Legacy of Mercy

by Lynn Austin

  She pulls a thick catalogue from under the counter and lets Cornelia and me browse through the ladies’ clothing section. I’m surprised to see everything from corsets and petticoats to skirts and jackets. Even hats. “What will they think of next?” I say. “It will save time and work, I suppose, but I still like the satisfaction of making something with my own two hands.”

  We buy two yards of the pretty blue-flowered flannelette for a blouse and some matching gray twill for a skirt. I notice that Cornelia’s mood has lightened a bit now that we’re out of the house and talking with other people. I must think of ways to get her out more often. But on the way home, her head lowers again and her shoulders slump. She clutches the package of fabric close to her chest. “Are you worried about what your grandfather will say?” She nods and doesn’t look up from the dusty street. I want to tell her that he scares me, too.

  “He’ll say it’s too colorful. And that we should be content with the used clothing that people give us.”

  “That makes no sense. If he doesn’t like to take charity, why does he expect you to wear donated clothes? Besides, what about the nice, new suit he wore to church yesterday?”

  “A tailor in his congregation made it to repay my grandfather for helping him.”

  My conscience pricks me. I shouldn’t be sowing discord between Cornelia and her grandfather. He has a right to raise her as he sees fit. “I’ll ask him about the new skirt and blouse tonight. If he gets upset, I’ll give the finished clothes to charity.”

  Cornelia clutches the package a little tighter. “I hope he says yes. It’s so pretty.”

  “Does he decide how you should fix your hair, too?” I ask. She glances at me with a frightened look, then nods. “At church yesterday, I was noticing how some of the girls your age wore their hair. If your grandfather agrees, we could ask one of them to show us how they pin it up. In fact, my son Jakob is a minister, and his daughter Elizabeth is a modest young lady. Maybe she could help us.” Cornelia nods, but there is no hope in her expression.

  I clear off my kitchen table after lunch so we can spread out the new fabric and start cutting it. “Have you given any more thought to what you would like to do once you’re settled here in Holland?” I ask as we work. “If you’d like to earn a little money, I know a few families from church who could use a helping hand.”

  “Grandfather doesn’t want me to work in a stranger’s home.”

  “They aren’t strangers to me.”

  She doesn’t reply. It’s as if she has constructed a towering dam between her and the rest of the world to hold back all her thoughts and her grief. Yet the only way her sorrow can ever heal is if she releases it. I long to make a small crack in her wall so her emotions can flow, but to do that, I’m going to have to risk hurting her. “You must miss your family,” I say softly as I cut into the twill for the skirt. “Your mama and papa … your two brothers.”

  Cornelia bites her bottom lip. The only response I get is a nod.

  “I was very close to my two older sisters and their babies,” I continue. “But they stayed behind in the Netherlands when I came to America. I missed them terribly. Writing letters just isn’t the same as being with someone. Both of my sisters have passed away now, and their children are all grown. It’s hard to imagine. I keep picturing them the way they were when I left home—my sisters still young, holding their chubby little babies in their arms.” I glance at her and see a pained expression on her face. I whisper a prayer and continue. “I thank God for the happy memories of our time together. Remembering is a wonderful way to hold our loved ones close in our hearts, don’t you think? Even when we’re far apart.”

  I wait for Cornelia to respond. When she doesn’t, I refold the cloth to cut the next piece and continue talking. “I know how it feels to lose both parents. My mama and papa died of malaria our first summer here in America. I was seventeen years old, and I didn’t understand why they died and I lived. I was furious with God for taking them and leaving me all alone when I still needed them so badly.”

  Cornelia meets my gaze. “But you still go to church.”

  “Yes. I don’t fully understand why God allows good people like my parents to die. But I know that He has His reasons—and I know I can trust Him. I’ve discovered that it’s okay to be honest with God and let Him know when I’m angry. He knows how I feel anyway. And He is always faithful to send someone to console me when I’m upset and hurt.”

