Legacy of Mercy

by Lynn Austin

  The September day is warm, and I’m so tired by the time I walk home from the print shop that I decide to eat a light supper in a few hours and go to bed early. Then I remember that I’m expecting company. I want nothing more than to sit down in my chair with my cat on my lap and take a nap, but I go to the kitchen to see what I can prepare for my guests’ dinner.

  I have chicken soup and dumplings bubbling on the stove by the time Jakob arrives with Cornelia and Marinus Den Herder. It isn’t a fancy dinner, but I hope it will help them feel at home. Marinus has to duck his head as he enters the door of my tiny house. He looks around as if the house is for sale and he’s trying to decide if he will buy it. “Welcome,” I greet them in Dutch as Jakob introduces us. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “Thank you.” Marinus studies me from head to toe, as if determining if I will measure up. He is a very handsome, distinguished-looking man with light brown hair that is turning silver above his ears. He carries himself with the rigid posture of royalty. He doesn’t return my smile, and his expression is one of a man who has been squinting into bright sunlight all his life. I try not to judge by appearances, but his downturned mouth and deep frown don’t leave a very good first impression. I turn to his granddaughter.

  “Welcome, Cornelia. It’s so nice to have you staying with me for a while.” I’m surprised by how angry she looks. Her temper seems to be boiling just beneath the surface, ready to spill over at the merest spark, like my pot of soup that is simmering on the stove. From everything Jakob told me about her, I expected to see grief. But what I also see is anger. Perhaps she and her grandfather had an argument before coming here and their tempers haven’t had a chance to cool.

  “Will you stay and eat dinner with us, too?” I ask Jakob.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t. But I’ll help with the trunks and other baggage before I go.” The men go outside to retrieve them, and I take Cornelia to see her room.

  “I hope it will be suitable,” I tell her.

  She seems afraid to move past the door for fear of damaging something, even though the room is plain and simple.

  “This room will be yours for as long as you need it.” She is a very pretty girl, slender and delicate, but her beauty seems to be deliberately shrouded beneath a drab, shapeless dress the color of mud. Her light brown hair, the same color as her grandfather’s, is pulled into a severe, unflattering bun on the back of her head. She is about the same size as my granddaughter Anneke, and I make a note to ask her to send Cornelia some skirts and shirtwaists that she no longer needs.

  A moment later Derk arrives, carrying Cornelia’s things. “You and your father are welcome to come back and eat dinner here,” I tell Derk. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming weeks, so we may as well all eat together tonight.”

  “We would love to.” He sets down the trunk and turns to Cornelia. “Hello, Miss Den Herder. I’m Derk Vander Veen from next door.” She hasn’t understood him, and she looks to me to translate. How lonely she must be with no one her age to talk to. For the first time, I’m glad I agreed to have her stay with me.

  When the trunks are moved and everyone has had a chance to settle in, Derk and his father return with Mr. Den Herder and sit down around my table. Cornelia has remained in her room until now, and she slips into her seat as silently as my tabby cat. She is still wearing the dowdy brown dress.

  “How are you related to the Vander Veens, Mrs. de Jonge?” Marinus Den Herder asks me after Derk says a blessing over the food.

  “We’re not related. But Derk has been like a son to me ever since his mother died. Both he and Pieter have become like family… . And please, call me Geesje.”

  “No, thank you,” he replies. “I would prefer not to be so personal.” His refusal brings a chill over the meal as if the newcomers have ushered in a snowstorm. I wonder if Derk and Pieter understand enough Dutch to know what just happened. Mr. Den Herder has been here for less than an hour, but I’m already regretting my dinner invitation. He seems to occupy all of the space in the room.

  As we eat our soup, Derk attempts to talk to Cornelia, but his knowledge of the Dutch language has grown rusty over the years. He turns to me. “Please tell her that I would be interested to know what she thinks of America so far.” I translate his question, and Mr. Den Herder’s frown deepens. He replies before Cornelia has a chance to.

