by Jody Hedlund
“Make yerself at home.” Euphemia opened a chest of drawers and pulled out several items that appeared to be boys’ undergarments.
Had this room belonged to her sons? Of course it had. Who else would have used it?
“I can’t take this room,” Sophie said, retreating to the door. “I’ll bed down on the kitchen floor.”
Euphemia had opened the second drawer and was withdrawing more clothing. At Sophie’s statement, she stopped rummaging, and her brows rose above confused eyes. “Kitchen floor? Now, why would you do a thing like that?”
“I don’t want to take the room from your sons. They need it more than I do. Besides, I’m used to sleeping on the floor—can’t remember the last time I slept in a bed. Even at the asylums, I bedded down on the floor so that I could be near Olivia and Nicholas.”
Euphemia straightened and studied Sophie’s face. Her eyes filled with something Sophie couldn’t explain but that made Sophie suddenly self-conscious. Had she said too much? She wasn’t a helpless orphan. And she certainly didn’t need anyone’s pity.
She strode to her bag in the corner where someone had placed it. She grabbed it and started back toward the door. She didn’t need to stay with the Duffs. She’d find some other place, somewhere she could be on her own away from the pity and the raised brows.
“Now there, lass,” Euphemia said. “Dinnae mind me. I’m as much an oaf as my boys at times.”
Sophie’s steps slowed, and she halted in the doorway. Helpless frustration coursed through her. More than anything she wanted to stomp out of the house and walk away and show Euphemia she was capable and strong and didn’t need her pity.
At the same time, Sophie felt trapped. She had no place to go, and there was no one else who wanted her. And if she left now in the dark, she wouldn’t know how to get back to town. Even if she somehow managed to make it there, what would she do then? How would she be able to hide in such a small town?
“I sometimes forget that I was a stranger once,” Euphemia said softly. “I was on my own too and had to make a new life in a new place where everything was different.”
At the woman’s confession, Sophie pivoted.
“I dinnae do so well for myself those first few years,” she continued, meeting Sophie’s gaze, “and I made a great many mistakes I still regret. But I thank the good Lord He never treats us as our sins deserve.”
Euphemia had made mistakes? This kind woman had sinned? It was Sophie’s turn to study Euphemia’s face to see the honesty in her eyes along with what appeared to be sorrow. What had Euphemia done that had caused such sadness? She seemed to have such a good life now, a prosperous dairy farm, and a large and loving family.
If this woman had made mistakes, she’d learned to move past them. Sophie wasn’t sure she would be able to do the same. Nevertheless, maybe Euphemia would understand her. Maybe she wouldn’t be as quick to judge as Sophie had first thought.
Sophie set her bag down on the floor.
Euphemia released a breath and then smiled. “That’s a good lass. Now, as long as you live under my roof, you’ll stay in the bedroom. I want to teach my boys to be good men, to respect women and sacrifice for them. You’ll let me do that for my boys, won’t you?”
“I’ll try.” Sophie looked around the room again. It was more spacious than any other place she’d ever lived. “But it doesn’t seem fair that I have all this for myself and they have nothing.”
Euphemia laughed. “Och, lass, dinnae be thinking they have nothing. Fergus and Alastair are pleased as plums to be staying in the dormer room with their brothers. They’ve been asking to change for years and now’s their chance.”
Dormer room?
As if sensing her unasked question, Euphemia pointed to the ceiling above them.
The picture of a dormer room flashed into Sophie’s memory. A low slanted ceiling, unpainted walls, creaking floorboards. And a bed big enough for three little girls to snuggle under a thick, down coverlet.
Her home in Germany. The memories were fading. She couldn’t recollect much about those days before moving to New York, but the dormer room was one she still remembered. The cuddling between her sisters, listening to their whispered conversations, giggling together whenever they touched each other with icy toes.
“You best be abed,” Euphemia said as she resumed her task of emptying the drawers. “We have a busy day of work ahead of us tomorrow. And the morn will be upon us before we’re ready for it, that’s for sure.”
