by Lynn Austin
“If she was, she never said a word about it to me.”
“Might she have gone back to him, in spite of everything he did?”
“It’s hard to say. I know she was crazy in love with him at first. But she was scared to death of him in the end.”
“Maybe Jack changed. Maybe he won her back.”
“Experience tells me that men like Jack don’t change. But who knows?”
“Do you remember which family Mama went to work for? Or where in Chicago they lived?”
“Not after all these years. Vera might be able to tell you.”
“I would love to talk with her. Would that be possible?”
“She lives in Chicago on the Near West Side. She’s married now and no longer works as a maid. I can give you her address.” She struggles out of her chair and limps into a back room, returning a few minutes later with a piece of paper with her niece’s address on it. Agent Albertson copies it down, as well.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Marusak,” I say as I rise to take my leave. “I’m grateful to you for taking the time to help me learn a little more about my mama.”
“You’re welcome.” She reaches to take my hands in her gnarled ones. “Are you married, my dear?”
“No. Not yet.”
“You seem like a sweet girl—just like Christina. I hope you won’t make the same mistake she did and marry the wrong man. Don’t be fooled by good looks and charm. Make sure your sweetheart values the same things you do.” She squeezes my hands tightly before letting go again.
I climb into the carriage feeling shaken. Not only was Mama’s story upsetting, but the timing was all wrong. Mama married Jack in 1871, and Mrs. Marusak said she left him a year later in 1872. But I wasn’t born until 1874. “She must have gone back to Jack after all,” I tell Agent Albertson on the drive home. He and Agent Mitchell took notes the entire time that Mrs. Marusak was telling her story, so they must have figured out the timing, too.
Unless Jack isn’t my father.
“We’re still searching for a record of your birth,” Agent Mitchell replies. “And we’ll start looking for a record of their divorce.”
“But even if you do find a record of their divorce, that still won’t solve the problem of who my father is.”
Agent Albertson closes his notebook and looks at me with sympathy. “Now that we know that Jack Newell worked for the railroad, we can check the union records for his name. If the information is out there, we’ll find it.”
I arrive home still upset by my mama’s story. It has raised more questions than it has answered. I am horrified to learn that my real father was not an honorable man, and that he treated Mama so shamefully. I can imagine Clarice Beacham gloating if she ever heard that tidbit of gossip. William’s mother and Clarice’s mother are close, so once I tell William what I’ve learned about my father, Clarice is certain to hear about it, too. For the first time I understand why Mother has been insisting that I let go of the past and not risk dredging up something unpleasant. I can see how it might reflect badly on William if it was discovered that his wife is the daughter of such a brute. And what about my grandmother? I promised Oma Geesje I would share any news I learned with her, but how can I tell her the truth about what happened? She will be brokenhearted to know how her daughter suffered. And even more upset to learn that Mama was afraid she would be judged and condemned if she returned home.
“You look glum,” Mother says when I join her and Father at the dinner table that evening. “Am I to assume that the meeting with the landlady was not a success?”
“She remembered a few things,” I say. “She told me I resemble Mama. But twenty-six years is a long time to try to recall past events. The afternoon was disappointing.”
“It’s just as well,” Father says, unfurling his napkin on his lap. “Knowing the past won’t change anything in the present.”
We fill our plates as the maids serve the meal. I picture Mama in their place, working for a wealthy family while living in fear that Jack will find her. Or maybe Mama loved him so much she forgave him and returned to him. Either picture is unsettling.
By the time we finish eating, I have made an important decision. “I’m going to stop investigating the past,” I tell my parents. “It’s taking up too much of my time, and I have wedding plans to make.” My parents look relieved. And although I still have questions that will never be answered, I’m relieved, too. Surely this is the best thing to do, for everyone’s sake.
Chapter 5
Geesje
Holland, Michigan
I set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of Cornelia several minutes ago, but she hasn’t taken a bite. “You need to eat something, dear, or you will simply waste away to nothing,” I tell her. “A strong wind will blow in from the lake and sweep you away with the fall leaves.” I watch for even the tiniest smile, but she looks up at me and nods, as if she knows that is exactly what will happen. As if she is planning on it. “I can fix you something else for breakfast if you don’t like eggs. Just tell me what you’re used to eating.”
“I’m not very hungry, Mrs. de Jonge.”
“Can we agree on a better name to call me, something less formal? How about Tante Geesje? I know I’m not really your aunt, but that’s what Derk calls me, and it will make us seem more like friends.”
She shrugs and says, “Yes, ma’am.”
Her plate is still half full when she starts to get up to clear away her breakfast dishes. “Sit down, Cornelia, and let’s talk while we finish our tea,” I say, stopping her. She sits down again, her hands folded in her lap, her head lowered. “I don’t intend to pry for information about your life before you came here, because it’s none of my business. But I understand that your grandfather came to America to get a new start, so maybe we could begin there. I would love to hear what some of your hopes and dreams are for your new life in Michigan. Maybe I can help you. If you feel like sharing, I’d be happy to listen.”
Cornelia runs her slender finger around the rim of the teacup. “I don’t have any dreams. Coming here was Grandfather’s idea.”
