by Lynn Austin
His words infuriate me. I pray for help in controlling my anger as I try to answer calmly. “Perhaps that has been your experience in the Netherlands, Dominie, but I refuse to take part in gossip. It’s one of the things God hates, and so do I.”
His anger doesn’t diminish. “Don’t you know that people are already wondering and whispering about us? Cornelia’s past will be all over town before we can blink an eye. No. I won’t put her through that experience again.”
“Nor will I! She is a deeply wounded girl who needs time and love and a place to heal. I want to help her do that. In fact, I believe God is asking me to help her. The last thing I would ever do is share her confidences with other people.”
He reaches for the knob and opens the back door. “I’ll think about it.”
“Wait!” I grab his coattail to stop him. “Let me explain why I think God arranged for Cornelia to live with me, out of all the homes in Holland.” I draw a deep breath. “My daughter, Christina, ran away from home when she was seventeen.” I see his reproving expression and say, “Yes, I know you’re shocked. You’ll probably assume that my husband and I were terrible parents. Believe me, in the months after she left I agonized over what I might have done wrong in raising her, or what I should have done differently to prevent her from leaving. I also know what it’s like to live with gossip in a town that’s so small everyone knows each other’s business. Yes, there was gossip about Christina. But there were also dear friends who didn’t judge me. Who prayed for my daughter as if she was their own. Friends who prayed for me and for the grief and worry I had to endure, wondering where Christina was and if she was all right. And God answered those prayers. I never saw Christina alive again, but I learned only recently that she returned to God and to her Christian faith before she died. And now her beautiful daughter, Anneke, has come into my life to prove that God can redeem even the most difficult situations. He will bring joy from our sorrow if we let Him. Please, Dominie. Let me help Cornelia find joy again.”
I can’t tell if I’ve convinced him or not as I wait for his reply. “I would like to speak with Cornelia in private,” he finally says. “Ask her to come out here.”
“Of course. But there’s one more thing I would like you to consider. I believe Cornelia would benefit from being with other young people her age. Perhaps Derk could introduce her to some of his friends when he has time off from his studies. You know, of course, that he is going to be a pastor soon. He understands the need to hold confidences in sacred trust.”
“I will think about it. Now kindly send Cornelia to me.”
I go back inside, taking a moment to shake the water off my jacket and hat and hang them up before talking to Cornelia. My shoes are soaked from the wet grass, and I slip them off, as well. Cornelia is still sitting at the table, biting her nails. She has barely touched her porridge. “Did he say I can stay?” she asks, looking up.
“He promised to think about it. Right now, he would like you to go outside and talk to him. Wear my jacket and hat. They’re already wet.”
Cornelia rises from the table as if she is about to face Judgment Day. It’s damp and cold outside, but she walks out my kitchen door without a coat or hat or even a sweater, as if she welcomes the idea of catching a deadly chill. I watch her and her grandfather talk on my neighbors’ back steps and wish I knew what they were saying. I see Cornelia shake her head, her chin lowered to her chest. Her grandfather talks some more, and she finally lifts her head again and nods. He is probably making her promise not to confide in me or share any more details of her life. The man infuriates me. How can I help Cornelia if I don’t know what’s wrong?
I hear a horse and buggy pulling to a stop out front and see that it’s my son Jakob. I call to him from my front doorway. “Jakob! Would you please come inside for a moment?” He ties his horse to my post and dashes through the rain. He carries a small pile of books in his arms.
“How is everything going with your guest, Moeder?” he asks as he kisses my cheek.
“There have been good moments and hard moments. May I ask you something?” I switch to English in case Cornelia returns. “You don’t have to answer if you’re uncomfortable—but since you’ve asked me to share my home with Cornelia, I feel as though I need to know.”
“Of course, you may ask.”
“Cornelia is a deeply troubled young girl who is still grieving all of her losses. She barely eats anything, and last night I heard her weeping in the middle of the night. I want so much to help her, and so I wondered if there was any more information you can share with me about her situation. You know that I would never share it with anyone else.”
“Yes, I do know that.” He thinks for a moment. “They are distantly related to the Den Herder family from my church, which is what led them to settle here in Holland. The local Den Herders are farmers, as you know, and already have a houseful of children. The only information they gave me is that Cornelia’s family died in a house fire. She wasn’t at home when the fire broke out, but was helping a mother with her newborn baby. Cornelia’s parents and two younger brothers all died.”
“How long ago was that?”
“About four years, I believe. Cornelia would have been around thirteen years old at the time.”
“That poor child. I can imagine how guilty she must feel for surviving. When my parents died of malaria and I lived, I remember thinking it should have been me.”
“Arie has told me the same thing about surviving the war when so many of his comrades were killed.”
I decide not to tell Jakob that Cornelia tried to end her own life, aware of my promise to her grandfather. “Did Dominie Den Herder’s wife also die in the fire?”
“No. I believe she had passed away a short time before. Cornelia went to live with him in the parsonage. His church was in a different town from where she lived, quite far away, I understand.”
“So she lost touch with all of her friends, too?”