An hour later, Sophie lay on the bed, the softness of the mattress and pillow unfamiliar to her after so many years of sleeping wherever she could find a spot. Although she knew she should be grateful for the bed, for the clean sheets that smelled of lilac, and the safety of the room, silent tears slid from her closed eyes anyway.
The slumbering house was too quiet, with only the buzz of insects and the occasional noise of one of the livestock to break the silence. The anxious thudding of her heartbeat and the frantic racing of her thoughts resounded in the emptiness.
Her arms ached for Olivia and Nicholas. In spite of the chaos of their lives and all the moving, she’d always made time every night to tell them a bedtime story. Then, once she finished with the story, she hugged and kissed them good-night. Without fail. She’d never missed a night for as long as she could remember. Except tonight . . .
She could just imagine them in their new strange bed, holding each other, missing her, and crying out in loneliness.
“Why does it have to be this way, God?” she whispered against her pillow, muffling her sobs so that no one else could hear them. “Why does everything always have to be so hard?”
She didn’t know why she was calling out to God after all this time of running from Him. In fact, she guessed He wouldn’t hear her anyway. She was too far away. And even if she wasn’t, why would He listen? She’d sinned too many times for Him to care about her anymore.
Amidst the heartache, Euphemia’s gentle Scottish brogue whispered through her: The good Lord never treats us as our sins deserve. He never treats us as our sins deserve. He never treats us as our sins deserve.
Like the cool breeze bustling past the curtains and soothing Sophie’s heated skin and hot tears, the words brushed over her broken soul, strangely soothing her pain. Not completely. But it was something. And tonight she desperately needed to cling to something or she wasn’t sure she’d have the strength to go on.
Chapter 8
Sophie stretched and yawned, relishing the scent of bacon and coffee and something sweet. For a moment she just breathed in the delicious aromas. In her sleepy haze, she thought she could hear her father in the kitchen below.
At the ricocheting thud of a distant door, Sophie bolted upright and blinked until she was awake. Through the darkness she could see the fluttering of curtains and the outline of the closed bedroom door, her dress hanging limply from a hook on the back. With a start, she realized she wasn’t in her father’s bakery in Germany. She was in Illinois on a farm, living with strangers.
And Olivia and Nicholas were gone.
The hopelessness that had somehow disappeared for a few hours while she slept came charging back. She untangled her legs from the sheet and jumped out of bed. She was getting her children first thing this morning, and they were running away to Chicago. She didn’t know how she’d manage to find money for their train fare, but she didn’t care. She had to retrieve them.
As she donned her dress and plaited her hair, she heard more voices, the heavy trod of footsteps, the clanking of pans. But all she could think about was escaping and finding Olivia and Nicholas. Whatever made her believe she could live without them? And how would they be able to survive without her? Surely they were both as miserable as she was.
Her fingers stumbled over each other as she slid on her shoes—the new pair the Children’s Aid Society had given her. They were too big for her feet and had given her blisters, and yet they were much better than the old ones she’d been wearing. The lea
ther had worn thin and was so full of holes that she’d had to patch the spots with newspaper.
Nicholas’s shoes had been even worse. They were so tight that she’d cut out the fronts to make room for his toes.
At the remembrance of the awful condition of the shoes and Nicholas’s delight when he’d gotten his new pair, Sophie’s frantic motions ceased. She lowered herself to the edge of her unmade bed and stared at the closed door.
He was in a new home where he’d have everything he needed. He’d no longer have to worry about his toes getting cold and wet whenever it rained, or his lips turning blue in a cold breeze. He’d have his sturdy shoes and heavy coat and likely plenty of other warm clothes to see him through the winter.
She brushed her hand across the smooth clean sheets and the firm mattress and realized they’d probably slept in beds last night too. If she took them away from their new home, they’d be back to sleeping on the streets, in alleyways, in empty coal boxes, anyplace where they wouldn’t be bothered by drunks or rats or policemen.