“Well, then, we already have something in common. Coming to America fifty years ago was my parents’ idea, not mine. I was only seventeen years old and too young to remain behind on my own, although I wanted to. I was in love with someone back in the Netherlands, you see.”
She looks up at me and tears pool in her eyes. She quickly looks away again, and for a brief moment her expression is one of exquisite pain, as if she has just bitten down on a throbbing tooth. Did her grandfather force her to leave someone behind? Someone unsuitable? I want to tell Cornelia that I know what that kind of grief is like, to be separated from the man you love. But it is too soon. She doesn’t know me well enough to trust me with her secrets.
“I understand that your grandfather is looking for work—will you be looking for work, as well, or just keeping house for the two of you?”
“I’m not sure. We didn’t talk about it.”
I find that very strange. How could they set out for a new country and travel together for several weeks without talking about the future and making plans? I recall Cornelia’s anger when they arrived at my home yesterday, and I wonder if she refuses to discuss it with him. I decide to continue chatting, hoping she’ll eventually warm up to me.
“Well, around here the young ladies your age can often find work with a large family that needs help with cooking and washing and tending the children. My daughter, Christina, worked for the Cappon family across town and seemed to enjoy it very much. I know she liked having her own money to spend.” I feel a stab of guilt and sorrow the moment the words are out of my mouth. Christina had met Jack Newell while working in that house, which was very close to the factory where he was employed. There were so many things I would do differently if I could live my life over again. But would it have been right to keep Christina locked up and under guard all the time?
“I don’t think I can work for anyone u
nless they speak Dutch,” Cornelia says. She nibbles on her fingernails, chewing them down to the quick.
“Of course, of course. Would you like to start learning English? There are still many older people here in Holland who speak Dutch, but most of the young people your age don’t know it very well. You’ll be able to make new friends once you learn the language.”
“I would like to learn.” It is the first sign of enthusiasm she has shown since arriving.
“Good. We’ll start with a few simple words. I’ll fetch you some paper and a pencil so you can write them down.” I rise from the table to collect the paper and we begin our first lesson with common kitchen items like fork and chair and table. Later I decide to walk with her to Van Putten’s Dry Goods store on Eighth Street to pick up a few items and show Cornelia around Holland. I thought she might like to choose some of the foods that she enjoys eating, but she refuses to select anything at all.
“Whatever you cook is fine,” she says. It’s a beautiful fall day, and the leaves are putting on a glorious show of color, especially the maples. But Cornelia walks with her head lowered, looking up only briefly whenever I point out something to her, such as the new clock tower or Pillar Church, which I attend. I try to teach her a few new words, but she is unenthusiastic.
We are nearly home again when we meet a young mother from my congregation who is out for a stroll, pushing a baby carriage with her newborn inside. I take a moment to introduce her to Cornelia, explaining that she doesn’t speak English yet. “Do you speak any Dutch, Mrs. Visscher?” I ask, hoping Cornelia can make a new friend.
“Please, call me Lena. And no, I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Dutch. My mother-in-law does, and my husband learned a few words because his parents spoke it at home—especially when they didn’t want their children to understand what they were saying.”
We share a laugh and then I peek inside the carriage. “Oh, look at this precious little one. He’s beautiful.”
“We named him Willem after my grandfather.”
“Come and look,” I say to Cornelia in Dutch. “Isn’t he sweet?” She glances at him and quickly turns away. I’m surprised to see her wiping her eyes. “We’d better be on our way,” I tell Mrs. Visscher. “Enjoy your walk.” We are nearly home, so I don’t speak again until we’re inside. “I’m sorry if I did something to upset you, Cornelia—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupts, shaking her head. “May I go to my room?”
“Yes, of course.” She remains there until I call her for lunch—another meal that she barely touches.
“May I go for a walk?” she asks when we finish. “By myself, please?”
“Of course. If you walk in that direction,” I say, pointing, “you’ll come to a road that leads up the hill to the cemetery. It’s very peaceful up there with lots of trees, and you’ll be able to see the town from the top of the hill.”
“Thank you.” She leaves a few minutes later through the back door. I watch her go, walking with her head lowered, her back bent, chewing her fingernails.
I have no idea what to make of Cornelia. How terrible it must be to feel all alone in a strange country. Yet she seems afraid to accept my offers of friendship. I whisper a prayer for wisdom, then tell myself to give her more time.
I am standing in my kitchen, thinking about what to fix for supper, when someone knocks on my front door. I find Cornelia’s grandfather standing on my little porch. “Good afternoon, Dominie. Won’t you come in?” I open the door wider, but he takes a step back.
“No, thank you. I would like a word with Cornelia, please.”
“She isn’t here. She left about forty minutes ago to go for a walk.”
“What!” He fairly shouts the word. “Who is with her?”
“No one. She wanted to go by herself.”
The color rises in his face as if he is about to boil over. “I trusted you to keep watch over her! Why didn’t you do that?”
“Please stop shouting at me,” I say, trying to remain calm. I am unaccustomed to being yelled at, nor do I understand why he is so furious with me. “No one told me that I had to watch over Cornelia every moment of the day. She is a grown woman and entitled to her privacy. I’m sure she didn’t go far.”
