amount. That money could have gone to help other children in need. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I would like to give you a chance to travel a different road than the one you’ve been on. I hope you’ll be wise enough to take it.”
After the housekeeper led Soren off for his bath, Becky exhaled dramatically and fanned her hand in front of her nose. “Phew! I don’t know how that boy can live with himself!”
“He does smell pretty bad.”
“Sit down and have some lunch, Flora—if you still have an appetite, that is. Then you can tell me what your plans are for this latest project of yours.”
“I really don’t know,” she said as she sank onto a chair. “I told Soren he can work for us, so I suppose I’ll need to find him a job to do.” The cook set a bowl of soup in front of Flora, then poured her a cup of tea. “Maybe Soren can work with Edmund. . . . I don’t think that boy has had a father in his life for a long time.”
Becky laughed. “Well, it will be more fuel for society gossip when people learn we have an accused felon living in our home. But I’m proud of you, Flora. You did the right thing.”
Flora spent the next week trying to find a job around their house for Soren to do. The servants were less frightened of him once he was cleaned up, and they accepted him as one of their own—even though Soren, who they now called Petersen, rarely spoke. He didn’t know anything about horses and seemed uncomfortable around them, but he did have a knack for anticipating the needs of everyone he worked with and rushing to help them. He was especially attentive with Edmund, and so even though Edmund had never wanted a personal valet, the job became Petersen’s. With everything working out well so far, Flora decided the time had come to deal with Petersen’s legal issues.
“I’m going to speak with Mr. Wingate tomorrow,” she told Becky after knocking on her bedroom door one night. Becky sat at her dressing table, brushing her dark hair. “I plan to ask him to drop the charges against Petersen. Will you come with me, please? You’re much tougher than I am—and much more convincing when it comes to confrontations.”
“Why, thank you. Most people wouldn’t consider toughness a very desirable trait for dainty women like us, but I consider it a compliment.”
“I meant it as one.”
“Shall I arm myself with a weapon?” Becky asked, brandishing the hairbrush.
“No, just prayer.”
Flora felt nervous as she and Becky arrived at the director’s office the next morning. This meeting was so important. A young man’s future was at stake. Mr. Wingate remained seated behind his desk, still showing the signs of the beating he’d taken, his face swollen and bruised, his broken wrist in a splint. Flora wasted no time with pleasantries. “You know you treated Soren and Gunnar Petersen unfairly. They were as close as any two brothers could be, even if they did have different fathers. I understand that it’s too late to undo the adoption. Gunnar has been with his new family for more than a year now, and it would be unfair to everyone. But Petersen told me you didn’t even give him a chance to say good-bye.”
“I knew he would cause a scene. His violence proves that my a
ssessment was correct.”
“Any one of us would create a ‘scene,’ as you call it, if we were cruelly torn away from someone we loved! Have you ever lost a loved one that way? I imagine you haven’t, or you wouldn’t have done what you did. What’s more, you imprisoned him in the coal cellar!”
“Are you finished, Mrs. Merriday? I have work to do.”
“No, I am not finished. I have come to tell you that I will pay all of your medical expenses, and whatever restitution you’re seeking, but I would like you to drop the charges against Petersen.”
“I can’t do that. He’s a danger to society. He should be taken off the streets and kept in prison.”
“He’s a seventeen-year-old boy who’s all alone in the world. He has lost every person who was ever important to him. We can’t change the terrible past that he was forced to endure, but if you drop the charges, we can offer him a new start and a chance to have a future. You know, Mr. Wingate, that I would have fired you a year ago. But I decided to give you a second chance. Now you owe it to both Petersen and to me to extend the same opportunity to him. A second chance. That boy will die if he’s sent to prison.”
“He nearly killed me.”
“But he didn’t.” Flora’s shoulders ached with tension as she waited. They had reached a stalemate.
Becky took a step toward him. “What will it take to change your mind, Mr. Wingate? A raise in salary? A cash payment? Stop acting so sanctimonious and tell me how much money you want.”
Flora feared for a moment, that Becky had gone too far. Instead, it turned out that she had said the magic word—money. After a bit of haggling, Wingate agreed on a price, and Becky got him to sign an affidavit, formally dropping all the charges and testifying that Petersen had acted in self-defense.
On the way home, Flora managed a smile for the first time since waking up that morning. “You’re my hero, Becky. Do you know that?”
“Bah! What are sisters for?”
Petersen was in the pantry, polishing Edmund’s shoes to a glossy shine when Flora returned home. When she told him the news that he wouldn’t have to return to jail, he staggered backward against the wall, then covered his face. Flora longed to hug him but didn’t. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you, having prison hanging over your head. But it’s over now, Soren.”
He looked up, wiping his eyes. “Wingate deserved it, though.”
“Let’s not dwell on revenge anymore,” she said. “We need to decide what’s next for you. You’re welcome to continue working for us, but you’re not obligated to do so. We can help you find a job and a place to live if there’s some other type of work you’d like to do. Or perhaps you’d like to learn a skill.” She found herself holding her breath, hoping he would stay. She wanted a second chance to win his trust and maybe, someday, his love.
Petersen stared down, not meeting Flora’s gaze. “I can’t read or write. I went to school for a few months when I lived in the orphanage . . . before . . .”
“I’m sure Edmund would be happy to tutor you if you’d like to learn. He enjoys having you work for him. In fact, you’ve been a huge help to all of us. You’re very bright, Petersen, and I’m certain you’ll learn quickly. Would that be agreeable to you? Please say yes.” When he nodded, Flora longed once again to hug him.