With a sigh, Sophie put aside the notion of walking over to the Ramseys and sneaking the children out of the house. Just because she needed them didn’t mean they needed her in the same way. “You were selfish,” she reminded herself. She’d kept the children with her because she’d wanted them. Now it was time to stop thinking about her desires and do what was best for them. If their new home was half as nice as hers, then they would definitely have a better life than what they’d had in the asylums or streets or even in Anna’s sister’s crowded tenement apartment.
Slowly, Sophie finished getting ready. When she finally left her room and started down the dark stairway, the friendly banter of men’s voices rose up to greet her. She halted at the bottom step, the cheerful glow of lantern light from the dining room beckoning her down the hallway.
Even though dawn hadn’t yet broken, she was late. She should have been up long ago, helping Euphemia with whatever it was she was supposed to do. Euphemia had told her the morning started early and that they would have a busy day ahead.
What would Euphemia think of her now? The woman had been patient with her last evening, but surely her patience would run thin if Sophie didn’t prove her worth.
Sophie hustled down the hallway and stepped into the dining room. At the sight of her, every voice silenced and every pair of eyes flew to her. Barclay Duff sat at the head of the table, a mug of coffee lifted halfway to his mouth. Two sons sat on one side of the table and two on the other, all built with similar round faces, stocky shoulders, and hefty girths. They stared at her as though she were a street performer putting on a show.
Sophie stood awkwardly and stared back at them, unsure what to do.
As the silence stretched on, Euphemia came out of the kitchen carrying a plate piled high with griddle cakes. “Good morning, lass,” she said, plopping the platter onto the middle of the table. “I knew ye’d stepped into the room the second my wee bairns fell silent.”
“Good morning,” Sophie replied, relieved at the sight of the woman with her warm smile and her cheerful blue calico dress. “I’m sorry I’m late. What can I do to help?”
“You can flip the last of the bacon before the pieces burn,” she said with a nod toward the kitchen.
Sophie hurried forward, anxious to be away from the stares.
“You’ll find an apron in the pantry,” Euphemia said as she retrieved several empty plates.
The instant Sophie stepped out of the dining room, the clatter and conversation resumed, including Euphemia’s good-natured scolding.
“You’d think you boys have never seen a girl by the way you’re tongue-tied and making eyes at the lass,” she said. “Now, mind you to be kind and not scare her away the first day.”
Sophie halted in the middle of the kitchen. An open cupboard stood against one wall, revealing extra plates, bowls, and cups. Shelves on the wall next to it held crocks and tins and an assortment of what appeared to be baking supplies and spices. A worktable at the center was piled with vegetables that were still covered in dirt, along with crates underneath also filled to the brim.
Sophie had never seen so many vegetables. She recognized carrots, tomatoes, beans, onions, and beets. But she’d never seen them with their leafy tops still attached. Had Euphemia grown all these in her garden? And who would eat all the food? There was enough to fill every plate in an asylum dining hall.
She whistled softly under her breath. What was Euphemia doing with so much produce when there were so many hungry children roaming the streets?
Sophie’s mind spun with memories of the many times she and Nicholas and Olivia had gone without food, even at the asylums where there was never enough to go around and most certainly not fresh produce like this. Even now, Sophie’s stomach gurgled with hunger, a sensation she’d learned to ignore but that now prodded her to reach for one of the tomatoes.
Without a second thought, she slipped a tomato into the side pocket of her skirt. Next she grabbed a handful of the beans and started to shove them into her other pocket. At the sound of Euphemia’s laughter from the dining room, Sophie stopped abruptly with her hand halfway in. “What are you doing, Sophie Neumann?” she whispered harshly.
Euphemia had been nothing but kind to her since the moment they’d met. And here she was repaying the woman by stealing food. And for what reason? She’d never stolen food for herself. It was always for Olivia and Nicholas. Only them.
And they didn’t need tomatoes or beans. Not today. If Mrs. Ramsey’s kitchen was anything like Euphemia’s, then Mrs. Ramsey had likely provided Olivia and Nicholas with all the fresh food they could want and then some.