  I pause and hand the cut pieces to her. She is looking at me with surprise and shock, as if I’m speaking heresy and she’s afraid to believe what I’m saying. “I don’t think it was an accident that God arranged for you to live here with me, Cornelia. I believe He wants me to offer you His love and comfort.” She looks away. I wish I knew what she was thinking. I rearrange the cloth so I can cut the skirt’s waistband. “Sometimes it helps when we talk about the people we love. It’s a way to keep them alive in our hearts while they are away from us in heaven.” I make the final cut and hand the piece to her. “What are your brothers’ names?” I ask.

  “Johannes and Jacobus.” She answers as if she has been holding the names inside for much too long. “They were pesky, you know? Always bothering me and teasing me. I used to get so mad at them—” A sob catches in her throat.

  “You loved them very much, didn’t you?” She nods. “I’m sure they knew that, Cornelia.” She looks up at me with tears in her eyes.

  “Johannes liked to carve things out of wood. I still have a little bear that he gave me for a Christmas present.” She reaches into the pocket of her skirt and shows me the little wooden figure, no bigger than a walnut.

  “What a lovely gift to carry with you to remember him.” When she has been silent for a moment, I ask, “What are some other things you remember about your family?”

  “Papa was a schoolteacher. My grandfather wanted him to be a dominie because all of the other ancestors in our family were. But Papa loved to teach. He was always telling my brothers and me things about history or nature, like how flowers grow. His students all loved him.”

  “You must have enjoyed spending time with him.”

  “Back then I didn’t know … I didn’t think it was … special. You know? And now …” She doesn’t finish, but I can well imagine what she doesn’t say. Her father and grandfather sound like two very different men.

  “It sounds like you had a wonderful father,” I tell her. “And he was a very wise man for following his own dreams and interests.”

  “He would be disappointed with me,” she says in a voice I can barely hear.

  “Why would you think that, Cornelia? You’re a lovely young woman.”

  “You don’t know me.” She has turned her back to me, and I can barely hear her words. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

  “That’s true. But you can’t really know how your father would feel about it. My daughter, Christina, broke my heart when she ran away from home, but I never, ever stopped loving her. In spite of everything that happened, her father and I would have gladly welcomed her home again.”

  Cornelia stares out my kitchen window, sadly shaking her head.

  “Tell me about your mother,” I say. “What do you remember about her?”

  She doesn’t reply. When I rest my hand on her shoulder, she shakes her head and says, “I-I can’t …” I pull her into my arms and hold her for a moment. I brush a stray piece of hair from her forehead after I release her.

  “Here,” I say, handing her my pincushion full of straight pins. “You can start pinning the skirt pieces together while I cut out your blouse.” She sinks down on a kitchen chair like a flower wilting beneath the sun, then starts pinning the front to one of the back pieces. I gather up all the scraps to use in a quilt and spread the flowered fabric out on the table. “Our first summer here in Michigan, my parents and I all became sick with malaria,” I tell Cornelia. “I got better but they didn’t. When Mama and Papa died, I wondered why I didn’t die along with them. You must
have felt the same way.”

  I pause, and eventually she says in a soft voice, “I would have died if I had been home that night.”

  “But you weren’t home. You lived, and so did I.” I grip my scissors and cut into the fabric. “After I finished being angry with God, I realized that there must be a reason why He wanted me to live. And the same is true for you, Cornelia. In a world that has been created by a loving God, nothing happens by chance or coincidence.”

  She props her elbow on the table and covers her eyes with her hand. “You don’t know me,” she repeats.

  I sit down in the chair beside hers. “Cornelia, look at me.” I wait until she does. “I’ve made some terrible mistakes in my life. I convinced a wonderful man whom I didn’t love to marry me for all the wrong reasons. But God used my mistake and my marriage for good. He gave us our son Jakob, whose life as a dominie has blessed many, many people. Don’t ever think your life is over before it is. God can use even our greatest failures for His glory.” Her expression is filled with longing … but also with grief. I am certain she is about to dismantle her barriers and confide in me when someone knocks on my front door. The moment is gone. Cornelia resumes her work while I go to answer it and find her grandfather standing on my porch.