  “We were told in the Netherlands that America is founded on freedom of religion.” He speaks very loudly, as if volume alone will help him be understood. “But it seems to me there is much more freedom than religion here. I see too much silliness among the young people I have met. And a lack of respect for their elders and for God’s holy sanctuary.”

  I turn to Derk, unwilling to translate his disapproving remarks. “He isn’t impressed with America,” I say.

  “So I gathered.” Derk hides a smile.

  “What was your occupation in the Netherlands, Mr. Den Herder?” I ask.

  “It’s Dominie Den Herder, if you don’t mind. I was a minister.”

  Now, why didn’t my son mention that important fact? I give up and let Pieter try his hand at conversing with him in his stumbling Dutch. As the dinner proceeds, I begin forming an opinion of Dominie Den Herder as a man who is stern and strict and very old-fashioned, the sort of husband who never allows his wife to speak or voice an opinion. He looks shocked and annoyed whenever I try to add to the conversation—let alone when I dare to ask a question. If he’s here for very long, he’ll soon learn that I have plenty of opinions and I’m not afraid to speak them.

  “The dominie is going to have a lot of adjusting to do here in America,” I whisper to Derk in English. He grins in reply.

  Meanwhile, Cornelia hasn’t spoken a single word throughout the entire meal. She lays down her spoon and folds her hands in her lap after barely finishing half of her soup. I notice how skeletal her hands are before she hides them and wonder just how thin she is beneath the baggy dress. Is homesickness adding to her grief, I wonder? My heart aches for her.

  The dominie thanks me for the food when everyone is finished eating, then says, “And now if you have a Bible, Mrs. de Jonge, it is my custom to read a Scripture passage aloud after the evening meal.”

  “I have a Dutch Bible right here,” I say, reaching for mine. “It is my daily custom, as well.” The passage I open to from the Gospel of John is about love, but he reads it with the fire and diction of an Old Testament prophet of doom. I’m relieved when he says good night and leaves to go home with the Vander Veens. “Good luck,” I whisper to Derk as he bends to kiss my cheek.

  “We’ll need it,” he replies, and his blue eyes sparkle with laughter.

  Cornelia has filled the dishpan with water and is already washing the dishes when I rejoin her in the kitchen. I watch her for a moment, searching for a sign that she has begun to relax now that her grandfather is gone. I see no change. I have been clenching my teeth the entire evening, and I can’t imagine crossing the Atlantic Ocean in a tiny steamship cabin with him. I’m glad that it has worked out for Cornelia and her overbearing grandfather to live apart for a time. I would like her to know that she can be herself with me, and that I’m not as rigid as her grandfather, but I can’t seem to find the right words. Instead, we chat about the warm fall weather, and I ask her again what she thinks of America.

  “It is very big,” she replies.

  “Yes, that was my impression, too, when I first arrived.”

  “I would like to go to bed now, please,” she says when we finish the dishes.

  “Of course. You must be tired.” I turn out the kitchen light and walk with her to Anneke’s room. “My granddaughter stayed in this room this summer,” I tell her. “It’s a long story, which I’ll share with you another time, but Anneke and I just met in July even though she is twenty-three years old.” Cornelia doesn’t reply. “There will be a nice breeze if you leave this window open,” I add. She merely nods. “Good night, then. Let me know if you need anythin
g.” I leave her and go to my own bedroom.

  Cornelia is carrying secrets, I can tell. She is surely mourning her family and perhaps her life in the Netherlands. But right now, her anger seems more overpowering than her grief. Maybe once she learns to trust me she will unpack the heavy load she is struggling to carry.

  I fall asleep wondering what I have gotten myself into.

  Chapter 3

  Anna

  Chicago, Illinois

  I am out of bed before the maid arrives with my breakfast tray, searching through my wardrobe for something suitable to wear to the boardinghouse in Cicero this afternoon. After anticipating this day for more than a week, it has finally arrived. This afternoon, Agents Albertson and Mitchell will accompany me on my visit to meet Mama’s former landlady. I’m trying not to get my hopes up that she will remember much, since nearly twenty-six years have passed since Mama and Jack Newell boarded with her, yet I can’t help feeling excited.