“I assume so. Marinus found it difficult to meet the needs of his church while raising a young granddaughter all alone. He told me he felt he wasn’t doing a proper job with either one, so he resigned from the pastorate and came to America to make a new start.”
I don’t say so aloud, but it seems to me there has to be more to the story. Most ministers consider their work to be a calling from God, not an ordinary job they can easily resign from. And why is he so stern with Cornelia, treating her so coldly, if he loves her enough to leave the ministry? For Cornelia’s sake, I wish I knew the answers. “What sort of work is the dominie looking for here?” I ask Jakob.
“That’s the problem. He doesn’t seem to be qualified for the jobs that are available in the local furniture factories. He has been a minister all his life and has no experience working with his hands. Not understanding English makes it even more difficult. That’s what these are for,” he says, handing me the pile of books. I brush the raindrops off the top one as I look them over. They are schoolbooks, the kind a teacher would use in the early grades. “I wondered if you would be willing to tutor Marinus along with Cornelia?”
I smile. “I’m to be a teacher now? At my age? I don’t have very much experience, you know.”
“You’ll do just fine, Moeder.”
The thought of spending more time with Dominie Den Herder gives me a knot in my stomach. I decide not to tell Jakob about the arguments he and I have been having. “I would be willing, but you’d better ask him what he thinks first. He doesn’t seem very comfortable around me.”
“I’m sure he’ll agree. He knows his lack of English is costing him jobs. I’m taking him to see about one this morning, but there isn’t much hope.”
I hear my back door open and close. Cornelia has returned. “I’ll do what I can, Jakob. Thanks for the books.”
Chapter 8
Anna
Chicago, Illinois
I have decided to speak with Mrs. Dunlap, our housekeeper, about giving Lucy a chance to serve as my lady’s maid. Sh
e reluctantly agrees. “As long as I can have her back as a maid when I need her.”
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Dunlap seems to have something more to say, so I wait.
“If I may ask, Miss Anna—was this your idea or Lucy’s?”
“Hers, I suppose. She noticed that Mother and I share Sophia as our lady’s maid and offered to help.”
“Hmph. I’ll warn you, Miss Anna. That gal might be getting too uppity. She’s always bragging to the other servants about one grand plan or another for leaving service and getting rich.”
Her words surprise me. “Lucy? She seems so timid. She’s very nervous when she serves at the table or brings my breakfast tray. The dishes are always rattling in her hands.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. But when we’re eating our meals downstairs, she brags that she’s going places. She isn’t always going to be a maid, she says.”
“Well, I would still like to let her try being my lady’s maid. If she doesn’t do well, she can always return to her other duties.” In truth, I admire Lucy for having ambition and trying to better herself instead of remaining a housemaid all her life. I decide to let her dress my hair on Saturday morning before Mother and I set out to do errands for my wedding.
“I know how to pin it up in the style of those Gibson girls,” Lucy tells me as I sit at my dressing table. She has a nice, gentle touch as she pulls the brush through my thick curls. “I learned how to do it at the last place I worked.”
“Let’s start with something simpler for today,” I tell her. “We’ll save that look for a grander occasion. Besides, I’ll be wearing a hat this morning. The one that matches my gray fitted jacket and skirt.” Lucy does a nice job for her first time. I’m pleased with the way my hair turns out. She handles my clothing and other accessories competently, as well.
Mother and I spend the morning with our dressmaker, discussing my wedding gown. I have very little patience with fashions and frills, but I know how much Mother enjoys choosing fabrics and keeping up with the latest styles. I pretend to enjoy the process for her sake, but I can’t help recalling how the Lord said we shouldn’t worry about what we’ll wear, but we should seek His kingdom first and foremost. I wish I knew how to do that.
Our seamstress has laid out a beautiful selection of fabrics to choose from as well as examples of fancy beadwork and delicate imported laces. But first we page through an array of pattern books to decide on the gown’s features. “I notice that these new gowns aren’t as full-skirted as last year’s fashions,” Mother says. I hadn’t noticed at all.
“You have a very keen eye, Mrs. Nicholson. What you can’t see in these pictures are the petticoats and bum rolls that support the flared design. And lucky for her, Miss Anna has a tiny waist, which all of these dresses demand.”
“I like the sleeves on these new formal gowns,” Mother says. “They are much fuller and puffier this season.”
“Yes,” she replies. “It’s almost as if the extra fabric that was taken from the skirt has gone into fuller sleeves.”
“I don’t care for those new sleeves,” I say. “They look like they’re stuffed with balloons. And I don’t care for dresses that are as showy as these. Can’t we keep my wedding gown simple?”
Mother looks at me as though I’ve spoken blasphemy. “My dear, you will be the center of attention on your wedding day. As William Wilkinson’s bride, you’re marrying into a very prominent Chicago family. You’ll want to make William proud as he presents you to his guests.”
The thought of being showcased makes me cringe, but I remain silent. We decide on a V-shaped neckline with a beaded bodice and lots of lace and pleats. And ridiculous puffed sleeves. It’s all too much for my taste, like the extravagant house William wants to buy. When it’s time to choose the fabric, Mother says, “It must be white, of course.”