Sophie emptied her pockets but couldn’t empty the guilt that had slipped out and was now taunting her with all the times she’d stolen from street vendors, out of the backs of wagons, or even right off the shelf of a store. Had thieving become such a way of life that she would do it even when she no longer had a need?
Near the window sat a big black stove with an enormous pipe that ran the length of the wall and disappeared into the ceiling overhead. The stove was churning out heat that made the kitchen hot even in the coolness of the morning. Pots and pans covered every burner, smoke curling up from one of them.
Was the bacon already burning?
“Blasted,” Sophie muttered as she crossed to the stove. Sure enough, in a large cast-iron skillet slices of bacon lay shriveled and blackened in a layer of spluttering grease. She grabbed the long handle and started to lift the pan off the stove. But as her fingers made contact with the iron, burning heat seared her flesh, and she released the pan with a cry.
The skillet dropped to the floor, and hot grease splattered Sophie’s skirt, shoes, and the floor. She jumped back and gave another cry, this one of dismay.
Euphemia burst into the kitchen, her face wreathed with worry. “What happened, lass?”
At the sight of the pan on the floor with the charred strips of bacon in grease next to it, Sophie wanted to lie, wanted to come up with some excuse for why she’d failed to do the one thing Euphemia had given her to do.
Instead, she stared wordlessly at the mess and waited for Euphemia to berate her for not attending to the bacon, at the very least snap at her for being clumsy.
“Och!” Euphemia bustled toward Sophie.
When the woman reached for her, Sophie flinched, knowing she deserved to have her ears boxed or her cheeks slapped. She was surprised instead when Euphemia grabbed her hand, flipped it over, and examined the red splotches that were forming across her palm. “Ye’ve burnt yerself, lass. We need to get a cool cloth on your skin before it blisters.”
Euphemia pulled Sophie toward a basin of water on a stand near the back door, dipped in a towel, and pressed the cloth against Sophie’s hand. At the stinging contact, Sophie sucked in a breath.
“It’ll take a few minutes for the cool water to help, but you just keep dipping and holding.”
“Thank you,” Sophie managed, once again
attempting to find the manners she hadn’t used in a long time. “I’m sorry about the mess.”
Euphemia shook her head and tsked. “Dinnae you worry a thing about it. This is my fault. I should have known better than to send you near a hot pan on your first day.”
The woman exuded a patience that was simply too good to be true. Surely it would run out soon. She’d get tired of Sophie’s mistakes and ineptness and would eventually dole out the punishment she deserved. That was the way it always happened.
Euphemia glanced at the doorway, and seeing her four sons crowded there and gawking at Sophie, she shooed them with a towel. “Go on now. Skedaddle, and finish your breakfast, or I might just have to put you to work snapping beans.”
At the mention of beans, the boys disappeared faster than beggars caught stealing from a street vendor. Euphemia chuckled, reached for a rag, and then picked up the skillet from where it had fallen on the floor.
“Lesson number one, lass.” She placed the pan back on the stove on a side burner. “Dinnae touch the hot pans unless you have a towel in hand.”
“Lesson learned.” Sophie dipped the cloth in the basin again and reapplied the cool water to her burning palm. “I have to admit I haven’t been in a kitchen in a long time. Not since my father died.”
Euphemia used a wooden spatula to scrape the congealing grease from the floor.
“He was a baker,” Sophie said, hoping that fact might work in her favor even if she’d been too young to assist him or learn anything from him. “If you want, I’ll do some of the baking.”
Once the words were out, Sophie wanted to slap herself with Euphemia’s spatula. What was she saying? Her experience cooking during her stay at Mollie’s had amounted to burned mush for almost every meal.
Thankfully, Euphemia didn’t take her up on the offer. Instead, she showed Sophie how to clean out the pans and scrape platters, saving every dollop of leftovers in a slop bucket by the back door for the pigs. By the time the men finished their breakfast, the sun had risen and they exited the house just as noisily as they’d entered.