“You cannot be certain of that. This arrangement will not work unless you agree to keep an eye on her.”
“No, Dominie. It will not work unless you explain to me why such constant attentiveness is necessary.”
He gazes into the distance as if deciding how much he should say. I dislike this man more and more every moment I am with him. “Because she will run away,” he finally says.
“I find that very unlikely. Cornelia is in a strange town with no money and no place to go. Besides, there is a huge lake in one direction and nothing but farmland or woods in the other three. And she doesn’t even speak the language.”
He folds his arms across his chest and lifts his chin. “She has run away before.”
“You mean since coming to America?”
“No … but I have kept a close eye on her since we came to this country.”
I find this man so infuriating that I can’t help sighing in frustration. “It may help if you could explain why she would want to run away.”
“Because she is rebellious! Unruly! She won’t listen to anyone!” The words explode from him with such force that I take a small step back. My heart goes out to Cornelia in that moment, and I’m determined to find a way to help her, to bring healing and peace to her and her grandfather.
I recall her tears when I spoke of leaving behind the man I loved in the Netherlands and summon my courage to ask, “Was there a young man involved?” He glares at me without replying. “You see, I also had a daughter who ran away. The young man she was in love with talked her into it. Love is a very powerful emotion. It can cause a young girl to abandon all sense and—”
“Enough! There is no young man. Her reasons for running away are none of your business.”
“They will be if Cornelia chooses to tell me about them.” I’m trying to sound brave, but I’m starting to feel very uneasy as this angry man glares down at me. I suspect that his anger and unreasonableness were at least partially to blame for Cornelia’s decision to run. I want to run from him myself. “While she’s under my roof,” I continue, “I will try not to give her a reason to run away from me.”
“Now, you listen. The arrangements I made with your son consisted of a place for Cornelia to stay, not prying into our business.”
“I’m not prying, but I refuse to become Cornelia’s jailor unless you give me a very good reason why it’s necessary.”
“We are wasting time. Tell me which direction she went so I can find her.”
“I didn’t watch her go. I don’t know where she went.” It’s the truth. I suggested the cemetery, but I don’t know for certain that she went there. I can see the dominie’s mounting frustration, but I’m determined not to let him bully me.
“Then I have no choice but to wait here for her to return—that is, if she ever does return.”
“As you wish.” I leave him on my front porch and return to the kitchen. My hands are trembling from our encounter, and I have to wait for them to stop before doing any work. It is impossible to imagine Marinus Den Herder as a pastor, caring for the needs of God’s people with grace and sensitivity. I feel sorry for his congregation and even sorrier for Cornelia.
An hour passes, and she still doesn’t return. I’m beginning to worry that he is right and that she has run away when I finally see her coming through the gate into my backyard. “Thank you, Lord,” I whisper before going to the door to greet her. “Did you have a nice walk, dear?” She nods and pulls her sweater tightly around herself. “Listen, your grandfather is waiting for you on my front porch. He is very angry with me for letting you go off on your own. He was worried about you.”
Cornelia looks up at me with such a look of despair that I drape my arm around her shoulder and pull her close. Sh
e doesn’t flinch or move away from me. “Would you like me to come with you to talk to him?” She nods. I take her hand in mine. I think I know a little of how she feels as we walk outside together to face him. “Cornelia is back from her walk,” I tell him. I battle to keep the note of triumph out of my voice.
“So I see.” His anger seems to have cooled while he waited. “Did you have a nice walk, Cornelia?” he asks as he rises to his feet.
“Yes. I like it here.”
“Well, I don’t think we will be staying much longer.” Cornelia drops my hand and stares down at the floor. Her grandfather turns to me. “Tomorrow I will let your son, Dominie de Jonge, know that this living arrangement will not work for us.”
“But … but you only just arrived,” I sputter. “We’ve hardly had a chance to—”
“My mind is made up. Good day.”
Cornelia and I watch him walk down the steps and go next door to the Vander Veen’s house. “Why does he want us to leave?” she asks. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m so sorry, Cornelia, but it’s probably my fault. He was angry with me for letting you go off on your own. He was worried that you might run away.”
“I don’t want to leave here. If I promise not to run away, will you let me stay?”
“Yes, of course. If it’s up to me, you may stay as long as you need to.” We go back inside the house, but I stop her before she heads to her bedroom. “Listen, Cornelia, if your grandfather is mistreating you in any way, I can speak with my son and make sure you don’t have to go with him—”
“He has never mistreated me.” I see the sincerity in her eyes and hear it in her voice. I believe her. “That’s not why I ran away.”
I wait, hoping she will trust me enough to confide in me, but she doesn’t. We return to our long silences as she helps me fix supper and we sit down to eat it. I decide to fill the awkwardness with more English lessons, adding phrases such as “My name is Cornelia. It’s so nice to meet you.” We spend the evening in my front room, each reading a book. My tabby cat has taken a liking to Cornelia and curls up on her lap. I teach Cornelia the word cat and how to say good night as we each retire to our room.