  “Hello, Dominie. Would you like to come in and have some tea with us?” He surprises me by agreeing. I take his hat and coat and lead him into my kitchen. Cornelia looks guilt-ridden when she sees him, as if she needs to roll the fabric into a ball and hide it beneath the table.

  “Cornelia and I were just working on a little sewing project,” I tell him as I add a stick of wood to my kitchen stove and poke the coals. “She has been such a big help to me around the house that I would like to return the favor by helping her sew a new blouse and skirt. Would that be agreeable to you, Dominie?”

  He hesitates as if analyzing my words, then surprises me by saying, “That’s very kind of you. I’m not much help to Cornelia when it comes to things like clothing. My late wife and I raised only one child past infancy, Cornelia’s father.”

  I try not to show my surprise as he reveals the losses he has suffered. How tragic that the only family member he has left is Cornelia, who tried to end her own life. I should know that when someone reacts with anger and bitterness, there is usually a root of deep pain at the bottom of it. “Please, have a seat, Dominie,” I say. “It’s going to take a few minutes for the water to boil. Maybe you can tell us about your day at our print shop while we wait.”

  He has folded his hands on the table where I can see them, and there is no printer’s ink in the creases or beneath his fingernails. Arie must not have put him to work with the presses just yet. “My day has been good,” he says after clearing his throat. “Your son is very kind to hire me for what he calls, ‘odd jobs.’ Tomorrow we will speak with the editor of the Dutch newspaper to see if he has something for me.”

  “I’ll pray for a successful meeting, then.” I say nothing more as I rinse out the teapot and the strainer and wait for the water to heat. I’ve seen how quickly the dominie can go from friendly to fierce if I say something I shouldn’t.

  “How was your day, Cornelia?” he asks. “Did you practice your English while you were out shopping with Mrs. de Jonge?”

  “I didn’t have to. The woman at the dry goods store speaks Dutch.”

  “Yes, it seems a lot of people in town do. But not the young men and women your age. You will need English to talk with them.”

  I see my chance and take it. “If it’s fine with you, Dominie, I would love for Cornelia to meet my granddaughter Elizabeth. She’s my son Jakob’s daughter. I’ve noticed that American girls wear their hair differently than we did back home. Would you mind if she spent a day with Elizabeth at my son’s home so Cornelia can fit in better with other girls her age?”

  “If that’s what Cornelia would like to do.”

  I look at Cornelia, and she manages a tentative smile. I am stunned that he has agreed. We have made progress today, and I’m happy for Cornelia. But why do I get the feeling as I pour the tea that her grandfather is plotting something?

  Chapter 10

  Anna

  Chicago, Illinois

  I have asked my maid, Lucy, to bring my breakfast tray every morning at seven o’clock sharp and to make sure that I’m awake. My Oma Geesje takes time first thing every morning to read her Bible and pray, and I know that if I ever hope to have faith as strong as hers, I need to follow her example. My goal is to read a section from the Gospels slowly and carefully and see what I can learn from it. Each morning since I began this practice, I have found a thought to carry with me for the rest of the day.

  This morning’s passage is about standing before the Lord on Judgment Day. He will commend the person who has given food to the hungry, something to drink to those who are thirsty, and who offer shelter and clothes to wear. Jesus’ words seem to leap from the page: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Those who fail to help the needy “shall go away into everlasting punishment.” It seems clear that the Lord wants us to help the needy for His sake. If we turn away when we’re able to help, we’ll face condemnation.