  I’m on my hands and knees, searching for a pair of shoes, when I hear plates and silverware rattling as the maid arrives.

  “You may set the tray on my writing desk,” I tell her.

  “May I help you find something, Miss Anna?” she asks.

  I straighten up and brush the dust off my hands. “I’m looking for an older pair of brown shoes I used to have, but I don’t see them.”

  “If you please, miss …” She offers me an awkward and totally unnecessary curtsy. “I took several pairs of your shoes downstairs to give them a good polish. I’ll bring them up to you right away.” She darts toward the door and nearly trips over her own feet.

  “Wait … there’s no hurry. I won’t need them until this afternoon. Tell me your name again?”

  “It’s Lucy, miss.” She curtsies a second time.

  “Thank you. You may go, Lucy.”

  I barely have time to finish my breakfast before Sophia arrives to pin up my hair and help me into my gown for this morning’s meeting. I long to skip the event altogether, but I can’t. Mother and I are being inducted into the Women’s Literary Club today.

  I never would have been invited to join this exclusive women’s club if not for my engagement to William. His mother is the president this year, and she is eager to sponsor Mother and me as new members. “This is a huge honor,” Mother assures me as we drive to the event. “The finest women in Chicago are all members.” She may as well have said the wealthiest women in Chicago. She is thrilled to be invited to join. William’s mother explained that the club’s goals are to read and discuss works of literature, poetry, and history in order to broaden our perspective and improve our minds. I’m not enthusiastic about spending my free time reading poetry when I barely have time to read the Bible Derk gave me. And joining a new club will mean selecting new dress patterns and choosing fabric and consulting a seamstress for fittings since Mother insists that we need new gowns to wear to the meetings.

  I am also uneasy because today’s event is being held at the home of William’s former girlfriend, Clarice Beacham. She is waiting in her grand, marble-lined foyer to welcome us, her glorious hair swooped up in the stunning Gibson girl fashion again. “You are going to adore this club, Anna,” she assures me. “We learn such interesting things. Do you enjoy poetry?” Before I have a chance to reply, she links her arm through mine as if we are best friends and tows me into the conservatory. A group of young ladies our age stand in a tight circle, their heads bent together as if telling secrets. “Do you know everyone, Anna? Or shall I introduce you?”

  “I believe I know everyone.” They are the cream of young Chicago society. Part of my training in the social graces has been learning how to remember important people’s names. It would be a serious breach of etiquette to forget someone’s name once we’ve been formally introduced.

  The other girls scrutinize me from my hat to my shoes, but I’m accustomed to these inspections and am confident that I will measure up, thanks to Mother’s diligence. We exchange a few pleasant compliments before one of them turns to me and says, “I hear that you and William have begun searching for a home.” I’m so startled I can’t reply. Last Sunday afternoon William and I drove past three houses that are for sale, but that has been the full extent of our search. I find it unsettling that they already know about it.

  “Um, yes … we have just begun to look,” I say when I find my voice.

  “It must be such fun to decorate an entire house,” Clarice says, “especially with all of William’s money to spend. Imagine being able to choose the very finest furnishings! I envy you, Anna.” The mention of William’s wealth shocks me. It simply isn’t done. I’m guessing Clarice did it intentionally, to throw me off-balance.

  “We’re in the very early stages of the process,” I say, ignoring the rude remark.

  “If I were you,” another woman says, “I would ask William to build a room just like this one.” She gestures to the conservatory, a magnificent, many-sided room with a soaring ceiling and walls made entirely of window glass. The light-filled space is embellished with lush green plants, including an orange tree with real oranges and a flowering gardenia bush that fills the air with its exotic perfume. Dainty bamboo chairs that have been painted white are lined up in rows for the club meeting.

  “Which decorator will you be working with?” Clarice asks.

  “We haven’t chosen one yet.”

  Thankfully, Mrs. Beacham begins ringing a little silver bell, so I am spared further questions. “Ladies, if you would take your seats, please. It’s time to begin.”