“Good news,” she told Becky a few minutes later when she found her in her office. “Petersen has agreed to stay with us.”
“I’m glad.”
“I’m going to ask Edmund to tutor him since Soren has never had an education, but will you help him, too? You’re a wonderful teacher.”
“Of course. . . . But you do realize that the only reason he’s sticking around is because he hopes you’ll help him find his brother.”
“I know he is. But the adoption records are sealed by the courts, Becky. There’s nothing I can do to help him.”
Except show love to Petersen, help him heal, and do whatever she could to atone for the part she had played in his tragic life.
Chapter 22
CHICAGO
1889
ONE YEAR AGO
When Edmund’s and Becky’s third book was published, Flora arranged to hold the gala celebration for them at the Northwestern University library. She invited scholars from other Chicago-area universities to attend the reception, including faculty members from the University of Chicago, still in its formative stages. Edmund stood tall and proud beside Flora as they waited for the event to begin, but she could tell by the way Becky fidgeted, tugging at her new gown and poking at her hair, that she was nervous. Flora saw no reason for it. The first two books she and Edmund had co-written had been honored and acclaimed. Flora was about to remind her sister of that fact when Becky leaned toward Edmund and said, “You’re very brave to host our book launch here at Northwestern. Aren’t you afraid you’ll face the scorn of your university colleagues for my lack of credentials?”
“Not at all,” Edmund replied. “You’re a remarkable scholar, Rebecca, and highly skilled at deciphering ancient languages, even if Cambridge isn’t wise enough to award you a degree for all your studies there because of your gender. What’s more, you’re a much better writer than I am. If anyone has a problem with that, I’ll be happy to let them have a piece of my mind.”
“You’ll have to be quick,” Flora said, “or Becky might give them a piece of hers first.”
The doors finally opened, and one of Edmund’s colleagues introduced him and Becky to the surprisingly large audience. He praised their book as “a fascinating and fresh contribution to the historical debate.” Flora thought she would burst with pride as the room echoed with congratulations and applause.
“Thank you,” Edmund said, tilting his head in his charming, self-deprecating way. “Now please enjoy the wonderful refreshments my wife has been kind enough to provide.”
Flora stood in the receiving line between Edmund and Becky as they greeted their guests and signed copies of their book. She was so proud of her husband and more in love with him than ever. Edmund would be sixty soon and his thick, sandy hair was turning gray and his shoulders beginning to stoop. But he was the same wonderful, energetic man she had fallen in love with. How many times during their twenty-three years of marriage had Flora thanked God that she had married Edmund Merriday instead of Thomas Worthington?
Flora greeted all of Edmund’s colleagues, knowing them well after hosting them for dinners in her home. She enjoyed the academic banter and lively conversations they brought to her table. None of them had the means to return the invitations, but they loved accepting them—and Flora loved extending them. These were her and Becky’s kind of people, much more so than the wealthier guests that Flora also entertained in an effort to squeeze support from them for her charities. She often thought how grateful she was to Mrs. Worthington for teaching her the social graces, which allowed her to raise funds for the work she loved. Flora even managed to recruit several of the wealthy matrons who shared her passions to serve on her charities’ boards of directors. Now, as she listened to the laughter and conversation in the university library, Flora was thrilled to have her foot in both worlds—the wealthy social world that supported her passion for the poor, and the academic world that offered support and camaraderie to Edmund and Becky. What different yet strangely intersecting paths she and her sister had taken.
Just as the number of guests in the receiving line was starting to taper off and Flora thought she might be able to sneak away to the refreshment table, she saw a determined-looking gentleman in his fifties approaching. He had a copy of their book in his hand that was already underlined and stuffed full of markers. “Uh-oh,” Flora said, nudging Edmund. “I hope he’s not a critic on the warpath, looking for an argument.”
But the stranger broke into a wide grin when he finally reached the front of the line and offered his hand. “Good evening Miss Hawes, Mr. and Mrs. Merriday. I’m Professor Timothy Dyk from the University of Chicago, and I have a few questions for you, if
you don’t mind.” He was a short, compact man with bushy gray hair that needed a trim. His suit was baggy and wrinkled, but his round, friendly face and cheerful grin were so disarming that Flora felt ashamed for noticing his disheveled state. Edmund had also been shaggy and rumpled when she’d first met him.
Flora listened as her husband responded to a few of the professor’s questions, but Edmund finally gestured to Becky and said, “You’re asking the wrong person, Professor Dyk. That’s Miss Hawes’ area of expertise. The ideas in that chapter are purely hers.”
Flora held her breath, wondering if the man would insult Becky by refusing to take her seriously, but Professor Dyk never missed a beat as he turned to her and repeated his question. A few minutes later, he and Becky wandered away from the reception line, deep in conversation. Flora linked her arm through Edmund’s and steered him toward the refreshment table. She lost sight of her sister as she and Edmund filled their plates and chatted with friends, but when Flora finally went in search of Becky more than an hour later, she was surprised to find her still deep in conversation with the professor. It didn’t look as though they were arguing, and he seemed to be listening intently to Becky and nodding. Yet Flora kept her eye on them for a few minutes, waiting to intervene if necessary. When Becky laughed at something the professor said, Flora returned to Edmund’s side, relieved.
Much too soon the refreshments were gone and the event started winding down. Flora stood at the door with her husband, saying good-bye to their friends and guests. Professor Dyk was among the last to leave, having talked with Becky the entire time. “It looked as though you and that professor were having an interesting discussion,” Flora said to her on the short drive home. “In fact, he monopolized your evening.”