  I’m still thinking about what I read after I’m dressed and am sitting in the morning room downstairs reading the newspaper. This is another daily habit I’m trying to develop so I can stay informed of the latest news for William’s sake. This morning I find an interesting article about the Hull-House settlement here in Chicago. A shiver of excitement races through me as I read. The work they’re doing coincides perfectly with what I just read in Scripture about helping the poor.

  According to the article, two wealthy young women, Jane Addams and Ellen Gates Starr, wanted to do something about the terrible living conditions among Chicago’s working-class immigrants but found the usual charities lacking. They decided to live among the poor and develop relationships with their neighbors in order to learn firsthand the problems they faced, then work together to find solutions. The ladies rented a slightly run-down mansion on Halsted Street, right in the middle of Chicago’s overcrowded Near West Side neighborhood. The Hull-House settlement opened its doors eight years ago in July of 1889, and since then, other like-minded social reformers have moved into the settlement house to join the two women. Their efforts are a resounding success, with new programs and opportunities being introduced to the community every day as they tackle the causes of poverty among Chicago’s immigrants.

  Mother joins me in the morning room, interrupting my reading. I’m so intrigued and inspired by the innovative idea of Hull-House that I nearly blurt out everything I’ve just learned. Mother’s frowning expression makes me hesitate. “Make sure you wash the ink off your fingers when you’re done,” she says. “I don’t know why you’re even interested in reading the newspaper. It’s all bad news anyway.”

  “I want to be able to discuss local and world events with William,” I reply. “He takes a keen interest in them.” I’m eager to read more about Hull-House, but not in front of Mother. Instead, I decide to check my calendar to see when I can sneak away and visit the settlement house in person. “You’re right about the messy ink,” I say as I rise and refold the paper. “I think I’ll wash up.”

  Aside from the usual, boring social calls, my afternoon is free. It’s so rare for that to happen, especially with the added preparations for my wedding, that I do a little dance in the middle of my bedroom. I see this opening as another heavenly sign along with the Bible verse and the newspaper article.

  I do my best to be patient and agreeable all morning as Mother and I shop for hats, gloves, and the other accessories we’ll need for my wedding. When we return home for lunch I ask, “Would you mind if we went our separate ways this afternoon? I know you’re eager to call on Mrs. Wilson, and I would like to go in a different direction. I’ll hire a carriage when it’s time to part ways.”

  She eyes me with suspicion. “Where do you intend to go,
dear?”

  I have been planning my reply all morning, unwilling to tell a lie, yet armed with the information I read in the newspaper. “I hope to call on Miss Jane Addams this afternoon. We’ve never been formally introduced, but her father, John Addams, is a wealthy businessman and an Illinois State Senator.”

  Mother takes a moment as if mentally scrolling through a list of approved acquaintances. “I’ve never heard of either of them. If Miss Addams is new to our social circle, perhaps we should call on her together.”

  I smile, aware that I’m treading a delicate path. “That’s not necessary. You’ve taught me well, Mother, and now I need to start fulfilling my social obligations on my own. After all, I’ll be in charge of my own social calendar in just a few short months when I marry William.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Mother’s eyes glisten, and I can see she is growing emotional. “It’s hard, sometimes, for mothers to accept that their children no longer need them.”

  Mother asks our driver to hail a hired carriage for me after lunch. I give the driver the address for Hull-House on Halsted Street, and he stares at me as if I’ve made a mistake. “That’s not a very nice neighborhood, miss. You sure you got the address right?”

  “Yes, quite sure.” I begin to see what he means as we meander through unpaved streets lined with dreary tenement houses. The buildings are crammed so tightly together that I wonder how the occupants can breathe. Trash fills the streets where raggedy children play. Laundry flaps in the breeze on lines strung between the buildings. The world in this part of town looks dull and gray and treeless. We halt in front of a large brick house with a wide front porch that seems to have been dropped there from a different city. It’s sandwiched into place between a huge, awkward addition and a livery stable reeking of horses. “Kindly return for me in two hours’ time,” I tell the driver.