  Clarice’s mother starts the meeting by reading a poem. Everyone claps politely when she finishes, our applause muffled by our gloves. Then Mrs. Wilkinson calls Mother and me to the front and presents us as the newest members, although I am certain we have already been discussed and dissected before our membership was approved and we were ever invited to join. I am pleasantly surprised when Mrs. Wilkinson introduces me as her son William’s “charming and delightful fiancée.” A little ceremony follows as we are inducted into the club and presented with a small diamond pin in the shape of a book, along with a packet detailing the history and goals of the organization. Then we take our seats again for the program.

  I find my mind wandering as one of the members gives a review of the latest book the club has read, followed by a dignified discussion. I hope the presentations aren’t this boring every time. Before the meeting adjourns, Mrs. Wilkinson reads the announcements. One of them involves a trip to Racine, Wisconsin, but I’m no longer paying attention, my thoughts already on my trip to Cicero this afternoon.

  Clarice is by my side the moment I rise from my chair to mingle and enjoy tea and petit fours. “You must sign up for the steamship excursion to Racine next month, Anna. We always have such a grand time on our club outings. The boat voyage on Lake Michigan is certain to be the highlight of our year.”

  I stare at Clarice, unable to disguise my fear. I don’t need to consult my social calendar to know that I will not be going. Having survived a shipwreck as a child and a terrible storm on my voyage across Lake Michigan this summer, I cannot bring myself to board another ship. I fumble for a reply. “I-I don’t think—”

  “Oh, Anna, I forgot! I’m so sorry!” The expression of shock on Clarice’s face seems genuine. She lowers her voice as if to speak confidentially, but I know the others can hear her. “Mrs. Wilkinson told me the story of your tragic past. But don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul. She swore me to secrecy, and I agreed. It’s no one’s business but yours that you were a shipwrecked orphan when the Nicholsons adopted you.”

  “My father saved me from drowning,” I say. I want her and everyone else to know that he is a hero.

  “So I heard! Mrs. Wilkinson also told me you’ve hired detectives to learn more about your family. How exciting! It’s like something from a novel.”

  “The Pinkertons have already found the record of my parents’ marriage,” I tell her. I’m so relieved to know that my birth was legitimate, and so exci
ted to be meeting Mama’s former landlady today, that I have tossed discretion aside. If there’s going to be gossip, I want Clarice and everyone else to know that I have nothing to hide. My birth wasn’t shameful.

  Clarice leans closer. “And what have you learned about your father and mother?”

  “Nothing yet. Just the date of their marriage. They moved to Chicago right after the Great Fire.”

  “Well, you must let me know the moment you discover something more. This sounds so exciting!”

  “I will.” Clarice is the only person who has shown any interest at all in my search. I have longed for a close friend to share confidences with for some time. Yet I also remember Jane’s warning that Clarice wants William back. Time will tell if her offers of friendship are genuine.

  The Pinkerton agents arrive right on time, and I climb into their carriage for the journey to Cicero. The road runs alongside the railroad tracks, offering me views of rumbling freight trains, busy factories, and sprawling working-class neighborhoods. I have never been to this part of the city before and didn’t know that neighborhoods like these even existed. When we halt in front of the aging boardinghouse, I’m grateful that the two detectives accompanied me here and not Mother. She never would have crossed the decaying front porch, let alone stepped inside.

  Mrs. Marusak greets us at the door, and we introduce ourselves. “Come in and have a seat,” she says, with the faintest trace of a foreign accent. She seems unwell. Deep creases in her sallow face make her look as though she has lived a hard life. She leads us inside, walking as if all her leg joints have fused.

  “Thank you so much for agreeing to talk with me today,” I say as I take a seat on the sofa. She sits down alongside me with a grunt. The odor in the front parlor threatens to overwhelm me, smelling of years’ worth of onions and cabbage and boiled meat, along with the musty stench of old furniture. The carpeting on the wooden floors is tattered and unraveling in places. Cobwebs that Mrs. Marusak is probably too nearsighted to notice festoon the corners of the room like lace. I can’t begin to imagine what the bedrooms are like. “The detectives tell me that you might remember my mother, Christina de Jonge.”