“Why is that?” I ask as my resentment toward all these expectations and excesses bubbles to the surface. “I know I’ve seen white gowns at the weddings I’ve attended recently, but I didn’t realize it was a requirement. Besides, a white gown won’t be very practical if I want to wear it on another occasion. The hemline will become filthy, trailing through the streets—especially in January.”
“It isn’t intended to be practical,” the seamstress replies. “And it’s more of a tradition than a requirement. Ever since Queen Victoria of England wore a white gown when she married Prince Albert, everyone has wanted to copy her.”
“Well, I don’t.” But there’s no room for my opinion in these matters, so I hold my tongue while Mother makes the final choices for me. I’m her only child and I’ll be married only once in my life, so I’ll let her enjoy this moment.
After submitting to countless measurements from head to toe, I finally emerge from the dressmaker’s shop into the cool fall air. I breathe deeply, trying to ignore the feeling that I’m suffocating. “You’ll need new white gloves,” Mother says as we wait for our driver to bring our carriage around. “Above the elbow, I should think, since we chose short sleeves for your gown. And which would you prefer, soft kid gloves or silk ones?”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” I say, stifling a sigh. “Whatever you think is best.” We climb into the carriage. I would prefer to leave the windows open for fresh air, but Mother closes them against the draft. Our next stop is the Wilkinsons’ mansion, where we will plan the wedding dinner with William’s mother over lunch. “I truly don’t care to plan any of this wedding,” I say as we drive there. “You and William’s mother can choose whatever you’d like, and I’m sure it will be fine with me.”
Mother purses her lips and raises her chin, a look that I’ve come to recognize as extreme displeasure. “A woman’s wedding is a major event in her life, Anna. You need to take part in planning it. It will provide good experience for all of the formal dinners and receptions you’ll be hosting as William’s wife. It’s important that you learn how to choose the food and décor and arrange the rooms in keeping with the occasion.” I recall the vast dining room in the house William wants to buy and feel sick inside. Is this truly God’s purpose for my life?
I make a sincere effort to push aside my unrest and greet William’s mother and sister with a smile. We sit down to lunch in the smaller of their two dining rooms, and Mrs. Wilkinson’s housekeeper takes notes as we discuss the wedding. “I originally planned to hold the dinner reception here at our home,” Mrs. Wilkinson begins. “But William tells me he would like to have it at your new home on Erie Street if the purchase is finalized in time. I understand that you’ve seen the house, Anna?”
“Yes. It’s … it’s …” I fumble for a word that won’t reveal my true feelings and yet won’t be a lie. “It’s like a palace.”
“As it should be,” she replies with a smile. “Our William is rising in the business world, and it’s important that his home reflects that. This reception will be a wonderful opportunity to cement the social, political, and business connections he’ll need.”
I nearly say, I thought this reception was a celebration of our marriage, but I stop myself in time.
We go over the guest list, which seems to include everyone in Chicago who is either wealthy or important. Then we spend a great deal of time choosing the multi-course menu. Mrs. Wilkinson insists that we serve quail, but given the size of the guest list, it’s going to require a flock of biblical proportions to feed everyone. With the menu settled, we discuss the types and numbers of flowers needed for decoration while a servant clears our plates. I can’t imagine where we’ll find red roses in Chicago in January, but Mrs. Wilkinson doesn’t appear to be worried as she imagines filling the room with them. I’m beginning to wonder if I lack the extravagant imagination and the inclination toward excess that I will require as William’s wife.
The process of planning this reception exhausts me. While it’s true that I was raised in this wealthy social world and should be accustomed to such extravagance, I also glimpsed a different world during the time I spent at Oma’s house i
n Michigan. I saw how simply my grandmother lived and how she shared what she had with families who had even less.
We retire to the sitting room for tea and dessert. I long to ask Mrs. Wilkinson and my mother what they make of Jesus’ words, “For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” Or what He meant when He said it was hard for a rich man to enter His kingdom. Verses like these have disturbed me ever since I read them.
I am home again and still full from lunch when William arrives to take me to dinner that evening. It doesn’t help that Lucy has yanked my corset laces so tightly I can barely draw a deep breath. I allowed her to swoop up my hair in the Gibson girl style, but I can tell from William’s expression when he sees me that he doesn’t care for it. I wonder if it’s because Clarice wears her hair this way. “I like the way you usually wear it better,” he says when I ask him about it.
William and I dine at the Palmer House before attending a symphony concert with the Chicago Orchestra. His parents are big supporters of Maestro Thomas and the new orchestra, who presented their first concert a mere six years ago. But as I take a bite of the minted lamb that William ordered for me—one of the most expensive entrees on the menu, and one I don’t particularly care for—I make up my mind to begin speaking up for myself. All day long I have allowed myself to be pulled along by the current of others’ opinions like a barge behind a tugboat. I’ve lacked the nerve to speak out against the wastefulness and excesses that others seem to take for granted. Not to mention standing up to Clarice and her friends when they gossiped about other people and their misfortunes. I want to talk about things that are important to me, and who better to discuss them with than William, who will soon be my husband? I long to have a good influence on him when it comes to spiritual matters, as Oma suggested.